WTT: [RP] » Fiction

Friday Fic: Mama Don’t Go.

Yva — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 14:19:35 +0000

((A precursor to Jak Balthasar and Yva Darrows leaving for the Icecrown battle.))

“I can’t find my fucking shoes, Jakob.”

“Yva, the lich king doesn’t give a horses’s arse what shoes you’re wearing. JUST PUT SOMETHING ON.”

She stormed past him – tried to shoulder past him, really, but that failed spectacularly considering how large he was – and began rifling through the closet. “These are special shoes. Enchanted ones. I am not going toe to toe with Putricide in my bloody socks.”

Jak’s cheek ticked. “You have five minutes.”

“DON’T YOU DARE TRY TO RUSH ME.”

The answer was the clang of his sabatons across the floor, and then the slam of the front door.

“Jakob? JAKOB BALTHASAR GET BACK HERE!”

No answer.

Flaadhun lifted his head at the sing-song tones of his mistress having a complete and utter hissy fit. He padded over, stretching and grunting as he leaned against her legs. She cast him a sideward glance and a scowl. “Don’t think I don’t know this is your fault, Dog. I don’t know if hiding my shoes is your way of saying you don’t want to go, but it’s not going to change a damned . . . that miserable sod left without me. He really did. He went after ARTHAS on his own, after all we’ve been through. That horrid, domineering son of a bitch.” Her hands went to her hips as she glared at the spot Jakob Balthasar had occupied a moment ago.

She was getting ready for another round of ranting when there was a thud by her feet. She looked down. The mysteriously missing shoes were suddenly there, and Flaadhun was sitting beside them, the scaly monolith of his tail thudding against the carpets.

“Yes, you want me to tell you you’re good for returning what you stole? I think not.” He whined as she stooped to pull the shoes on, bitching all the while. “And believe you me, Flaadhun, when I find Jak, he’s going to wish he’d never heard my name. No one simply walks out on me, especially not when the most important fight in . . . EVER presents itself. Cad. What an utter CAD.” She grabbed her satchel of runes and stomped through the living room, felhound snorting in tow behind her. She felt one of his tentacles winding around the hem of her robe and tugging, as if he could hold her back.

“Good gods what! I’m in a mood, if you haven’t noticed, and you can thank your father for that.”

“I am not that thing’s father. It’s a fucking demon. Can we GO now?” She jerked her head up to see Jakob staring at her through the glass window of the front door. She blinked, her irritation fluttering away, replaced by red faced embarrassment that she’d likely been cursing him to the nether and back and he’d heard every word.

Because he was standing just outside the door waiting for her the entire time.

“Oh, of course. I . . right. I think I’m ready to . . . ”

His cheek ticked again.

She flashed him her best makeshift smile. “Shall we then?”

Bittertongues at War

Bricu — Thu, 24 Jun 2010 11:56:18 +0000

Naiara Bittertongue

Naiara Bittertongue exists as a series of emotes, drawings and exquisitely timed phonetically spelled swear words. She doesn’t have a class. She has no profession. She does not even have an avatar. She does, however, consume a significant amount of RP. In return, she generates more than her fair share of Bricu/Threnn stories, ideas and vignettes. It should be no surprise, then, that Naiara was a huge factor in how the Bittertongues decided to deal with Arthas. This is how the Bricu prepared for war.

Thenia refused to think of her daughters and her son in law. Both daughters, her no good son-in-law and her nearly-perfect granddaughter had arrived to tell her, in person, that the Highlord had called the banners. The Riders were going to war, which meant her daughters were at risk… Instead, she focused on her still limping husband, who was stubbornly insisted on putting their granddaughter to bed.

“Sit and relax Thenia.” Padraig said, “You worked all day. Besides, I usually put her to bed. You can get her ready when she gets up in the morning.”

She noted that Padraig didn’t mention how Naiara did not want to come near her, or how Naiara fussed when he left the room. She was thankful that Padraig didn’t use the words, “phase, stage or fussy.” He just left it alone. Thenia almost smiled at her husbands kindness.

To keep her thoughts from drifting to Dalaran–and worse–Thenia kept herself busy by sorting through Naiara’s bags. Threnn and Bricu left her: sets of clothes, cloth diapers, homemade snacks and more stuffed animals than any little girl really needed. Each bag was meticiulously packed and ordered, and contained far more than what was necessary for “one last battle.”

At the bottom of the biggest bag, she found a large enevlope. It was addressed to Naiara, not to her, in Bricu’s hand writing. Thenia didn’t need instructions on how to take care of her granddaughter, and as clever as Naiara was, she was still years away from learning her letters. Her son-in-law left her a mystery. A mystery she carried with her to the kitchen, where she made herself some tea. As the kettle boiled, she checked to make sure no one in the house was watching her–a useless precaution given that she could hear Padraig reading a story to Naiara–and steamed the envolpe open.

She took out a collection of letters. Some were short notes, others were multiple page affairs. Some were written in Threnn’s handwriting, some in Bricu’s. All of them were dated. Most were dated for Naiara’s birthday, but Thenia found one with today’s date–a long letter written by Bricu–and read it.

My wee girl,

If you are reading this, and I didn’t give it to you, it means the worst happened at the Bloody Prince’s citadel. This isn’t a pleasent thought, and writing about it makes me worry all the more. Still, I want you to know that while your mother and I may have died fighting, our last thoughts were of you.

We fought the Bloody Prince for you. Sacrificing our lives was a shit bargain Naiara, but if it gave you a chance to grow up free of fear from the bastard that destroyed the North, then it was almost worth it. Almost.

I don’t know how many questions you have. Your grandma won’t answer many of them. Don’t hate her for it. Your grandma and I didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, but I knew she always had your best interests at heart. If she didn’t tell you everything, or she only told you terrible things, forgive her. She is only doing what she feels she needs to do. I told your uncles Robert and William to tell you all the stories they heard. Your aunt Tash should have come to visit you, and she knows more about the Old North and your da than your da does. Whatever Riders survived the Bloody Prince Citadel should treat you like a princesses…but these folk, as wonderful and brilliant as they are, will not answer all of your questions. The Riders, no matter how clever or daring they are, never knew what it was like to be an orphan.

You da did. I’m writing this so you know more about your parents.

First: You need to know that your mother and I loved you more than anything else in this world. Only a brother, or a sister, could have come close to our wee girl.So make no mistake: Leaving you with your Grandmother was the most difficult choice we made. But we made it, and as hard as it was, we would do it again. Our job was to keep you safe, no matter what happened to us. That didn’t stop us from missing you, from worrying about you, or smiling at the thought of you.

Second: Heres the truth about your family–Riders included. Under your godsfather’s leadership, broke the King’s law. We raided the depths of Ilidan’s Temple and pillaged lost artifacts. We took contracts with nobles, double crossed them, and lost that money in fantastically stupid ideas. Your mother bought liquor from all over the world. Liquor that was probably banned, or worse. Your aunt Annie kept two sets of books, one for our records, one for the Kings Tax collectors.

We kept one of those tax collectors in a jar.

All those stories are true. We did some rather nasty things. Still, these stories are just half of what we did. Hopefully, someone told yeh the stories about how we took care of Old Town when no one else would. I wrote some of those stories down–stories that you should read later.

