In the spirit of full disclosure, I snagged this song idea from All Songs Considered.

So you and your RP group have decided to run with a romance story. You’ve agreed to certain boundaries and you’re having a grand old time. What do you do next?

You keep the story alive.

Look, a story is a lot like a relationship. You have to give it the attention it needs in order for it to flourish. Even if the story (or relationship) is healthy and easy to maintain, you still need to put effort towards it. This can be small things, like a few minutes of RP on a non RP night, planning a big RP event between you and your partner(s), or ficcing up something “just because you can.” Keeping the RP Romance alive means you have to give these people, and their stories, more care than you may realize. That is part of what makes Romance RP special.

Now then, there is a difference between Romance RP and Erotic RP. ERP isn’t something that I, or many in my circle, are interested in. If you want to do it, that’s fine. Make sure that this is part of the boundaries you set out earlier. Surprise ERP isn’t spontaneous fun. It’s at best uncomfortable for your partner.

When the romance has those “tender moments” feel free to say “And Scene” or “And the Camera Fades to Black.” You could even play “Take my breath away” over your choice of audio chat programs.

Recounting a love scene in detail, when your partner is not interested in hearing it, detracts from the story. How can this scene affect the RP? Simple: If you and your partner agree to “fade to black scenes” and you start recounting this:

You are crossing boundaries. Again, at best this make RP awkward. Even Ficcing a love scene may be too much for someone, so if you want to fic the scene, you need to talk it over with the people you RP with. Otherwise, you jeopardize a lot more than your RP circle.

Romance is tricky folks, whether it is in a story or in real life. You have to take care of it, you have to set your boundaries and you have to talk about it. Otherwise, you may not just kill the romance. You could end up with ruining relationships.

This week, we’re going to talk Romance and RP. To prime the topic, let’s have an open topic on romance: Have your characters had romances? Has your character been on a date in game? Do you fic it or do you rp the date?

Fill us in!

A character who is either stupid or willfully obtuse. Dealing with a lurch is no different than dealing with any other difficult character. Some might scream at a lurch, some may ignore a lurch while others just love their lurch. Today’s filler open thread: who is your lurch and how do you rp with them?

The Rider’s resident Midwife and all-around stand up cat, Haemon Shadowind, was the second to write up First, Finest and Last. Here is another brilliant sample for your own FFL.

This is Era. There are many cat spirits, but this one is a favorite. Enjoy!

Any one of them could have been his first; they died and were born so often, who could even tell? And who cared? It had been millennia ago, before there were even trolls to pay their Mother worship, that the fire of instinct first seared his loins and forced him to chase down a mate, dig teeth into her scruff, and make her the unwilling bearer of his first cubs. No, it wasn’t good for him, and less so for her. It was merely the means to a necessary end: brutal, quick, repeated several times, and just like every subsequent encounter for thousands of years in thousands of lives. He couldn’t remember a single one.

His intelligent mind couldn’t remember his first, hidden away in the depths of time and feline memory, but it had been a troll only for lack of any other upright creatures to encounter first. There’d been no malice, of course. Only tame cats had the luxury of expending energy on hunting for sport. It was hunger that brought his weight down on the unsuspecting scout and shoved his fangs through bone and into brain. Remarkably merciful, really; a lesser cat would have taken whole minutes to kill by asphyxiation. He’d devoured the man’s heart (among other viscera), and months later when the man’s brother brought him down in a flurry of arrows, the honor was returned.

Mother had been his first, and should have been his only. She whom the trolls knew as Bethekk had given him life after life as well as death in between, and in return had asked nothing but eternal servitude. None of her children had ever had a choice, but neither had they any understanding to resent the lack of it. In recent years, with sentience as his sharpest weapon, he’d often wondered whether his new place was her choice, and if so, why. More seldom, and only in the quiet darkness when sleep and Shad had both abandoned him, did he ever think to wonder if she’d actually relinquished her control.

There was no question that Fells was his finest. His first too, in many ways, though thanks to Shad’s memories he was no stranger to the mechanics nor the sensations that awaited him in her arms. But flesh was one thing and love quite another, and not a damned thing could have prepared him for the rapture that took them both. It’d taken him three years to realize he loved her, another two to admit it, and six months more to get it right. It was all fucking wasted time, and with the first beatific smile she’d granted him in the darkness he vowed not to waste a second more of what little time the loas might leave them.

Laurus was his finest, a beast of a man who deserved nothing more or less than the most gloriously gruesome death he could deliver. As the slights both large and small piled one atop the other, Era spent his days groveling and his nights imagining the unending pain he’d inflict someday. Someday. But his revenge came unintentionally in the form of a thousand days of strained kindness that had only riled the mage further and chipped slowly away at the patience of his wife. For all he’d tried to steal her, it was none of Era’s doing when Laurus’s life finally walked out the door, leaving him with the empty silence of a house that was no home. Restraint proved to be the sharpest weapon the panther had ever wielded, and the only one that could salvage for himself the benefits of a life worth saving.

Shad was definitely his finest. When the priestess finally fell after months of battle against panthers both physical and spiritual, the elf should have used that staff to force him into absolute submission. Instead, the Will of Arlokk had been laid at his paws. Funny, how the offer of freedom had been the one thing that could have tamed him. He’d been appropriated to teach the elf the ways of the cat, but in the end he’d learned far more from the calm, patient kaldorei on whom he patterned his sentience. Even once they’d become equals, he’d learned the hard way that he couldn’t do it alone. For all his bluster, Era needed his elf like smoke needed flame.

Fells was his last. She was! No, he hadn’t come out for that. He was asleep. No part in it at all. Fuck you.

His last had been a hell of a fight, a fire-wreathed druid with more fury than skill, not that the latter was lacking. They’d circled one another, snarling, after Era’s pounce had been skillfully dodged and elven flesh had melted into fiery fur. The spirit he faced was a magnificent, beautiful beast, and he could see a bit of himself in it. Had things been different, he might have been on their side, serving Ragnaros for the lack of Hakkar. As things were not different, he felt absolutely no remorse for the dive nor the rake of claws that had blessed the charred dirt of the Firelands with a rain of blood and a bit of intestine to boot. He’d taken no specific joy in the kill, but eating the heart always did bring a smile to his red-stained maw. It was nice, sometimes, to be reminded where he came from.

His last was a council of three. Shad may have been employed by the Riders, but Era’d never taken one order from the man he called “Boss” purely in jest. He answered only to the three sets of all-too-observant eyes and ears that learned to echo his every sin, and to the three mouths that declared without words when he would eat, sleep, and have even an instant of privacy. They could be excruciatingly cruel masters, driving him like a mule for days on end, but the reward they granted him was beyond compare. He’d wouldn’t trade their smiles, their hugs, or their shrieky cries of “Dada!” for anything in all the universe.

