Jolstraer Taborwynn passed away this week.  His player decided that it was time to bring this arc to a close.  Anna has a wonderful series of it on the WFR Forum.   While Jolly was TECHINCALLY given a wake this tuesday, sometimes grief is expressed in less constructive waves.  To that point, here’s parts one and two of Bricu’s private way of handling the loss. There will, in all probability, be more posts like this from other Riders in the coming days.

–

Fifteen minutes in Ironforge was all that kept Bricu from being an out right liar to Threnn. It took him five minutes to navigate to the sooty center of Ironforge, two minutes to get a smith’s attention, three to negotiate with her and five more to wait for the right gryphon to Hillsbarad. The three minute negotiation was as simple as waiting for the gryphon.

“Oi” Bricu said to the dwarven woman in front of him, “Yer Kavandra Stoneborn, right?”

The woman didn’t look up for the forge to answer. She get her head turned towards the fire. Bricu could see the light of the forge playing off her shaved head. It was as smooth as the pommel on his service dagger.

“That I am. Now what yeh need lad? Lessons?”

“Nah. I need a forge. Word is yeh good at buildin’ ‘em.”

Kavandra set her tools on the anvil to her side. She regarded Bricu for a few moments, running figures and costs through her head. Her eyes betrayed her as she looked to his coin purse.

“What’s yer name lad?”

“Bricu Bittertongue.” He answered.

Kavandra clucked, the sound of the gears on an adding machine doing complicated sums.

“It’ll cost.” Kavandra said.

“I can pay.”

“Where at?”

“Grizzly Hills.” Bricu answered.

“That’ll cost more. When?”

“Within a month.”

“That’ll be a small fortune. Yeh can pay that?”

Bricu slung his pack to the floor and handed Kavandra a sack of gems.

“Spoils from the north. Each one o’those was hard fought. Each one worth even more t’the right folk. We got a deal?”

Kavandra peered at the contents of the sack. The rubies, amertines and emeralds glittered from the light of the forge. “How many o’these are mine?” She asked.

“All o’them.”

“Aye, we got a deal.” She took off the heavy leather glove on her right hand. Bricu grasped Kavandra’s forearm, in the Dwarven fashion, as she said an oath. Her grip on his arm was strong, as he expected. But her hands were not as rough as he thought they would be.

“Yeh can take me crew out there in a week. Sound like a plan?”

“Aye. I’ll be here, bright an’ early. I’ll meet yeh an’ yers in Menethil. I got lodgin’ all set up fer yer lot too. That’s a perk fer yeh.”

Kavandra simply grunted. “Don’t matter t’me. All I taste is ash from the forge.” She turned back to her work, pulling her gloves back on.

“Know the feelin’.” He said as he walked back to the gryphons. “Too much grief t’taste more than ash.”

–

Bricu rode his charger North, from South Shore, to where Jolstraer’s farm was supposed to be. He saw the smoke on the horizon when he was still leagues away. Jolly’s farm house, a small, but traditional Lordaeron style homestead, was still smoldering. His barn was intact. One lone scarecrow stood watch over the ripe fields. Jolly had dressed the Orc in scavenged mail. Bricu could hear the jingle of the mail as the wind whiped around the Scare-Orc; he couldn’t see it over because Jolly had placed a tattered Horde banner over the mail. It held on to a wicked cresent of a battle axe, still fearsome despite the terrible state of repair. This piecemeal terror loomed over Jolly’s what was left of jolly’s fields.

Bricu tied off his charger to a fence post and wandered through what was left to be tilled over. He saw the stunted and wilted crops that did not survive the season. When he reached the sandy patch of ground where Jolly had planted leeks–Bricu’s favorite of the local greens–he knelt in the fields.

“Yeh fuckin’ tosser.” He whispered, “Yeh planted leeks. Yeh really planted the fuckin’ leeks.” He pulled out a stunted stalk–one that was no where near ready for market–and examined it from tips to roots. At first, Bricu thought that this particular leek probably took too late in the season to grow to a proper size. Then he noticed the blackened root tips. Peeling back a layer of the leek, he saw a sickly pale green, not the healthy whites and deep greens it should have been. It was sick to the core. Still on his knees, Bricu turned the diseased leek over in his hands.

“Sick t’the core.” Bricu said, staring at the leek. “Yeh could’ve gotten Sky or Shad t’look at yer fields. Yer fuckin’ Northman pride, isn’t it? Yeh could’ve told us the fuckin’ ritual wasn’ workin’ or yeh wanted somethin’ else. Couldn’t yeh?”

Bricu stood up slowly, still holding on to the leek.

“So many bloody things yeh should have fuckin’ done,” Bricu shouted, “But yeh decided t’save us what? Pain? Time? Worry? Fuck all that. We still got the brunt o’this. An’ no proper way t’really mourn yeh.”

Bricu threw the leek at the orc. It smacked like a wet rag against the back of the tabard. A few links of mail clinked, but the leek slide off the Scare-Orc and landed on the ground.

“Yer a selfish fuckin’ bastard! Fuckin’ thick skulled arsehole!” He screamed at the Scare Orc. “We would’ve been here too! We would’ve helped yeh through it! Yeh fuckin’ coward. All that’ talk ’bout the north, ’bout carryin’ on. It was all shite! Yeh giant fuckin’ GOBSHITE!”

Walked towards the scare Orc, his boots leaving deep impressions in the sandy soil. He shook the pole while the mail sang and the axe fell to his feet. He picked up the rusty axe with both hands, spinning the haft once for good measure, and hacked away at the pole.

“Let’s do it right then!” Bricu yelled as he hacked a deep gouge into the pole.

“Yer gonna pass on inta the Light.” Another chunk of wood flew off from pole.

“Yer gonna leave the rest o’us here!” The mail, straw and tabard fell to the ground as the pole snapped.

“Yeh want t’pass off so we can’t say goodbye! Then let’s do it fuckin’ right!”

Bricu brought the axe down on the scare orc, scattering bits of mail, cloth and straw across the field.

“Fuck yerself Taborwynn. I can’t share a drink with yeh, can’t say good bye properly an’ I can’t even tear your house down. FUCK YEH!”

Bricu slammed the axe into the ground, with one last shower of sparks and mail to mark the utter destruction of the Scare Orc. He slumped down, again onto his knees, and looked at the remains of Jolly’s orc.

“All I wanted was t’say goodbye yeh. Uther wept mate….so did I.” Bricu rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I wept in front o’the entire fuckin’ pig cause I couldnt’ have one last drink with the only bastard left from Stratholme. Was that too much t’ask fer, yeh crusty o’git? Our kind ain’t gonna come back again. Ain’t like our holy ghosts are gonna show up like Uther’s.”

Bricu shifted his legs and leaned against the remains of the pole.

“This is what I’m gonna do yeh ol’bastard. I’m gonna sit here, in what’s left o’yer fuckin’ farm, an’ smoke two cigarettes. One fer me, one fer yer blessed corpse. Then I’m gonna clean up me mess here an’ say a prayer fer yeh. One with flowery words an’ vivid imagery from back home. Then I’m gonna head home t’me wife an’ wee one. If yer inclined t’haunt me fer speakin’ ill, I’d welcome it. I’ll miss yeh mate. I will really miss yeh.”

Bricu sat and smoked the last of his Northern leaf. He stayed with the ruin till the sun set over the ruins of Jolstaer Taborwynn’s little house.

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