Maybe you are old enough, now, to see how some folk operate. There are far too many folk, Northmen or Southron, who turn their backs on others. That’s not how the Riders do it. Even when our own folk were bloody stupid, we stood by each other. That’s the point o’the Colors. We weren’t loyal to a dynsasty in the North or the South, to a church or a faith. We were loyal to each other and those that did right by us.

Third: Your mother was the finest example of a Paladin I had ever known. She knew more about the Light than the priests at the Cathedral. She was clever, smart and beautiful. She was stubborn too. She lost the Light when she saved me from a terrible bastard of a man. She did her penance and regained the Light. That’s not a usual thing for paladins to do Naiara. Most just give up. But not Threnn. Your mother never quit, never faltered and never turned her back on someone in need. Marrying her was the second smartest thing I had ever done.

Foruth: Your da… Well, your da was from the North. Your da was a drunk. Your da once told a scary woman–Indarra Grizzelle Leafwhisper–that all holy men were con men. But your da wore the Colors proudly. Your da was a fine chef and a master jeweler. Your da washed your diapers with minor complaints. Your da taught you to swear–and if you’re still headbutting and fist-fighting, your da daught you that as well–and how to do it with style. I wish I could say that your da was a simple bloke who did right by others, but I won’t lie to you here. I was a bastard. Worse yet, I make no apologies for that. I walked a fine line, guided by the
Old Ways and the Light, but it was a path I chose willingly. But make no mistake: My girls were the center of my life. I did two brilliant things in my life: I married your mother and I helped bring you into this world. If I died keeping them safe from the Blood Prince–you should know that your da was at Stratholme and helped burn it to the ground–then so be it.

Your mum and I talked daily about who you would be when you grew up. We thought maybe the first human druid, or a hunter. Maybe you’d turn out like your uncle Tarquin. Maybe you’d be like your mum… Or maybe you’d be a chef. Or maybe you’d decide that all you wanted to do was run your grandparents shop. Your Mum and I want you to be happy. We want you to know that we are proud of you. That you were the most important person in our lives. No matter what you do, you will always be our clever wee girl who learned to say ballacks before she learned to say “Up.”

If you miss us, you can do two things: Pray to the Light and your mum should send you a sign somehow. If you ask fox for a boon, in a dream, I’ll give you what I can. I’ve already made a deal with her. She’ll take care of you.

I have written a few other letters here, some about the North, some about the Riders. Those are business. This is the letter where your da tries to make it clear that he loved you, that your mother adored you and that they were both so proud of you. We went away to keep you safe, and we will always watch over you.

Love always,

Your Da.

Thenia folded the letter up and put it back into the envelope. She listened for Padraig or Naiara, but neither was making a sound. For the moment, Thenia was completely alone in her home. She sat in her chair and let herself worry about her family, in the North.

Friday Fic: It’s Not Easy Being Green

Yva — Fri, 04 Jun 2010 19:57:06 +0000

((Some language may not be suitable for all audiences. AKA, Seylon talks like a trucker. Prolly NSFW.))

Can be tough bein’ me, though folk ain’t gonna believe it none. Gorgeous, tough, got two beautiful kids an’ a tongue that can talk sweet an’ sour at th’drop of a hat. Tongue can do other shit, too, but see, that’s the damned problem. Least, the problem I’m yappin’ on t’day. So sit down, shut the fuck up an’ hear me out. Oh, an’ pass me that bottle’a whiskey.

S’good, Sugar. Thanks.

Ya see, there’s folk out there who say they get ass, that they’re a pussy magnet an’ the women are crawlin’ all over ‘em. Problem is they’re fulla shit. S’a pretense to make ya think that you’re missin’ out on somethin’ grand, like they’ll tickle your fancy with the snap’a fingers. They’re prolly hopin’ you’ll drop trou right then an’ there an’ suck their cocks in gratitude that they graced your presence in th’ first place. They’re assholes, Sugar, but I like to think . . . well, m’different, yeah? I ain’t sayin’ that I got a girl danglin’ offa knee every time m’out, but ya’d be surprised how quick I can work m’magic an’ get somethin’ cute an’ girly in under . . . ten minutes. S’about th’time it takes for me t’figure out if I can actually get a gal into bed or not. I’d give ya a round ’bout number’a gals I’ve had, but I ain’t sure numbers go that high. Ya’d be surprised how many pairs’a tits ya can pack in seven hundred, eight hundred years.

Heh, funny thing ’bout tits, now that’m on th’subject. Best pair I ever seen – in all that time? Genise Crownsilver. Them things are perfect, an’ I seen tits from Darnassus to Tanaris to . . shit. Ya get my point. Geni’s got a pretty pair, s’leave it at that ‘fore I start droolin’.

Back to what I was sayin’. I had m’share an’ then some of ladies, an’ m’fair good at fishin’ out a friend for th’night when m’feelin’ lonesome. Can’t remember th’last time I went home ‘lone when I wanted a piece’a ass. Just don’t happen, either cause I can sweep someone off their feet at a pub or – if that don’t do th’trick – open up th’little black book an’ ring-a-ling a friend.

I ain’t gonna sit here an’ extrapolate – fifty silver word, there, darlin’. Take a drink with me.

Fuck that burns good. Right.

Ain’t gonna extrapolate that m’the best thing that ever graced sheets this side’a creation, but I got m’skillset an’ s’done me well. Think the reason some folk are bad at fuckin’ s’they forget that half’a the thing’s in th’head. Ya can diddle parts til somethin’ interestin’ happens, but if a gal’s brain ain’t feelin’ as stimulated as th’rest’a her? S’gonna be a mechanical release, an’ that’s that. M’after soul wrenchin’ shit. I want ‘em shakin’ an’ screamin’ not cause they feel they gotta put on a show, but because they’re so into th’moment they don’t know they’re loud ‘nough t’wake the innkeeper an’ the folks next door.

Th’difficulty comes – heh, said comes. Shot time. Th’difficulty comes th’next day when they’re lookin’ at ya with them big eyes like ya hang th’moon. Th’problem with bein’ me, Sugar, is I’ve had t’give Th’Talk too many fuckin’ times. S’amazing how many gals think that cause ya worked ‘em over til they’s wrung out an’ tired that it means ya love ‘em. I ain’t suggestin’ fuckin’ don’t have nothin’ t’do with love, it can, but it don’t have to neither. Some gals got an issue confusin’ th’two. Men don’t seem t’have th’same difficulties, or if they do? They’s just better at hidin’ it.

First time I had t’do th’talk was right after ‘Marra died. What ya should know ’bout ‘Marra is she was m’first woman, gal that taught me all I know ’bout th’ladies. ‘fore her I didn’t even look at ‘em none, was all ’bout th’dick cause I just didn’t think ’bout gals like that. She showed me th’ropes, an’ a few other things, includin’ this thing ya do where ya push their leg back an’ . . . fuck. Nevermind. M’gettin’ off topic. She taught me most’a what I know ’bout women now, s’leave it at that. Rest I learned from time an’ experience. Anyway, she died in th’war, an’ I was left on m’lonesome recoverin’ from a broken heart. Loved her an’ I was too dumb t’know it ’til she was gone.

Gimme second. Need ‘nother bottle. Reese darlin’? Thanks, Sugar. You’re th’best.