This is the post that started it all. Very much a brilliant piece of work and a fantastic introduction to Tarquin.

Em had been his first, though even then he’d not known if she was Emily, or Emma, or something stranger. She’d been at least twenty, with a brittle smile and fine dark hair and legs nearly as long and rawboned as his; he was a bundle of knees and elbows and ill-considered intentions at fifteen, but even dogs and idiots could figure it out and so had he. They’d done it in Sickie Croy’s garret, which he rented out for any purpose for a handful of coppers at a time. Tarq, thinking himself clever, had learned a time when it was standing empty and talked Em up there, glib even then. In the course of an hour he learned the mysteries of the universe, and skated up against its limits as well. But someone grassed to Sickie Croy, and he’d found Em and taken a knife to her cheeks, and told her to pass along to the northern boy his lesson. Someone always pays.

Gunnar Glasper had been his first, a Tiresian captain who’d run blockades in the war and was now running harbors in the rebuilding. Evading the King’s tax was one thing, but when he’d taken van Cleef’s bloody coin, Reznik the Shiv had put his name on the Tally. Jasper had found them the ship, and Clobber had stood watch, but it was Tarquin and Loche who’d slipped aboard. They flipped for it, and Tarquin won, or lost. It was strange that he couldn’t remember if they’d flipped to do the deed or avoid doing it; in any case, it was moot to Gunnar Glasper. The knife had gone in under his ear, by his jaw, clean and perfect, but it had come out with a sloppy rip and he’d had to dash out of the harbor red and dripping. Jasper had laughed. The rest of them hadn’t. It took at least another four or five before he could start laughing about a murder.

Orwend had been his first, an old tyrant even when he was young, more master than father – they were much the same in his mind, in his spirit, in his iron bones. The girls had been luckier, Tarquin thought as a boy, left to their own devices; it was only when they went south that he realized how battened-down they were, how bereft of opportunity. The old man had seen opportunity for his sons, so he curbed and bent and hammered them into the shape of those chances. Gyles had broken, and Orvain had bent, but somewhere along the line Tarquin had slipped loose of the frame. He regretted only that he hadn’t taken any more of the old bastard’s chattel with him.

Ceil had been his finest, that storm in the form of a girl, from shy dreamer to scarred sleek killer, madly and inhumanly beautiful all the way along. Their bed had been a haven even when things were bad with them, maybe especially when they were bad; when it was no bed at all and their fingers had clutched at wood or grass or marble, nails digging for the threads of hope and hurt that bound them. They’d pulled each other laughing and calling out through that sweet, aching madness, and attacked life the same way, and there’d never been a thought in Tarquin’s head that it was too good to last. Even now, he wouldn’t fill that hollow place with trite thoughts of inevitability or some such shit. They’d fucked it up, that was all.

The grinning man had been his finest, the slick soiled monster that had stalked his godsdaughter to the end of the world. There was, Tarquin prided himself on knowing, a long list to choose from – the mad Scarlet archmage on whom he’d made his name, Hinote Kirase (shameful or not, it was a hell of a fight), the slickear lord he’d opened from gullet to crotch on the day the Bloody Prince fell, and of course the Butcher. Maybe it should have been the Butcher; after all, he’d never fought like that in his life, before or again. It had been a duel, and the grinning man had been a mad rattling brawl. He’d beaten the man to death with a fireplace poker; what kind of professionalism was that? It was amusing that someone else had finished the job for him in both cases, and when you threw in that Uthas had killed the grinning man for him, well, the pattern spun out of control entirely. In the end, he had to choose the grinning man, because he’d been fighting and bleeding for the wee hen and her mother and father and for everything she represented; for the idea that what he’d built could make things right.

Nikolai had been his finest, of that there was no doubt, that great wind-carved glacier of a man. Osborne had trained him, and Shaw had shaped him over those long years, but in the year he’d worn the Diaconescu raven he learned more about being a man than those esteemed cutthroats had ever managed to teach him in ten. Even now, should the Unfeeling trod through the door of the Pig with a thin tired smile on his battered face, demanding to know what his halfwit lad of a right hand was about, there was a chance that Tarquin would answer him avidly and eagerly, whiskey at the ready. Though he’d more than likely knife the old monster first.

Annalea had been his last, two nights ago, both of them drunk on old John Bell’s good brandy. They’d meant to go over the books, but somewhere during that ever-continuing poker game it had become clear that that certainly wasn’t happening, and when they extricated themselves from the table it suddenly seemed that they couldn’t get to her little room above the street fast enough. Tucked into each other like shells, fingertips to knuckles, here and there a muttered instruction or a bad joke. Annie was nearly thirty, and he could see the crow’s feet starting to gather by her eyes, knew that her breasts would sag and her hips would broaden (just as his hair would go gray and slough out, and his clever fingers would knob and bend). She did not try to fill his hollow places, and he did not try to soothe her scars, and together they were happier than they believed they’d any right to be.

Some mad bugger in the Highlands had been his last, a Tauren in an ill-fitting robe singing down fire from the skies and horror from the deeps. It’d felt good to do field work again, the magic crackling over his skin and Annie’s potions coursing in his veins, keeping him as swift and strong as he’d been fifteen years ago, but ten times the bastard. Big Feliche held the front, arrows and sorcery whipping back and forth, making it easy for him to duck from doorway to alcove to the cultist’s own shadow. The silly fuck had never even seen him, only felt one knife in the back his knee and then, if he was unlucky, the other one going up into his throat as he buckled. It had gone in just as smooth as if he were Gunnar Glasper, and just like Glasper, it had been a mess, the Tauren writhing and bellowing in his death throes. By the time Tarquin had gotten the knife out, the rest of his lot were broken. No matter how many times he’d done this, it still got messy.

He was his last, finally; maybe thirty-four was young yet compared to most masterless men, but Tarquin had done far more living in those years than they, and what the fuck did they know of him anyway? He’d served kings and warlords and preachers and lunatics, schemed and cajoled and snuck and killed, danced for them like the song was ending and the Spring Maiden was just bare yards away. But now he had the fiddle, and when he didn’t know the tune, he’d learned to fake it. Sometimes he shuddered at the things he’d given up, or at the things he’d taken that weren’t precisely his by right. But that was the world. Tarquin was just trying to live in it, without any other bastard telling him what it was he had to do; the money, the lady, the pub and the Riders and the dim hope that he might leave something worth having after he was done, those were all just the benefits of living a masterless life. It wasn’t in him to be content, likely for the same reasons that had driven him to this stage. But he could look at the tally sheet he carried in some glutted red place, see his own name on the header, and decide that he was still winning.

And that would just have to be good enough.

Naiara also allows for an interesting flash-back/flash-forward kind of fiction. Personally, I found it easier to figure out Wildfire Riders role in killing the Lich King by using Naiara.

Naiara ran as fast as she could, away from the University and the bastards that could not keep their gobs shut. She dodged the guards–the one her parents paid to keep her in school–and cut straight to the Canals. It was the long way back home, she knew, but also the least likely way for people to follow.

Half way through the streets, Naiara knew that someone–maybe even the Headmaster himself–would look for her at home. So cut towards Old Town, and took the route her parents taught her. Through Costra territory–flashing enough cant to show she was a Rider–and right to the back alley of the Pig and Whistle.

She meant to run head on to the back door and hide in her uncle’s office. She also meant to be more careful running the streets. Naiara was crying, so she could barely see a few inches past her face. She could barely hear with the blood rushing in her ears. She ran on instinct, counting the steps from her school to her second home.

Naiara thought she was five steps away from the back door of the Pig and Whistle, so she was taken by surprise when she ran head first into a wall. Naiara landed on her arse, then somersaulted backward, just to keep herself safe. As she started to pick herself up, someone grabbed her. She screamed a string of obscenities sure to grab someone’s attention.
“Gitoffme you filthy fuckin’ c–”

“Naiara Bittertongue,” her father said sternly. “Watch yer mouth.”

“Da!” She yelped. Naiara stopped struggling and threw her arms around her father.

“What the hell are yeh doin wee girl? Why aren’t yeh at school?”

Naiara hugged Bricu harder in answer to his question. Bricu shifted the sleeping infant on his shoulder and tried to soothe both children at once.

“Yeh nearly knocked me an’ yer brother inta the canals, love. Now then, yeh ready ta say what’s on yer mind then?”

Naiara, her face burried into her father’s leg, shook her head slightly.

“Did yeh want ta go inside.” Naiara shook again, this time wiping her nose on his pants. Naiara pulled away slowly, her hair covering half of her face. “No, Da,” she whispered. She sat down at the edge of the canal and dangled her feet over the edge. Then Naiara put her head in her hands, and refused to look up.

Bricu sat next to her, still rocking Padraig. He watched Naiara, noting the tell-tale cuts on her knuckles, and waited for her to say what had happened.

“Da, why do yeh call the Lich King the Bwoody Prince?”

“That’s what Northmen call ‘em. Yeh…want ta know ‘bout all that?”

“Because Araduin an’ Catherine an’ Stephen were sayin’ I was a barmy girl fer talkin’ like that. Then they said their da’s were the ones that killed the Lich King. Not the Riders.”

“So yeh ran from school ‘cause someone said somethin’ yeh didn’t like.”

“No.” Naiara said softly.

“Why’d yeh run from school?”

“Because I didn’t want to get yelled at.”

“Who was gonna yell?”

“The Headmaster.”

“Why was Headmaster Caltrains gonna yell?” Bricu asked.

“Because I hit them. Hard. I hurted my hand doing it.” Naiara showed Bricu the cuts on her knuckles. Bricu took her hands and kissed near the cuts. He saw that Naiara had not just hit someone straight in the mouth. Her tiny hands were covered in bruises and cuts, the kind that would have been absorbed by traditional gloves. She took to boxing a little too well.

“I can see that love. Who’d yeh hit?”

“Araduin, Catherin and Stephen. I kicked Stephen too.”

Bricu nodded. “Yer goin’ back ta apologize ta each o’them t’morrow. An’ yer gonna write letters ta them. An’ yer not gettin’ dessert tanight fer yer cursin’.”

“DA!” Naiara said. She pulled her head up from her hands to complain.

“OI.” Bricu said, cutting Naiara off. “Now yer gonna listen ta the truth o’the matter on the Bloody Prince.”

“Did you kill him?” Naiara asked, no longer complaining. She focused on her father, eyes as wide a saucers, and waited to hear the story.

“Love… First, yeh need ta understand somethin’. He was our prince. He was our Chief. Like Uncle Tarq.”

“HE was like Uncle TARK?!”

“A chief like Tarq. A boss. Yeh ken that?”

“Aye. He gave orders and people did their jobs.” Naiara nodded for added emphasis.

“That’s me clever wee girl. Exactly. He did many bad things love. He hurt people. He ruined the Old North. Made it so the flowers couldn’t grow. He hurt the people, the animals an’….” Bricu paused and studied Naiara.

Naiara looked up at her Da, listening to his every word. She filled his pause with a question. “Is it story time, da?”

Story-time, the only sure-fire way to keep Naiara entertained for more than half a minute. He smiled before he continued. “Aye love, its story time.”

“The Bloody Prince was a bad man, a Royal from the Old North. Do yeh ken what that means.”

“He was a Northman. And a shitebird.” Naiara said.

“Exactly. He was the biggest shitebird Azeroth has e’er seen.”

“Worse than…”

Bricu cut her off. “Much worse, love.”

Bricu glanced down at Naiara and looked through her. “The King called the banners fer an assault, led by a good man. Yer mum an’ I decided ta go North, even though yer mum had yeh in her belly. Like yer brother was.”

Naiara shook her head in understanding.

“So we went North ta make sure yeh didn’t have ta grow up in a world with such a bad man in it. It took a year o’fightin’ ‘im ta finally bring him down. An’ we did it, yer family was there. Yer mum. Yer. All yer aunts a’n uncles. The Kings Men were there…”

“Ballacks ta them.” Naiara said.

Bricu held up a finger. “Oi, this was their fight ta love. Even the Horde was there, fightin’ their way ta kill ‘im. When the end came…”

The Val’kyr picked up Threnn in mid prayer. The Light sputtered and failed as she was lifted into the air. She struggled and kicked, but Bricu knew she was held fast. Tarquin was no where near her. White feathered arrows peppered the valkyr, but it hadn’t slowed. Ulthanon kept firing. Bricu called on the Light to stun Arthas’ handmaiden. It slowed enough for him to catch up and slam a mace into its wing, but it was so close to the edge….

“When the end came, we fought his best an’ scariest monsters love. We nearly lost a lot o good people, but we fought as hard as we could.”

“Mum too?”

“Yer Mum fought as hard as any Northman. Yer Uncle Jak would trade off with Uncle Uthas ta keep the Bloody Prince from cu–hurtin’ yer Auntie Yva an’ Annalea. Uncle Shad was in the thick o’the fightin’ ta, helpin’ everyone stand up. That night, Bloody Prince’s throne room was as full as the Pig on a Saturday night.”

“Was Elly there?” Naiara asked.

“No love, Elly wasn’t there. But lots were. Maybe Anduin’s da or Catherine’s mum was there. There were a lot o’people there.”

Another Val’kyr fell from the sky, this time grabbing Bricu under the shoulders. He cursed and swung his mace, called on the Light and the Fox to keep him from harm, but the ledge grew closer. He tried to swing his legs up and over to free himself, but the Val’kyr was too strong. Just at the ledge, the Val’kyr shuddered, stunned by the Light, and was peppered with magic, arrows and bullets. Bricu fell to the ground and slid forward. He watched another body fall of the ledge before turning around and rejoining the fight...