Yeah, so after we put ‘Marra in th’ground in Ashenvale, shacked up with this nice sentinel gal, can’t even remember her name now, was that long ‘go, but I took out alla my hurt over th’course’a . . . three nights? Four? Don’t remember much ’bout it, except that I was hurtin’ bad from losin’ ‘Marra an’ I’d tried t’fuck her outta m’system. That don’t work, by th’way. Don’t try it. Just puts off the copin’, but . . . shit m’bad ’bout ramblin’ ain’t I?

I was puttin’ m’kit on – armor, Sugar, kit’s a word for armor – an’ I went t’go after our fuckfest an’ she asked when she’d see me ‘gain. I turned t’look at her, an’ she looked at me like I was th’sun in her sky. Made me feel like shit, Sugar, an’ I had t’explain that I weren’t in it for th’keepin’. Just lost m’gal, an’ I was lookin’ for a friend an’ some company, but nothin’ more. She was pissed, an’ I can’t fuckin’ blame’er neither. That talk ain’t a NICE talk, an’ I was so fuckin’ bad at it then. Ya get better at it over th’years, yeah, but ain’t ever real comfortable t’give.

The day it ‘comes comfortable? You’re a dick. I try hard not t’be a dick if I can help it.

Long an’ short, Sugar, is I fucked it up that time. Tried t’tell her I didn’t make no promises, that I was hurtin’, an’ that she was lovely an’ worth keepin’ but I just weren’t th’keepin’ type. She threw everythin’ on th’nightstand at me an’ called me a dumb cunt. Pissed me off at th’time? But she was right. I was bein’ a dumb cunt. So lemme tell ya what I learned over th’years ’bout Th’Talk, from that experience an’ a few other uglies I seen since, yeah?

Ya do it first. ‘fore ya drag ‘em home, after ya laid th’groundwork an’ got ‘em wet as a rainstorm.

S’the secret. Th’magic. Ya tell ‘em up front. Ya’d be amazed – FUCKIN’ AMAZED – how many gals will still go home with ya if you’re honest that s’just a night’a fun, but ya gotta go in th’mornin’. If I guessed how many actually balked an’ walked on me after I told ‘em up front? Say . . . five percent? That ain’t ‘lot when you’re lookin’ at my kinda numbers, darlin’. Honesty. S’the best fuckin’ policy.

Oh. ‘nother thing worth notin’ is it ain’t gotta be a long goddess damned speech none, either. Make it simple. “Sugar, I think you’re prettier than a spring mornin’, an’m sure you’re a doll, but I gotta tell ya ‘fore we go home that s’for fun. S’it, yeah? Ain’t a promise.”

All ya gotta say. Yeah m’fuckin’ serious. If ya make it longer than that they think you’re apologizin’ for it, an’ ya don’t want ‘em thinkin’ that. Makes ‘em doubt ya an’ what they’re thinkin’ on doin’. If ya sound sure, an’ ya tell ‘em true, ya earn their trust. Honesty. More’n breath on th’neck, more’n a well placed line or a flirt or a subtle grab, it’ll get ‘em every time.

Ya think’m fulla shit? Point out a gal, darlin’. Point her out, an’ I’ll show ya.

Just gimme ten minutes.

Naiara’s Birthday: Uncle and Aunts

Bricu — Thu, 20 May 2010 14:27:46 +0000

At just after midnight, the door started opening and closing with unsettling rapidity. The hooded elfwoman who’d arrived during the labor was first, slipping out the back steps with nary a glimpse. Then the “midwife,” such as he was, with an unsettling sort of bundle in his arms, going straight to the washroom with a flickering gaze at the floor below. Finally, the other three guests of the Bittertongues exited together, huddling briefly on the landing. A cigarette was passed between hands, a flame was struck, and then they turned and descended half a flight to the common room.

All the tired, drawn, hopeful faces in the Gilded Rose turned towards them, studying them with a curiosity that bordered on avarice. The two women looked nothing alike, really, and neither of them remotely resembled the man. But in that moment, the smiles on their faces were all of a kind.

Tarquin glanced between the other two, puffing pensively, until Fells nudged him in the ribs as a necessary step of her dance of agonized impatience. The boss snorted and took a step forward. There were at least twenty people down in the common room, and they were all looking to him for an answer – and for once, the prospect didn’t worry him in the least. After all, it was pretty simple.

He plucked the cigarette from his mouth, spread his hands, and found Padraig and Thenia in the crowd. “Master Al’Cair, Missus Al’Cair – yeh’ve a lovely gran’daughter. Naiara Bittertongue, yeh lot!” The second half was shouted quite loudly, because at that point near on every soul in the room had burst into raucous cheers. Tarquin turned to Annalea, Fells being occupied shouting herself hoarse. “Job oughta be like this mair often,” he murmured.

Annalea smirked at him. “What makes you think it can’t?” Chortling, Naiara’s godfather stepped down into a welcoming sea of strangers who were, tonight, his bosom companions. A drink was in order.

–
She’d dug the vial up from beneath the rowan tree just after Threnn’s first call. In the morning light, the mixture’s glow was barely discernible, as much a product of the sun filtering through the crystal as it the magic swirling around inside. When she went upstairs to catch a few more hours of sleep, she laid a strip of white cloth in her windowbox and placed the vial on top of it, so it could gather the sun’s warmth. Blessed by day and night and in-between.

When the time came, the vial rode in her pocket all the way across the city, nestled close to her heart. It stayed there as they counted off the hours, as people came and went. When Threnn put an arm around her shoulder for yet another walk around the room, Anna twined her sister’s fingers with her own, and every step became a syllable of the Name she’d written with the goddess as her witness.

Then came the hours of blood and pain, where the body that had never been anything but hale and hearty betrayed Threnn at last. While they waited for Indarra to arrive, Anna exchanged worried looks with Haemon, and thought of the fading cries of kits in a cave.

But then, at last, there was a girl, a tiny baby in Fells’ careful hands, letting out her first shuddering cries as she was given into her father’s arms, and then her mother’s.

Anna still had Threnn’s blood on her hands as she edged closer to Bricu and reached for the vial, but that was all right; it would only strengthen the spell. A mother will bleed for her child just as much as a father does, after all. She bent over her sister and her niece as she unstoppered the vial and poured some of its contents on her fingertips. It was warm as it splashed out, whether from her own body, or whether it had retained the sun’s heat, she’d never know.

Bricu placed his hand on her back as she brushed sigils on the baby’s forehead, lips and heart with gentle fingers. Anna looked up, waiting for Threnn’s permission. Her sister brushed sweat-darkened hair from her eyes, and nodded.

Annalea smiled, and whispered a Name in the curve of one tiny ear:

Etaine.

Naiara’s Birthday Continues!

Bricu — Thu, 20 May 2010 05:22:25 +0000

The Panther and the Fox
Very little moonlight reached the foorest floor, but it was more than enough for the panther stalking his prey. Each of his senses were attuned for the late night hunt. He followed his prey’s frightened, erratic tracks through the forest floor. He smelled the fear left behind in each paw print. He would pause and listen as his prey’s breathing quickened.

He felt that the fox was close.