“Da?” Naiara asked.

Bricu came back to the story. “Lots o’us where there. I figured yeh’d be older when yeh wanted ta talk ‘bout what happened that day. In the end…”

…The world went dark. Bricu felt himself pulled in two directions. Towards the warmth of the Light or the cold of Shadow. One beckoned, one pulled and Bricu fought both to stay on Azeroth, with his daughter. Then the Light pushed him back to consciousness. He heard Tirion’s voice…

“Da, is story time o’er?” Naiara asked.

“No love. It’s still story time. In the end, with the Highlord Tirion’s help, we all put him down. It took all o’us ta do it. Riders, Roses, Professor Caltrain’s folk. Orcs, Trolls, Tauren… It was the last time we actually stood shoulder ta shoulder .”

“So why did Araduin say the Riders weren’t there?”

“Sometimes love, folk make up fake stories. Yeh know that. Right?”

“Stephen said that his da had a piece from the Bwoody Prince’s throne room. Is that true?”

Bricu shrugged his shoulders, careful not to disturb the still sleeping Padraig. “Maybe it is love. Maybe it isn’t. Most o’us couldn’t bare ta touch anything there. The Highlord’s soldiers kept a close on folk ta make sure no one stole somethin’ dangerous. Did he say he was gonna bring it in?”

“He said he goin’ ta. Can I bring a sword to school and show them what you killed him with?”

Bricu shook his. “Love, wasn’t just me…an’ yer too young ta have a blade that big. But…” Bricu sighed. “If yeh go inside an’ work on yer apologies an’ take a nap, I’ll give yeh somethin’ yeh can take ta class t’morrow.”

“Promise?”

“I promise, love.”

Naiara scooted back from the edge and hugged Bricu, throwing her arms around his chest to keep Padraig asleep. She kissed him on the cheek and walked to the back door of the Pig and Whistle.

“Yeh comin’ in, Da?” Naiara asked.

“Right behind yeh, love,” Bricu said. He watched over his shoulder as Naiara walked into the Pig. Confident she was inside–and not doubling back to spy, as she was wont to do–he reached into his pocket and pulled out a jagged piece of metal, still cool to the touch these years later. It was covered in runes and wards, set in a mithril filigree that was also covered in protective magic, even though the Crusade promised him that this piece was inert.

“Just ta be safe, then, we’ll keep it in holy water ta.”

With that, Padraig stirred. He was not crying, but he was starting to mew and coo. Bricu stood slowly and hummed a lullaby, to keep Padraig soothed for a few minutes more.

–

Naiara snuck out of bed four times–once without the even the hint of a pretext–to pester Bricu about school. During her fourth and final time, she announced that “Good da’s don’t break promises.” To which he responded, “Good girls let da’s finish their promises.”

It was well into the night when he finally finished the charm. Set in a crystal vial, surrounded in holy water, was the inert piece of armor. Even surrounded by the wards, the vial was cool to the touch. He showed to to Threnn, who said it seemed safe enough if she didn’t wear it as a charm. Satisfied it was safe enough, he brought it to Naiara’s room.

He handled the vial and the candle in the same hand as he opened the door to her room. Naiara was sitting straight up in bed, staring right at him.

“I thought I told yeh ta get ta bed,” Bricu said.

“Yeh said yeh’d have somethin’ fer class.” she retorted.

“Oi. Watch it wee girl. I can still add more punishments on ta yer list if yer gonna be mouthy.”

“Da, I want ta see it!” she exclaimed. “Lemme see it.”

“Yeh can see it. T’morrow, when I walk yeh ta school, I’m gonna hand it ta Miss Arliece. She’s gonna hold on ta it till yer teacher lets yeh show it off. Alright?”

“Okay. Can I see it now?” She shifted anxiously, holding a hand out for the vial.

“Here, love. Look at it carefully then give it back.” Bricu handed the vial to her. Naiara nearly snatched it from his hands.

“Thank yeh da, thank yeh thank yeh thank…” As her hands closed around the vial, Naiara’s eyes grew wide. She stopped talking. Bricu set the candle by her bed and sat on her bed.

“Love? Wee Girl? Oi, Naiara!” He said. Naiara said nothing, but he could hear Threnn, with a wailing Padraig, getting closer.

“What is it?” Threnn said.

“She took the vial, then she just stopped…”

“Mum, Da.” Naiara said. Tears filled her eyes, and the vial dropped out of her hand.

“What is it love?” Threnn asked. She sat next to her, holding her close and stroking her hair. Bricu scooped up the vial and sat on the other side of her. He wrapped his arms around Threnn, Naiara and Padraig.

“He’s not going to send the White Ladies with Wings after me? Is he?”

Bricu and Threnn looked at each, as if to comfort each other at what their daughter had seen. They both spoke at once.

“No love.”

“No wee girl. No.”

“I saw them take mum an’ da…an’ I saw the fightin’… He’s gone, isn’t he? Really gone?” The tears came in a torrent.

“Aye love. There’s no more Bloody Prince. We made sure o’that. “

“Your da and I won’t let any monsters get to you. Ever.” Threnn said.

“Puh-puh-promise?” Naiara said.

“Promise.” Her parents said.

The Bittertongue Family Crest

This is the oldest part of Harvest Ball. I’ve been working on it for damn near a year, and this is the first full draft I finished. There’s still more to go… But since its sunday, and no one reads blogs on sunday, I figured I could post it here. Robert, William and the Ruddy Ox will probably make more appearances in Rider Fic in the near future. Till then, feel free to leave comments and critiques in the comments.

The “Bar” was at the far end of the barn. Four stalls had been cleaned and converted into a space for serving spirits, beers and wines. The eternity of the space was festooned with dried apples, stalks of wheat and gourds of all shapes, sizes and colors. The only hint of the bar’s previous existence was the hay and sawdust on the floor. The bar itself, and the shelves that held the liquor, were made out of the de-constructed walls that used to keep the animals separate from each other.

Instead of keeping the animals in separate stalls, the bar separated the barkeep from the rest of the Longwell’s guests. The space in front of her was packed with patrons. The barkeep, an attractive woman, her blonde hair braided down her back, dressed in an red and white checkered dress, focused primarily on two men who occupied three stools at the middle of the bar. Men and women from all over Stormwind were trying to vie for her attention, and yet not a single patron tried to squeeze into that one empty space between the men. That is, until Threnn cleared the crowd. She strode to the empty stool and draped on arm around each of the men.

“William and Robert Bell” Threnn said, “Leave poor Marketa alone. She’s not paid nearly enough to deal with this crowd, let alone the two of you at once.”

“Thank you Threnn,” Marketa said. “Although, to be fair to Robert, it was William who was giving me the hardest time.”

Both Bells’ turned to face Threnn, and both Bells broke into terribly mischievous grins. At first glance, they were identical. Bricu looked for clues as to which Bell was which. He said a small prayer of thanks that one of them wore glasses. The Bells even wore identical green and black flannel shirts and matching denim pants. Both of the Bells’ wore their dark hair short, and held it in place with a thick oil. The one on Threnn’s right had his sleeves rolled up to show-off a bevy of tattoos. The one on her left wore horn-rim glasses, but Bricu wasn’t sure if they helped him see or if they were as cosmetic as his brother’s tattoos.

“Threnny!” The one on her right said as he embraced her, “Be a dear and tell Marketa she would be doing us all a great favor if she would just take William back.”

“At least have her give me another glass of apple wine. She’s saying I’m cut off for some imagined slight.” Said the one on her left. When Robert let go of her, William wrapped his arms around her. “It’s good to see you!” he said.

Bricu stood just behind Threnn, waiting for an introduction. Robert gave him the once over. Bricu smiled as best he could, even as Robert sized him up. After a few moments, Robert extended his hand.

“Robert Bell.”

It was a firm handshake, but one that brimmed with formality.

“Bricu Bittertongue. Nice t’meet yeh mate.”

Robert narrowed his eyes and clenched his jaw as he smiled, “The pleasure is all mine.” He picked up his cider and nearly drained the glass.

William let go of Threnn and extended a hand towards Bricu. He didn’t bother to smile as he sized Bricu up.

“William.” He said.

“Bricu. Pleasure ta meet yeh.” Bricu said. William, however, had already returned his full attention to Threnn.

“Where’s Anna?” He asked her.

“She’s praying in the Grove tonight. She’s practicing her Darnassian.”

“Praying.” Robert said smiling, “What’s his name?”

“Honestly, I didn’t ask this time.” Threnn said.

“What happened to that other bloke, Miller?” William asked.

“Nothing happened with him, at least, nothing that she told me about. ” Threnn said.

“We’ve been over this Will. She didn’t tell me anything either.” Robert said.

“What, I can’t ask a friend about another friend? Can’t I be curious as to her…”

“Boyfriend?” Threnn said.

“Interests?” said Bricu.

“People that aren’t William Bell?” Robert said.

William’s glare followed each speaker. “Does it take all three of you to come up with one decent joke?”

“Oh give it a rest William. Its all in good fun, right?” Robert said.

“Good fun is it? Well, in the spirit of ‘good fun’, Robert, did you talk to Threnny about the ‘good fun’ you had with Marisol Nimetz?”

“No, he didn’t.” Threnn said. “Marisol?”

Robert, now a shade of red approaching Bricu’s hair, abruptly changed the subject. “Threnny, dad wants you and Bricu to visit him next week, during lunch.”

“Brilliant.” Bricu said, “Did he mention a place he wanted t’go ta?”

“No.” Robert said, still looking at Threnn.

“Mr. Bell…” Threnn started

“Threnny, call him JOHN already.” Robert said.

“Mr. JOHN Bell packs his own lunch. He’s been doing it for over twenty years. He doesn’t really leave the shop until he he closes it for the night.”

Bricu nodded, “Still, I’d want ta bring him somethin’. Either o’yeh an idea on what I should bring ta yer da?”

“Something sweet.” Robert said.

“Pastries. He’d enjoy a few pastries.” William said.

“I can do that.” Bricu said. He watched as the Bells exchanged a few quick looks.

“I don’t know if he can bake,” Threnn said, “but my Bricu says he can cook. So far he’s only made one dinner for me.”

“That simply will not do,” William said.

“Exactly! You can’t offer up a talent like cooking and not follow through! Our Threnny deserves better.”

Robert was grinning like a cat who caught a canary. [i]At least,[/i] Bricu thought, [i]they’re getting this out of the way soon.[/i]“We’ve not had all that much time fer a dinner at home.” Bricu said, “We typically end up hittin’ the Pig after a job. We’re ta tired ta do much else after we get….”

“That’s weak.” Robert said.

“I know that being ‘An Adventurer’ is demanding, strenuous work. Hells, I’d go so far as to say that its punishing. But to punish our Threnny with dangerous work AND terrible food?” Said Robert.

Threnn sipped at her cider while the Bells and Bricu bantered. She hid her smile behind the mug.

“Och, the two o’yeh have lived in Stormwind longer than me, an yeh know full well that Kendor plans the meals at the pig. He’s a fine chef.”

“Kendor is a one trick pony in Stormwind!” William said.

“No variety!” Robert said.

“He’s the only bloody Southron chef I’d bother with!” Bricu said. He wanted wince at his own gaff, but he wasn’t about to do it in front of William or Robert.

“Better than boiling the flavor out of the meat and vegetables.” William said.

“Better than frying it all in butter.” Robert said.

“Hell, at least Southron cooks use more than mutton as a meat.”

Robert started to say something, but Bricu cut him off.

“Well that’s true. Northern cookin’ is shite. Uttter, despicable shite.” Bricu said. He watched the Bells exchange another series of looks–looks of confirmation, not shock. This was good enough for him. He smiled and held his glass of cider out for a toast. “I’m sure we can agree on that. Cheers!”

Threnn, Robert and William returned the gesture. The clanking of their glasses was barely audible over the sound of the bar. William and Robert took a small, cursory sips where Threnn and Bricu drank deeply. Threnn’s mug had some cider left. Bricu drained his first mug.

William wasted no time returning to the topic at hand. “So you’re too tired to cook?”

“I don’t have a kitchen in me apartment in the Rose, mate.” Bricu said.

“And you end up at the Pig because of Kendor and his cooking?” Robert asked.

“That an’ it’s where all the Riders go.” Bricu shrugged his shoulders. Thick bastard, he thought yer bein’ set up. It was a trick that Bricu was far too familiar with. Someone–usually Tarq–would take one role why Bricu would take the other. The Bells had perfected this set up, nearly completing each others sentences. For a moment, he began to regret finishing his cider.

“What are you, fourteen and going to a church mixer? ” Robert said.

“Only when we got R&R. That’s when I enlisted…”

“Which makes this ‘company outing’ garbage all the more depressing. You, of all people, should be showing our Threnny a night on the town.” William said, complete with sneer quotes.

“Honestly, when do you get any alone time?” Robert continued.

“Like a proper courting couple.” William said..

“Yeh lads are right. We do need t’get away more often.”

“Of course we’re right.” Robert said, “We’re just looking out for our Threnny. We’re the closest thing she has to brothers.”

“Older brothers.” William stated simply.

“Whatever.” Robert waved him off, “We are looking out for our sister. We look after her, she looks after us.” As if on cue, Robert and William both finished their cider. “Speaking of looking out for us,” William said as he put his empty glass on the bar, “would you be a dear sister and bring the three of us more cider?”