The panther had hunted the fox for hours as she ran through Elwynn forest. The chase led him to a clearing, halfway between the forest and the hills that surrounded the human city. The fox sat on a rock, looking towards the hills. The panther approached slowly, crouching low to the ground, his belly rubbing againt the twigs and leaves of the forest flooor. His tail swished, once, before the pounce. The fox’s ears perked as the panther’s tail hit the ground. She jumped from the rock and bounded off into the hills. The panther pounced and landed where the fox was. She was yards ahead, looking down on the panther from the top of a hill. The panther gave the chase.

He gained on the fox quickly, closing into pounce once more. The fox ducked right. The panther lunged, falling for the feint. She bounded down another path on the left, forcing the panther to slow and turn. It took a moment for the panther to track the fox, but the moment was all the fox needed to disappear into the hillside. The panther smelled the fox–she had ran down this path–but the scent trail ended in front of a small, narrow cave.

He could feel the fox was nearby, but his senses focused on closer prety. The sounds of mewling caught his ear. He smelled somethign similar to the fox–her kin–but he could not see them. Her kits were close, in a cave too small for the panther to reach them. So he waited. The kits would eventually stop mewling and look out for their mother. When they would, the panther would be there, ready for them.

The kits didn’t stop mewling. He walked a few paces away, downwind, so the kits couldn’t smell him, but not a single one looked for their mother. As the panther waited, the moonset behind the hills. The mewling grew fainter. Soon the panther walked back to the cave and listened for the mewling. The cave was silent. While he smelt the fox still, the kit’s scent was fading. Another smell, sickly sweet, filled his nostrils. Something above the cave cracked and shattered. The panther lept backward, dodging the falling rocks and debris, sealing the cave completely.

His senses focused on the cave, the panther didn’t hear the fox as she crept behind him, but he felt her when she pounced on his tail. Lighting quick, the panther reared round to face the fox, but not before the fox bit into the panther’s paw. The panther growled and lashed out with the the same wounded paw, but the fox glared and barked at her.

“Annie!” it growled. “ANNIE!”

Annalea Al’Cair sat straight up in her bed. Her dream still playing in her mind as she looked for the buzz box she had left on her nightstand. The nightstand, and its contents, were scattered to the ground, knocked over in her sleep. She found the box underneath her notebook. Her brother in law’s voice barking her name.

“Oi, fer fuck’s sake, ANNIE!”

“I”m here, I’m here. I was just…getting…What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’ wrong. Everythin’s on schedule. Threnny’s water broke.”

“Is everything okay?”

“I think so…but yer the other fuckin’ midwife. Yeh’re supposed t’tell me! So get yer arse o’er here!”

“I’m coming.” She paused for a moment, trying to clear her head. “Did you get my list?”

“Aye, only thing missin’ are yeh an Shad an our Naiara. I’ve gotta get that one on the box. Yeh comin’?”

“Aye, aye.” She said. “Be there in two shakes.”

“We’ll be waitin’.”

Annie set her buzz box down on her bed and started to change from her night clothes into something more appropriate for her niece’s birth. She looked at her right hand, the same she must have used when she knocked the nightstand over. A bruise was forming. By the time Naiara would be born, it would be a sickly purple green. Annie tried to focus on the bruise, but all she could remember was the fox’s bite and the kits trapped in a cave.

–
Tarquin
The Gilded Rose had always been considered a respectable establishment, even in its early days. It was the sort of place that, rather than being tarnished by those of its clients with tarnish to impart, gave them a sort of glossy sheen. But there were always going to be those who disagreed.

The trouble started with a toast, old John Bell lifting a glass of the Rose’s good dark beer to Threnn Al’Cair’s good fortune, and his sons responding in kind. Really, not the sort of thing that should have inspired trouble. Then William toasted Bricu Bittertongue and his good fortune, which Robert suggested was much greater – “After all, he’s getting a lovely child and our Threnny.”

None of the Bells knew the man who rose from a table of five companions and made his way to their snug table by the fire, but John at least recognized the emblem stitched onto his tunic – House Fairfax’s horse-and-horn quarterings. He was an athletic-looking young fellow, with handsome features spoiled primarily by the supercilious sneer lurking on his face waiting for an excuse to pop out. “What’s the happy occasion, citizens?” he inquired pleasantly enough.

“A birth, sirrah,” reported Robert with a grin. “And the couple’s first to boot. Join us for a drink, won’t you?” He was in the sort of ebullient good mood that manifests itself as contagion. “Anyone, in fact, who’d like a round on my brother can have one!”

The Fairfax man chuckled at that, and William’s protesting shout. “Well, it’s rare enough I turn down a free drink. Only – who did you say were the lucky couple again?”

“Threnn and Bricu Bittertongue,” Robert answered. “Fine Stormwind business-folk, the both of them, and proper soldiers to boot.” The uniformed man lifted an eyebrow and made a noise in the back of his throat that carried some unflattering connotations.

“Something troubling you, sir?” asked William, with a wary glance at his brother.

“I’ll have to decline, with all respect,” the Fairfax man said in a tone that implied very little in the way of respect. “While I’m sure you’re fine Stormwind gentlemen, a greenskin’ll sit the Lion Throne before I’d lift a mug to the likes of those.” That sneer had no compunctions about making itself shown.

“And what likes would that be, my friend?” Robert pushed his mug aside and let one tattooed arm fall on the tabletop,fingers tapping. As carpenters went, he was a fairly muscular sort. The standing man seemed unimpressed, but his five friends at the far table might have had something to do with that. “Threnny’s like a sister to us, I’ll have you know.”

“Not much of a brother then, are you?” The Fairfax man planted his own hand on the tabletop, not far from Robert’s. “I couldn’t imagine letting any sister of mine marry that Bittertongue sot, or wear those colors.”

“Not our bloody fault you haven’t any imagination,” offered William, putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Look, fellow, why don’t you go and sit down? This is meant to be a happy occasion.”

The man scoffed. He practically said “Scoff.” William was seized by a sudden urge to laugh, and the looming man caught it and scowled. Nothing irked the likes of the provocateur more than not being taken seriously. “Well, then again,” he said with weighty sarcasm, “Maybe your ‘Threnny’ is just where she’s meant to be, with the criminal scum. Like that sister of hers, hm?”

William and Robert were both on their feet in an instant, the smiles wiped from their faces. “Say that again,” Robert said flatly. “Go on and say that again, you streak of piss.”

“Better,” grunted their father as he got to his feet. “Don’t. Turn around, walk out that door, and go tell Lord Fairfax to give you something useful to do.” John Bell clasped his big gnarled hands in front of his chest. “Because if you say it, then you have my personal guarantee that whatever else happens, my boys will knock the teeth from your head for speaking ill of the Al’Cair family. I’ll put it on paper if you want.”

The Fairfax man glanced around the room, which had fallen silent. A bit less than twenty people in the commons, split three ways between Bittertongue well-wishers, unrelated guests, and of course his own five companions. Apparently, he liked his odds. “Bricu Bittertongue is a drunken, murdering bastard,” he said with slow and oozing malice, “And Threnn Bittertongue and Annalea Al’Cair are nothing but a pair of-”

“-virra lovely an’ charmin’ ladies.” Somehow, the speaker had entered the Rose in the few moments between the Fairfax man’s survey of the room and his address to the brothers Bell and their father. “An’ I’m glad ta join yeh in the privilege ay thir ‘quaintance, Bennett, auld boy. It is Bennett, innit? Hadyn Bennett?” The apparent Master Bennett made no reply, but the color could be observed to be leaving his face at an unusually rapid rate.