“A sister you’re so eager to get rid of?” Threnn said playfully. “Fine, I got this round. You two, however, owe me.”

“And what does Bricu owe you?” William said.

“Oh, he’ll pay up later tonight.” She took William’s glass from his hand, “Stop teasing Marketa
or ask her to dinner.” Robert handed his glass to Threnn, giving her a truely genuine smile. She didn’t care. Threnn looked him straight in the eye, and leveled a finger in his face. “Just don’t destroy him.” She said, “I’m still fond of him.” She walked around and kissed Bricu on the cheek. “The same goes for you, love. Be nice.”

“When am I not nice.” Bricu said.

“And who have we ever destroyed?” William asked.

Threnn waved a free hand at the three men. “Just be here. No black eyes either.” She walked off towards Josiah and the rest of the cider.

Bricu watched Threnn disappear into the crowd, headed for some of the Longwell’s near mythical cider. When he turned back to Robert and William, he noticed a dramatic change in the formerly talkative, welcoming, Bells. William, the quiet one, adjusted his glasses. His laconic smile was replaced with a scowl–as if the last drops of his cider was as bitter as Arathi Brandy. Robert, who had just moments before clapped Bricu’s shoulder like a brother, was staring daggers at him. His arms were placed on the bar, showing off the recent tattoos. He was trying his very best to be threatening. Before Bricu could comment on the ink, Robert voiced his–and his brother’s–concerns.

“If you left now, I think you would be abe to find another harvest ball just in time.”

Bricu sighed, looking from William, to Robert, before responding.

“Och, I figured that when she was outta ear shot, yeh lads might say someth’ bout me bein’ with Threnny…”

William cut him of sharply.

“You don’t get to call her that.”

Bricu kept a straight face, not rising to William’s challenge or trying to goad him on. Threnn told him to play nice.

“Och, an’ why’s that.”

“Bittertongue, we’re not your marks. Threnny is like a sister to us. Her mother might as well have been our mother.” Robert said eloquently.

Bricu nodded at him, letting him finish what he had obviously been practicsing.

“We’ve heard of you and the Riders. We know that our Threnny likes to keep rough company. We’ve seen her army friends. Like that Kaven fellow. You meet Kaven, right?”

“Aye, I have.”

“You know they had a brief history, right?”

“Aye, I know that too.” Bricu said.

“We liked Kaven. He treated Threnn the right way, he seemed nearly smart enough for her and there’s no doubt in my mind that Kaven is a good man. He wasn’t even good enough for our Threnny.”

Robert paused to finish the last of his cider. William continued for him.

“And you, friend, aren’t half the man that Kaven is.”

“So where does that leave you?” Robert said as he set his empty glass down.

Bricu spoke up, cutting off William’s practiced speech.

“Strewth… Boyo, if I had a sister, I wouldnt’ want a bloke like me near her.” He said smiling. Bricu looked each of them in the eyes as he continued. “Hell, I’d even be stupid ‘nough t’challenge ‘im more directly than either o’yeh did.”

“William wanted to puff his chest out more, but I heard about the Blue Recluse.” Robert said.

“Yeh did now?” Bricu looked back at Willam, who was shaking his head, “no.” Robert continued.

“I know on of the fellows you hit on your way down. Hell of a shiner you gave him. How many did you actually deal with before..”

William spoke up, “Robert, we’re talking TOO Bricu, not about him.”

“Right.”

Bricu kept paused, to be polite, but he ignored the brother’s banter.

“As I was sayin’, I should leave. But I’m not gonna.”

“Really?” William said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Why’s that?”

“Because boyo, I’m fond o’Threnn, an’ I’m a better fer knowin’ her.”

“What, she makes you a better person?” Robert said while laughing. “What is this, some sort of morality play brought to life?”

“Oi, it’s nothin’ so fuckin’ trite.” Bricu looked past Robert, straight at William. When he had William’s gaze, he continued.

“I drink, I curse an I fight dirty. I could list off my sins t’yeh lads, an’ yeh’d end up thinkin’ me souls more stained than yer brother’s arms.”

“Overly dramatic Bittertongue You sound exactly like a paladin in a morality play now.” William said.

“I had hoped yeh southron’s would appreciate a clever turn o’phrase.”

“When you develop a clever turn of phrase” Robert said, “we’ll let you know.”

“Fair enough,” Bricu said. He continued grinning, despite the Bell’s baiting.

“How’s this: Can we all agree that’s she’s a better person than the lot o’us?”

“That we can.” William said.

“Good. Now, it ain’t not like I met Threnny an’ some o’that morality wore off. An’ she’s not scammin’ folk, gettin’ inta bar fights or anythin’ else that I’ve done.”

“We can agree on that as well.” Robert said.

“So we’re not changin’ each other. Not directly. I just want t’do right by her. She doesn’t ask me t’smile more or tell me t’keep me wit in check, nor does she tell me ta leave off a tosser if they have it comin’. She just let’s me be. So now I want t’be be a wee bit better, just t’match her. So I’m not changin’ for her …it’s somethin else entirely.”

The three men were quiet for a moment. Bricu met their gazes in turn. William turned into the crowd, looking for Threnn, while Robert finally spoke up.

“What the hell does that even mean.”

“It means, Mr. Bell, that I ‘m not a sappy git that is spewin’ pretty words ’bout how I’m bein’ better fer her. I’m tryin’ ta do better ta reach her level. Whatever’s goin’ on here is real, not some bloody stupid infatuation that end with a broken heart or when someone gets bored. ”

Bricu kept his voice low, and leaned in close to the Bells. “It means that I’m not leavin’ the one woman who I want t’be with. While I can appreciate her two well meanin’ friends lookin’ after her, yeh lot would have better luck gettin’ me t’quit drinkin’ than quit on Threnny.”

Bricu sat back up, military straight, and smiled again.

“You mean to stay.” Robert asked.

“Aye.”

“No matter what?” Wililam asked.

“Unless she tells me t’fuck off, aye.”

“Even when Thenia comes calling.” Robert asked.

“Och I’ll buy the o’bird the tea she likes t’drink when she comes callin’ an’ we’ll be just fine. I’ve already met her da. How bad can Thenia be.”

“Bittertongue, you’ve gone from brave to stupid in a matter of seconds.” Robert said.

“If I’m not ‘fraid o’the infamous Bells, I’m not gonna be scared by Thenia AlCair. But I’m not stupid. Instead o’telling yeh lot ta fuck off, I’m asking fer yeh ta give me a chance.”

“And why should we?” William asked.

“Because if yeh don’t try–at least fer tonight–I’ll just tell Threnny that yeh lads tried t’get me t’fuck off on her.”

Bricu smiled wider as he watched both Bells’ faces fall flat. He continued.