Tarquin ap Danwyrith strolled into the room, glancing over at Bennett’s table of friends, none of whom made move to rise. He draped one lanky arm around Bennett’s shoulders. “Hadyn Bennett, an’ in the colors too! Fuck me, mate, but yeh’ve moved up in the world, have’na yeh? I recall when a keen punter could get yeh ta break yir ain dear auld ma’s knees fir the price ay a whore!” He laughed at his own wit, grinning broadly at the slightly bemused trio of Bells across the table. “An’ look at yeh now. Time’s been kind, eh?”

He adjusted his hat and leaned in to speak into Hadyn’s ear, his smile getting even wider while the latter’s sickly grin curdled. From his place across the table, William could hear quite clearly. “If I see any ay yeh Fairfax cunts within a hundred paces ay Threnny’s child, they willna find the bodies ’til she’s a grandmother. Take yir lads an’ go tell Fane what I said. Now.” Tarquin let go and clapped Bennett on the shoulder, then turned away, not bothering to watch as the man made a hasty gesture to his table of companions and exited the Gilded Rose with haste unbecoming a sworn man of House Fairfax.

Once the six had left, Tarquin planted one foot on an unoccupied seat, tilting his hat back to peer at the brothers Bell, still standing. “Well, thit wis divertin’. Which yin ay yeh’s Bell, then?”

“Ah – all of us,” answered William, staring at ap Danwyrith skeptically. Robert settled for a pugnacious glare, a recalcitrant blood vessel still throbbing slightly at his brow.

“I’m John Bell,” responded that eminent personality, comfortably ensconced in his seat once again. “Those two are my sons, William and Robert. And you’re ap Danwyrith, aren’t you?”

“Guilty, ay thit if naught else.” Tarquin tipped his hat to all three and stepped back, buffing the buttons on his green tunic. They seemed perfectly shiny, but he was the sort of man who always needed something to do with his hands, if only to keep them out of trouble. “I’m meant ta tell yeh thit Thenia an’ Padraig’s oan thir way. Have a drink or twa ready fir thim, eh?” Some prestidigitation with his right hand saw a gold half-crown glittering on the tabletop. “Oan me.”

“Very generous of you, Master ap Danwyrith,” observed John with a certain wry twist to his lips that neither of his sons completely understood. “Have that drink with us?” William, back in his seat, moved to draw out an empty chair.

“Love ta, auld boy, but Threnny wants me up thir ta keep her husband fra’ breakin’ down wi’ the terrors.” He smirked and stepped back. “I’ll see yeh eftir, na doubt. Cheers, Masters Bell, an’ keep up the guid work.” He withdrew his leg and made his long-stepping way up the stairs, as the rest of the room slowly returned to its previous mutter of conversation, less the empty corner table.

William broke the silence, smirking at Robert. “Are you ever going to sit down?” Robert coughed and did so, a touch of that pugnacious scowl still on his face, and Will turned to his father. “That fellow, he’s the same one in the papers. The one who…” He couldn’t seem to find an adequate way to finish the sentence, and settled for picking up the gold coin from the tabletop. “All those stories can’t be true.”

“Half’d be enough,” said John quietly. “But that’s the way it is, boys – if Threnn’s family, then so’s Bricu, and so’s that one.”

The brothers Bell looked at each other, and then Robert shrugged and lifted his glass. “Alright, then. Wouldn’t be here if we didn’t trust our Threnny, now would we?” William smiled, put down the coin, and found his own beer.

Clink.

–
Threnn checked three times to make sure she was broadcasting to a private channel rather than to the Riders’ common one. “Fellsie?”

It took a minute for the other woman to answer. She was likely busy putting the house in order, or outside, fingers dug deep in the earth, planting her garden. “Mmn? Whatsit?”

“Think you can get to Stormwind soon?”

“Threnny? Everthin’ a’right?”

“Yeah. Everything’s fine so far.” Bricu had put out the summons to Anna and Haemon already. She could hear him talking quietly with Tarquin now. Kara had been sent to find her parents. This was really happening.

“‘So far’.” The sound of a bridle jangling as it came down from its hook almost drowned out the concern in Fells’ voice.

Threnn tried to keep her own calm. “So far. My water broke maybe ten minutes ago. Can you–”

“‘M ON M’WAY.”

She grinned as Fells switched off, and settled down to wait for her family to arrive.

Wrathgate Wednesday: A Broken Nose

Bricu — Wed, 19 May 2010 12:18:17 +0000

Welcome to the penultimate installment in Wrathgate Wednesday. As the Riders have scattered to the four winds, Bricu and Varenna work to keep one of their own from committing suicide by scourge…

Lady Varenna Sungale by *JRinaldi on deviant ART

Varenna raised her shield and blocked both of Illithias’ slashes. “Il-Illithias! Stop!” Varenna shouted at her. Illlithias snarled in response and swung her axes again. Varenna blocked one axe with her shield. She parried the other, beat the haft of the axe hard enough for Illithias to drop her second axe. This didn’t stop her. She grabbed her remaining axe with both hands and swung with all of her might at Varenna. Varenna neither parried nor raised her shield. She took two quick steps backward out of the arc of the axe. It slammed into the ground, kicking up a great gout of snow. Still snarling, Illithias pulled back up on the axe with both hands.

“Stop! We have to go!” Varenna shouted. “Illithias! We’re leaving!”

Illithias pulled the axe half-out of the snow. She stopped snarling long enough only to spit out, “I’m staying.” She tugged once more before Bricu slammed his own axe onto the haft of her remaining axe.

“Get yer arse back t’the fuckin’ line long ear. Sunshine, get movin’.”

“Not till she moves, Sergeant.” Varenna replied.

Bricu stopped short of a response as Illithias leapt at him, fists swinging, screaming in Darnassian. He caught her by the wrist and held her gaze for a moment.

“The fuck yeh screamin’ ’bout?”

“LEAVE ME HERE!”

“Fuck this.” Bricu said. Then he slammed his forehead into the bridge of her nose. Twice. Illithias went limp, but Bricu held her up by her wrists.

“Sunshine?”

“Yes Sergeant.”

“Carry the fuckin’ tosser. I’ll grab her axes.”

“Yes sir.”

Varenna took Illithias on her shoulders, and carried her back to the rally point. Bricu scooped up her weapons and double timed it back. Varenna rushed past Threnn, Fingold and Annalea and set Illithias up against a rock.

“Sunshine, sit on her.”

“Sergeant?”

“Sit on her, I’m gettin’ rope.”

Bricu went to the makeshift medical tent and grabbed frostweave bandages. Varenna was kneeling on Illithias back when he returned, and although Illi had not stirred, Varenna still looked uncomfortable. He quickly tied her ankles together, then moved to her wrists. He motioned for Varenna to spin her over, which she did quickly. Then Bricu gently put a hand on her face and called upon the light to heal Illi’s broken nose. She awoke with a start, cursing in Darnassian.

“Oi, the fight’s over. We lost. Yer safe.”

“To the Nether with you, Bittertongue. You stole my chance at absolution.” Illithias snarled. She pulled against her bonds, but they held tight.

Bricu glared at her in response. Illithias didn’t seem to notice.

“I can join my family, leave this world doing right, not have to suffer through their deaths and my fall and…”

“Yeh fuckin’ stow this shite solider.” Bricu said. He didn’t raise his voice. “If yer life is so fuckin’ cheap an meaningless, then I’m buyin’ it.”

Illithias stopped struggling and looked up at Bricu. “You what?”

“I fuckin’. Own. Yeh. Yer too fuckin’ stupid t’see the worth that I do? Fine. I own it. Since yeh threw it away on shite move, I bought it on the fuckin’ cheap.”

“I am not going to be your property, your slave…”

“Slaves have value. Yeh only got potential. Yer an’ investment–since yer too fuckin’ broken t’be a person right now. An t’keep my investment safe…. Sunshine?”

“Yes sergeant?” Varenna whispered.

“Keep her in those bandages.”

“Yes sergeant.”

Illithias cursed again, but Bricu glowered at her. She fell silent after a few moments, but Bricu didn’t turn away. Bricu held Illithias’ gaze for as long as she could. When she broke, and lowered her head, Bricu continued to look at her.

“If she gets up,” Bricu said sternly, “knock her out.”

Friday Fiction: Buttons and Lockpicks

falconesse — Fri, 14 May 2010 15:38:00 +0000

((Something a little light-hearted for you lot. Enjoy!))

She didn’t insult him with a key.

The unfortunate part of it was, The Hero’s Welcome had recently changed its locks, taking the profits they were raking in from an influx of adventurers (and perhaps thanks in no small part to an increase in patronage by the Black and Red in the Beer Garden) and splurging on sleek, complicated mechanisms of goblin design.

Which meant that what should have been thirty seconds’ work instead had Tarquin swearing under his breath, switching from one pick to another, his blonde head bent close to the keyhole as he tinkered about with its innards. Where moments before his eyes had lit up with the feverish appreciation for a new adversary – Anna had been subjected to the illustrious history of the Krazzik Brothers’ locks – now he was muttering in frustration.

“Yeh see, it looks so fuckin’ simple, Annie, but that’s where they get yeh. Take pressure off ay this tumbler” – here he wiggled the pick – “an’ this yin behind it clicks in.” As far as she could tell, his hands hadn’t changed position, but she knew that to Tarquin’s practiced fingers, there might as well have been a mile between the tumblers in question.

She nodded and turned to lean against the wall. It was tempting to retrieve the key from the pocket of her dress and have done with it, but she didn’t need to throw the bones to know what the outcome of that would be: he’d follow her into the room, all right, and leave off the problem of the lock for a while. She was fairly certain she could drive thoughts of pins and tumblers out of his mind for an hour or two, or at least make him shove the puzzle to the back of his brain while he was otherwise occupied. But soon enough after, he’d be out of bed again, cigarette clenched between his teeth, looking like a pale, naked scarecrow trying to escape the bedchamber.

It still might not have been such a bad thing, letting a stubborn lock be foremost in his thoughts instead of the conversation they’d had outside. It would let him put off thinking about the conversation that would follow it soon enough, one she wouldn’t be present for.

But mischief won out over practicality.

Anna leaned down. Tarq wasn’t just bent over to see the doorknob now; he’d plunked himself down on the floor, in for the long haul. Anna checked her angle and pulled her hair back over her shoulder. When he looked up, he’d get an eyeful.

Three, two, one… She cleared her throat and his eyes snapped up to hers, a sheepish grin forming on his lips.

“Just a wee tick, Annie, an’ I’ll ha’ –” Her smile stopped him. His gaze flicked down, widened. The grin went from sheepish to wolfish in the time it took for her to take a deep, bodice-filling breath – but for just a moment, he was actively taken aback. “So work faster, is wha’ yir sayin’.”

She straightened, enough to pluck the key from her pouch. When she held it up, it caught the light. “Here’s the deal.” She dropped the key down the front of her dress and felt it settle just below her navel, where her belt cinched her waist. “Ten buttons from top to bottom. If I get to the last one before you get the best of that thing, we use the key and you live with the knowledge that I can unbutton my blouse faster than you can pick a lock.”

He frowned. “An’ if I beat yir entirely arbitrary timer?”

Her voice was low and husky as she undid the first button. “I think the reward speaks for itself.”

Tarquin pushed himself up onto his knees and drew her down into a kiss. “Ta hell with speakin’. I’ll make yeh sing.”

Anna laughed and pushed him gently away “Get on it, then.” She began humming a tavern song that sounded suspiciously like “The Queen’s Lockbox.” At the end of every second measure, she undid a button. By the time she got to the chorus, three buttons down, he’d picked up the pattern, cutting his eyes to the side when it was time for her to reveal more of her décolletage, then back to his work when her hands moved away.

“Incorrigible minx.”

“Seven to go.” She dropped to her knees beside him, positioning herself right in his peripheral vision.

“Thit’s fuckin’ distractin’.”

“Are you complaining?”

“Yeh’ll notice I said distractin’, no’ displeasin’.”

Another button. “Good.”

She made it to five, had her fingers hovering over the next button (“Oh try your key in my lock, said she–”) when Tarq crowed, “Ha! Yeh beautiful bastard.”

Metal clicked deep within the keyhole. He reached for the doorknob with a flourish and nodded as it turned easily in his hand. “See, now? Thit’s how yeh open a fuckin’ door.” His tools were folded back in their oiled cloth in a few deft moves, but he didn’t tuck them away in the pocket of his cloak. Instead, he slipped them into the still-buttoned bottom of her blouse as he pulled her to her feet. “I’ll retrieve those in a tick. But first, yeh mentioned somethin’ about a reward.”

“Mm-hm.” She grinned up at him as his arms encircled her waist. “Best get on inside and collect it.”

The door clicked shut behind them. From deep within the Krazzik Brothers’ lock came the sound of the tumblers resetting themselves.

Wrathgate Wednesday: The Truth

Bricu — Wed, 05 May 2010 12:00:13 +0000

Welcome to Wrathgate Wednesday! As we reach the last of the fiction, I need to confess: One of the main purposes of the Wildfire Rider Wrathgate event was to reintroduce Uthas to Feathermoon. He’s been around in the posts: Showing up with the remnants of the Eye–his own personal army–to aid in the final assault, dodging ballistae bolts, yet those posts were to remind the Riders that Uthas has been in Northend long before any of the PCs set foot on that frozen continent. The ending of Wrathgate, which was conceived of at the last Feathermeet, was designed to add another level of complexity to the Uthas question; namely, what the hell do we do with him?

To recap: Bricu and Threnn have been ambushed by geists, and while both were fighting valiantly, they were also loosing. The calvary has appeared–mounted on a war bear.