“That’s right lads, I’d rat yeh out in a fuckin’ heartbeat. An’ we all know our Threnny is as stubborn lass. She’s full o’fire an’ pride. Women like that are not likely goin’ ta take kindly t’folk meddlin’ when she knows she handle ‘erself an’ her affairs. So if she learns ’bout yer botched chivalry–takin’ her mum’s side over her side–she’ll more’n likely will put yeh lads in yer place…just like she did that Hallow’s Eve years back where yeh scared the piss outta wee Annalea.”

“She told you about that?” Robert asked.

“The haunted house, the fake blood, how yeh conned Jenny Brook t’lie there for hours lookin’ deader than’ a Forsaken, how yeh had her run inta the armoire….”

“Damn.” Robert said . William simply let out a low whistle.

“Was it really the worst fight yeh’ve ever been in?” Bricu said.

“Worse than when you got your arse handed to you in the Recluse.”

“Clever–but not nearly clever enough Robert. Now, yeh thinkin’ she told that story t’Kaven?”

“Hells, no.” Robert said, “If she had, I’m pretty sure he wouldnt’ have asked us to make those armoires without laughing at us the entire time.”

“Exactly. That tell yeh anythin’ bout how our Threnny feels ’bout me then?”

“Maybe.” William said, “but that doesn’t change a damn thing either. You’re going to hurt her.”

Bricu continued to look William in the eyes, “Yer right.” He said. William nodded and started to cut Bricu off. “At some point I’m goin’ ta fuck up. But it wont’ be like yer imaginin’ right now. No, it’ll be somethin’ mundane. I’ll say somethin’ careless or crass an’ hurt her feelin’s, or maybe we’ll just argue like any other couple that tries ta make a romance work.”

“You’re going to…” William started to say.

“I’m gonna do what, squire? Oi, yeh lads have it so clear in yer heads that I’m bad fer her, why don’t yet take it ta her or her folks?”

“Thenia’s planning on talking to Threnn, and Padraig sees our point.”

“Thenia always got somethin’ ta say ta Threnn. An’ Padraig said he isn’t gonna get involved…So while he sees yer point, he’s not sayin’ shite ta Thenia or Threnn, is he?”

Neither William or Robert answered Bricu’s question. He softened his tone and his words as he addressed the Bells.

“Look, lads,” Bricu had his hands out to the Bells, “I know what yer doin’ an it makes perfect bloody sense ta look out after Threnn like this. But I’m speakin’ the truth ta the both o’yeh. I’m completely serious ’bout her. If I wasn’t, yeh think I’d still be here talkin’ ta her infamous brothers?”

“So you’re not leaving.” Robert said.

“No. I’m not squire.” Bricu continued watching William.

“He’s not taking us seriously, Robert.”

“Ballacks, William. This is more important than me runnin’ inta her da. I woudn’t still be sittin’ here with yeh if I didn’t recognie how fuckin’ important this was. But yer not gonna be scarrin’ me away from her.”

“Then what are we going to do?” Robert said. He had settled inbetween William and Bricu, watching the two of them spar. Neither Bricu or William missed this finer point.

“All I’m gonna ask, William, is yeh give me the same shot Padraig did. Can yeh do that?”

“What about me?” Robert asked.

“Robert, yeh’ve already made yer fuckin’ mind up. Yeh already think I’m worth the shot just ’cause I make William a wee bit crazy.”

Robert waited a heartbeat before answering, “That’s true, but if you do hurt her…”

“I’m well aware o’what I have waitin’ fer me.” Bricu said.

“Fine. Tonight.” William said. “You have tonight, but you’re both wankers.”

“Whose a wanker?” Threnn asked. She was holding four fresh mugs of cider, two in each hand. Threnn eyed all the men, looking for fresh bruises or poorly hidden scowls. Satisfied that no one had thrown a punch, or was in a snit, she passed out the cider.

Once all the ciders were passed out, Bricu stood up and exclaimed–a little too loudly–a toast for Threnn.

“Ta Threnny!” He shouted. “Fer bein’ sweet enough ta get us more o’this brilliant cider! OI!” The Bells, Bricu and Threnn slammed their mugs into each others. Cider sprayed them all, including the man directly behind William. He has a large man, taller than Bricu, bald-headed with a ruddy face. He squinted and scowled at the lot of them, but no one paid him any mind. Threnn had already changed focused their attention to her previous question.

“So whose a wanker?” Threnn asked.

“Daniel Morris.” Robert answered, “you know, the mining magnate’s son?”

“How could I forget him. Mother tried to get me to go for tea with him. He had a list of other women to see, so he couldn’t possibly bother with me.”

“His loss.” William said.

“My gain,” Bricu said. He wrapped an arm around Threnn’s waist, and moved closer to her. She followed suit, wrapping her free arm around him. William’s frown was barely noticeable.

“Yes yes, your gain.” Robert said, “Anyway, we were just telling Bricu that Daniel came into the shop today. Seems that his uncle passed away last night.”
Threnn pulled her arm away from Bricu and blessed her self with her free hand. Bricu made a similiar gesture, but he used the mug of cider.

“Light Bless.” Threnn said finally.

“He wanted a mahogany casket, with truesilver inlays. He also wanted it custom made and to be done within two days.” Robert said.

“We don’t stock mahogany. Its expensive, heavy and more suitable for cabinetry and furniture than a casket.” William said.

“And true silver, on every bloody corner of a mahgony casket…” Robert said.

“Strewth, that’ll be be heavy an’ expensive. How many pall-bearers would that bloke get?” Bricu said.

“He’d need at least eight before the casket.” William said. He waved the concern off with another sip of cider. “Enough about work, that’s for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow afternoon at the latest,” Robert said.

“We want to know more about you and your Northman.” William said.

“Really mate, there isn’t much ta say.” He took another sip of his cider.

“Modesty.” Threnn said staring at Robert and William, “What have you two done to him?”

“Nothing.” Robert said.

“Love, we were just talkin’ ’bout work.” Bricu said. “It was pleasant.”

“Pleasent?” Threnn asked.

“Perfectly pleasant.” William said.

“Actually,” Robert interrupted, “We need to finish questioning your your Northman about cooking. We have to make sure he is as good as he says he is.”

“Oh no.” Robert said, “We;re not wasting a free evening before you can at least prove you can talk the talk.”

Threnn shook her head. “What do either of you two know about cooking.”

“I can boil water and scrub a pot.” William said.

“Well mate, what do yeh want ta talk ’bout?”

“Vegetables.” Robert said.

“Really.” Threnn said. She glared at Robert

“Right, fair enough. See, Northern folk’ve got more root vegetables an’ gourds in their diet, while the southrons…”
Threnn cut Bricu off, “I’d like to hear what Robert has to say about southron cooking.”

“Well.” Robert said, “In the north, they have to boil their foods longer, as they need to break down the starches and the structure a bit so they can eat it. But we have more greens in our diet, and they don’t need more than a quick blanching, which we can do either by boiling or with a little oil in a skillet.” In the stunned silence, he took a triumphant swing of cider.