The Wildfire Riders – Uthas by *JRinaldi on deviant ART

Threnn
by Uthas, age DEATHKNIGHT

Threnn gasped at the cold air, pulling with all of her might to draw it in and fill the void in her chest. The muscles in her chest were on the edge of giving up, and within her she could feel the pounding of not one, but two hearts in panic. The jagged and bent bits of her armor bit into the ice, halting her slide, and she awkwardly rolled onto her side, shielding her swollen belly from the geists as she struggled to her feet. Once she had her boots under her, the strangling fear did not end. There was no sign of Bricu, only a mix of dark raggety bodies hissing and leaping. She wanted to shout for him, to scream to the Light and deliver its judgement on those hiding him from her, but, her lungs just wouldn’t seem to fill. Sharp pains lanced up her side, and she struggled with the straps to loosen her breastplate. A flash of burnished gold in the sunlight told her where her husband lay, covered in beasts tearing at the metal to find the warm flesh beneath. Threnn found her breath and screamed.

It was not the Light that answered her plea. Death came again for the once dead in the form of a huge armoured bear. The beast’s fur was snowy white where it showed through the coating of dark red and black blood and ichor, and atop it rode the dark reflection of the prayers Threnn had shouted. The voice that had stirred thousands, that had led Azeroth to the brink of hope and the pinnacle of despair before falling years silent now rose again, this time in wrath. The roar coming from the black, shadowed helmet seemed a thousand voices wailing from a place so far away it could only be found in the small places within Threnn, those places that existed where her soul wasn’t quite large enough to fill the space it had been alloted, the empty place of her spirit. And the scream was answered by others, maybe six, seven in number, Threnn couldn’t tell in the confusion. Others that brought a dark tide of their own with them, a wave of cold empty death that rode under the banner of the Unblinking Eye.

The geists were blasted away by these dark riders, six of whom streamed past Threnn, leaving her shaken and nearly alone on a suddenly quiet field of snow. One other remained behind, off of his warbear now, kneeling down over Bricu. Threnn yanked her shield up out of the snow and staggered over to the fallen paladin. As she passed the bear it snarled once and sniffed at her. Uthas straightened and stepped away, letting Threnn slide into his place literally as her legs gave out on the ice. The deathknight spoke, voice a mass of icy tendrils that burrowed into her mind. “He will live.”

Threnn cradled Bricu’s head in her lap, shielding his face from the sun with her shield. Blood covered his face, coming from a large gash in his forehead, and he’d never grow a completely full beard again with the slice along his jaw, but he was breathing. She looked up at the black armoured figured, and then spat at his feet, more blood that spittle. “If you think this changes anything, you’re wrong. Riding in to save the day in one big swoop changes nothing. We know what you are, what you do. You hurt him more than anyone, more than even that damned bloody Prince down there. You’ll never hurt him again! This changes NOTHING! This changes no-”

Threnn stared at her bloody left arm, wondering where her shield had gone. Everything was quiet around her. No shouting, no screams of the dying, no sounds of battle at all. Only a distant ringing in her ears. Her breath steamed out of her mouth in front of her eyes, obscuring the blood dripping from her arm. An immense shadow crept across the snow beside her, covering Threnn and Bricu in darkness. She looked up to find out where the sun had gone, and saw the abomination towering over her. She blinked once, long and hard. There was something about this, something she was supposed to do, some way she should react, but nothing made sense. The remnants of her shield dangled from the chained hook twirling in the beast’s hand. It grinned at her, and she smiled back unconsciously. There was something sweet in its eyes. The eyes of a child. A child. Her hands moved to her belly as the abomination raised its other arm, holding an enormous cleaver. Threnn gasped as the world rushed back to her. The meathook descended.

And was caught by a gauntleted hand. The immensity of the abomination spoke of an unstoppable force, its enormity crushing all its path. And yet, the small man now standing over Threnn and Bricu held its strength in check, one hand to one hand. It was ridiculous in a way. Threnn herself towered over Uthas by nearly half a foot. But, rather than caving in front of the hulking brutality of the fleshforged creature, the deathknight forced it back, slowly but surely. He stepped in to grab the arm holding the chain, and the true test of might began. Threnn watched in horrid fascination, not daring to make a move and end the contest either way. Neither opponent could gain a vantage over the other. The abomination had the size and leverage, but it was as if the deathknight had the will of a thousand men. The struggle was a deadly stalemate of stasis.

“You know the prayer of Brother Cadvan?” Threnn was surprised. Uthas’s voice didn’t sound strained. There was no inflection or emotion in it at all, almost as if the deathknight were holding up a board for a friend to nail onto something, instead of wrestling with an unholy nightmare. Threnn sputtered out an affirmative. “Use it while I hold him in place.” She nodded in affirmation, then realized he couldn’t see her, and then realized she didn’t care. She began the chant, and almost immediately felt the Light answer, like it had been waiting on the edges of the field for this chance to rush in. The golden energy pooled in her, filling her bones and flesh with a liquid fire. The snow around her began to melt, and Bricu moaned, but she was so deeply in the force of the prayer that she could not break out even if she had wanted to try. Threnn raised her bloody arm and pointed it at the abomination, watching as a droplet of blood detached from her arm and vanished in a golden spark before it touched the snow. With a final word she released the power.

There was no light. No hammer of fire from the heavens. No bolt of divine justice that leaped from her fingers. Instead, after a moment, both of the combatants simply started burning. It started as smoke, pouring from the skin and metal of the enmeshed fighters. It rose in streams from cracks and bends in their flesh, followed by small spurts of yellow flame. The abomination began trembling now, and great fat baby tears began running down its face. Uthas forced its arms back until there was a cracking of bone, and the beast screamed as a great bonfire seemed to erupt from its mouth and Uthas’s helmet. Its scream trailed off as the fire consumed its throat and the head. It collapsed into a pile ashes, the armoured knight falling through it, flames still dancing around his armour.

Threnn sat quietly, holding Bricu and staring at the pile of ashes and metal. A lone geist crested a mound of snow near her, but as it prepared to leap the shot of a rifle tore through its head, felling it. The paladin couldn’t see who had fired, but she guessed Ulthanon or Beltar. She couldn’t seem to tear her eyes from the smoking remnants of the struggle. When the armour started moving it was all she could do not to laugh. Of course. Uthas stood and began to walk toward the great warbear still waiting for him. He staggered at first, one leg seemingly twisted under him, but as she watched it seemed to straighten and strengthen with each step. He swung up onto his bear and ushered it toward her. “Tell him that is now six meals he owes me.”

She watched his back as he rode away, toward the banner of the Eye. She spoke quiet words. “This changes nothing.” Even she could hear the doubt in her voice.

–

Bricu

Warmth spread from the center of his chest down to the tips of his fingers and toes. It jolted him awake, and Bricu saw Threnn smiling over him. For a moment, Bricu forgot the war going on around him. The Death Knight on the snarling white warbear, riding back to the line reminded him of where they were. Threnn’s eyes went back to the Knight. Bricu followed them, and he knew which member of the Eye it was. He started to sit up, grinding his teeth as he reached for his axe. Threnn helped him to his feet, shaking her head. “Not now love. We have to go. All of us.” Bricu hesitated, watching Uthas ride back to the rest of the Eye, holding open a gap that would let the Riders flee to saftey.

Bricu said nothing. He left his axe in the snow, and took Threnn’s hands as she helped him to his feet. Standing, Bricu looked back towards the ruin that was their ballistae perch. There were more bodies of the scourge behind them. The tent used by Genise, Yva and Davien couldn’t be seen anymore. Closer to where they now stood was another mound of scourge, the geists that had separated them. Their bodies were both slashed and burned. Bricu could only imagine what had occurred while he was unconscious.

“Love,” Threnn said, “We have to get moving. Now.”

“Aye.” Bricu said with a nod. He picked up his axe and shouldered it before running down the hill.

Friday Fiction: The UNhaunting.

Yva — Fri, 30 Apr 2010 18:22:28 +0000

((Some time back we had an RP funeral for one of our guildmates who felt that his story had run its course. Jolstraer was an awesome, ass kicking old sod, and every Rider misses him. Fortunately his PLAYER has returned for us to goof around with, but the character is forever gone.

Aely of That Place Over There opted NOT to have a ghost story, as she had a lot going on. What was really interesting and fun was how she was drawn into the story as a comforting presence for those suffering. It got me thinking: WHY was Aely spared when the rest of the guild was not. The answer, I decided, was the lingering spirit of Jolstraer, with whom Aely was very close. This story is what happened to Maggie Maunt’s ghost when he went toe to toe with our dearly departed.))

The first ran through the woods, eyes fixed on the ground beneath his boots. Every beat of feet against the earth resulted in a clang that tore through the morning quiet. The fogs had risen high, covering the land in an ethereal blanket of sweeping grays and whites. They recoiled from the first, though, making way, for he was wrong and dark and did not belong here.

Past his own domain, now treading dangerously close to the world of the living, the land would not welcome him.

She was somewhere beyond the mists, the old witch said, and he had to find her. She was his, given to him as a gift, ripe for the taking – a proper spoil of war for a conquering warlord – and so he’d strapped on his kit to pursue the prize. He would take her from where she belonged and bring her to a place where the winds sang the lamentations of those long lost.

He broke through the underbrush, sending the forest creatures skittering in fear. The clearing was beyond the weeping willow, and he pulled his sword from his back, gauntlets folding around the grip. The mists parted, signaling the end of his world and the beginning of hers, and beneath his black sallet helmet he allowed a rictus grin.

He crested the hill to peer down into the valley. She had red hair, the witch said, the color of fine spun garnet and gold, long enough to veil her from shoulder to hip. She was tale and pale, paler than good cream, the blood of the north singing through her veins. He licked his lips in wanting, hungry for a taste of such a succulent morsel, hungry for her pride and her life and everything she had to offer.

There was a bellow behind him.

He spun, bracing his legs at the second’s approach. The stranger was outfitted in gleaming silver, in armor forged by the Covenant, riding a mount of magic and light. He slid from the horse’s side and charged, bellowing a war cry, his glowing mace raised above his head. His shield was emblazoned blue and white and gold, matching the cloak that rippled behind him like water.

There was a thud and a clang as the combatants met on the hill, the first swinging his great sword in sweeping arcs, weapon shaking and shuddering as it struck against the second’s shield. The second never gave ground, grunting and growling as he took each hit. He bent his legs and held his head down as he began to push forward, using the shield as a battering ram. The first tried to jerk his sword at the second’s legs, but his blade met a protective shield, a barrier of gold that shimmered once but otherwise remained unchanged.

“Who are you! I have no quarrel with you.”

The second said nothing, just pushed onward, a single eye glowing white above his faceplate. The first stepped back, maintaining his balance as best he could while in retreat, but the hillside was steep and his feet were skimming over rocks and dew laden grass. The mace was raised above the second’s head again, poised to strike. There was another bellow as the weapon came down, swung strong, like it was wielded by a god’s own hand. As it struck the first’s sword, the dark weapon was shattered into a thousand pieces, shards of metal and wood flying in a shrieking spray of shadows.

The warlord rasped, fear coiling in the pit of his stomach.

“What magic is this, Stranger?”

The second said nothing, spinning around to swing the mace again, forcing the flat of the hammer into the first’s middle, crushing the plate in like it was tin and not ebon forged steel. The first staggered to his knee, bending not by choice but by necessity, and he jerked his head back, peering up at the face of the champion.

He opened his mouth to speak, to try and reason with this strange being, but no words were allowed to come. The shield of Lordaeron ripped through the air, a glinting thing of gold and marvel, the edges slicing through the neckguard and the skin beneath. There was a hiss and a crunch, and then there was nothing as the first fell into a heap, his form dissolving into a pile of soot and ash.

Friday Fiction: Bricu’s Haunting

Bricu — Fri, 23 Apr 2010 16:13:47 +0000

Another Haunting By Yva. Maybe she’ll fill us in on her creative process and the nature of Maggie Maunt.
She was a mother now – again, really – with more than herself to take care of. There was a den of kits waiting for her, hidden deep within the recesses of their little burrow. She was a sly thing, and so she chose a place beneath the great oak, where the gnarled, twisted roots would hide the entrance to their sanctuary. Her brood of five was as safe as any forest-born mother could make them.

It was late, the sun was creeping past the horizon, bathing everything in a wash of orange tinged gold. Dusk was for leaving the den, for hunting, and so she abandoned her babies to sweep through the underbrush, her narrow nose pressed to the ground. It was easy to catch the hare’s scent, to follow it to the glade deep inside of the forest. The brown creature didn’t hear her approach, instead nibbling on its meal of grass, seemingly oblivious to the red predator lying in wait.

She slinked forward, her tail low to the ground, waiting . . .

Waiting.

POUNCE.

Her teeth were around its neck as her head worried back and forth. Skin was flayed wide, blood flowed, a bone snapped. Within moment she had herself a suitable meal, a hearty meal even. Her family normally fed on mice and rats; to catch a rabbit was a rare prize – one that would keep them sustained for days.

She lugged the hare back under the cover of shrubs, darting from shadow to shadow, her eyes flicking everywhere. Unless she was careful, larger predators would try and steal her kill. The biggest dangers were the owls, who would wake soon and swoop down with their great wings, their greedy talons grasping for any meat they could find. She’d felt the sting of their claws before, in her back, and she knew better than to risk their wrath. It was best to move before they became a threat.

Luck was with her this day, though, as she brought the hare through the twisting maze of roots and into the foxhole. She dragged it to her babies, opening its belly and offering the succulent meats. They dug their noses in, greedily scarfing down the offering, tearing at sinew and devouring the organs. She joined them, taking her share of the fine meal. It was tasty and fresh and so very delicious. She ate until her jaw was bloodied, until the carcass was picked clean.

She sat on her haunches to clean herself, wiping her paw over her face. The kits settled down into a heap of tired, one furry body piled on top of another, sated and content thanks to the hunt. She licked her fur, pausing to open her mouth wide, a tremendous yawn escaping. Her eyelids drooped. She thought to take the hare out of the den before it polluted their home, but a strange fatigue had settled into her bones, making her weary. She staggered over towards her brood, settling down beside one of the kits, a potent lethargy washing over her.

Sick. SICK.

The knowledge of a wrongness made her lip curl, a rumbling growl starting in her throat. Something was a threat, something like sickness was overcoming her. She eyed the hare, wondering if it was bad meat. Its dead eyes just stared back at her. The desire to move the kits was strong now, to relocate away from whatever was causing The Bad Thing, but she was so tired her head dipped forward. She draped a paw over the smallest of her young, her bushy tail curling around its body.

Move. Move away. Bad thing.

She knew she should, but she was just too tired.