“What…Since when have you known anything about blanching greens?” Threnn said.

“That’s one’ o’the ways ta do it, love.” Bricu said.

Threnn ignored Bricu. Her glare softened, but she continued to stare at him. “Robert, you don’t cook.”

“No, I don’t cook, but do you remember Elly Whitfeld?”

“I remember her cooking for us.” William said.

“The brunette from Westfall who wanted to be a bard?” Threnn said.
“The same. She was a better cook than a bard.” Robert said.

“She’s the one that left him for ‘Shifty’ Livinginston.” William said. A faint smile crept up his face.

Bricu interrupted their reminiscing, “Whose this Shifty?”

“A self important ‘Trader’ who always has a half formed plan for profit playing in his tiny brain.” Threnn said.
“Och, never trust a bloke whose always schemin’.” Bricu said.

Threnn rolled her eyes, “Your plans are fine love.”

Bricu sipped at the cider, a content smile on his face. “No, my plans are brilliant. Go on then, more on this bloke.”
“Obviously, he’s another of our Threnny’s suitors.” William said.

“He was so eager to meet me, even when my dowry was as he put it, ‘far below market value.’” Threnn said.

“Tell me the wanker didn’t say that ta yeh!”

“Every chance he got. He thought he was quite witty. Hells, he even came to our shop to try and ingratiate himself into our good graces, thinking that would help him land Threnny.” William said.

“Strewth, he sounds…”

“Oily?” Robert said.

“Shifty?” Threnn said.

“Like a wanker?” William said.

“That’s it, a right wanker.” Bricu raised his mug to William. He did the same, almost matching Bricu’s enthusiasm. Another spray of cider splashed the party behind William, including the bald, ruddy man. He hunched his shoulders in shock, then turned to stare daggers at William.

“So how’d yeh lads deal with ‘im.” Bricu said. He sat forward, giving the bloke behind William a once-over.

“It was William’s idea.” Robert said.

“Mostly. See, Elly was starting to get serious with Robert. He didn’t know what to do. I mean, he liked her enough to spend a few days with her, but nothing that he considered…”

“…permanent..” Robert said.

“Long term. Anyway, she was asking Robert to go to Darkshire with her. She had some sort of a job in one of the taverns. I just told Shifty that Elly had a very promising career in music, and she need a person to help her manage her finances and keep her safe.”

“That was it?”

“Well.” William said.

“No, it wasn’t it. He also told shifty how much the contract was for.” Robert said.

“Techincally, I mistakenly told him that she was going to be making three gold a week in Darkshire.”

“Gold, silver, what’s the difference?” Robert said, “My brother, who extracted me from a complicated situation with one clever mistake.”

“Ta William, the problem solver!” Bricu raised his glass, the rest followed suit, in yet another toast. Once again, the man behind William turned around and glared at him. This time, Bricu and Threnn both noticed his stare. Threnn stood up and let Bricu move their stools back a few inches. Robert moved up a step, while William scooted his towards his brother. Apparently appeased, the man nodded and turned back to his own group of friends.

“But once again, we’re pulled off topic. We’re spending too much time talking about us and no where near enough grilling Bittertongue.” Robert said.

“Ask away mate, I’ve got nothin’ ta hide.”

“What is it about our Threnny that you love the most?” Robert asked. He grinned, clearly proud of himself and his question. Threnn took a triumphant sip of her cider, smiling all the while. William waited patiently for Bricu to speak. Bricu looked at each in turn, then gave his answer.

“Lads,” Bricu said, “What isn’t there ta like ’bout our Threnn? She’s got beauty, grace, brains an passion. She’s also deviously cunnin’, an’ brilliant when under pressure. Either o’yeh lucky enough ta see her operate that way before?”

“On occasion.” William said.

“Only when she’s dealing with Thenia.” Robert said.

“Och, William, Robert, yeh should’ve seen her the day we met. All o’those qualities came inta play at once.”

Threnn’s smile faltered. “Oh you wouldn’t.” She said.

“Wouldn’t what?” Robert asked.

Bricu paused for sip of cider. He looked at Threnn briefly, before turning back to the Bells. He leaned in to the Bells, his mug of cider in one hand, the other free to gesture.

“I remember it perfectly. Our lovely Threnn was standin’ on the balcony o’the Pig. It was a packed night, yeh see, an’ she was just a few steps from the top o’the stairs. Folk were walkin’ by her, some gettin’ ta close. So I walked near her, just as someone else came up the stairs. She started ta shift her drink an she committed the most grievous sin in the Pig.”

“Oh stop.” Threnn said.

“What did she do?” Robert asked.

“Mate, she ended up spillin’ some o’her drink on the southron war hero, Christoph Faral.”

“She what?” William said.

“It was an accident, mind yeh. Not like an entire mug. Just enough that he noticed. Wet his hair, down his back. Och, it was a wee bit o’a mess.”

“No it wasn’t.” Threnn said.

“Threnny, love, lemme finish for the Bells, aye?”

Threnn responded by taking another sip of her cider. This time, she didn’t smile triumphantly. She briefly stared daggers at Bricu, before turning on the look on the Bells. Neither William, Robert nor Bricu gave it any attention.

Bricu continued, “See lads, that look is the kinda fire that drew me ta her. But she didn’t unleash it on Faral. Yeh know what she did do?”

“What did our Threnny do?”

“It is nothing.” Threnn said.

“She went down ta apologize ta him. Not meek an’ mild, but a proper apology.”

“That is our Threnny,” William said, “Doing the right thing.”

Threnn took another sip of her cider. She continued to glare over her mug of cider.

“I would have just blamed my brother.” Robert said.

William rolled his eyes as he took another sip of his cider.

“But Threnny isn’t the kind o’woman ta blame another fer her own failin’. No, she’s quite serious ’bout these matters. An one would hope that a hero such as Faral would see the intent an’ forgive her. But yeh know what the wanker did?”

“What did he do?” Robert asked. He turned from Bricu to watch Threnn take another sip of her cider. William, for his part, watched Bricu carefully.

“He walked away.”

“NO!” Robert said dramatically.

“The bastard.” William said.

Threnn simply sighed.

“So here’s our lovable Threnny, who committed two terrible sins: Spillin’ her beer on a Southron war hero. Yet she puts on a brave face an’ walks down ta express her deepest apologies. What does the Hero o’the second war do? He brushes right fuckin’ by her. ”

“Ayup. No big deal.” Threnn said.

“Never liked the blowhard myself.” Robert said.

“So this is what drew you to her.” William asked, “A failed apology?”

“Och, yeh don’t get it mate! She has the willin’ness ta go down an apologize. Then he blows her off an’ whta does she do? Threnn doesn’t fold like some milk maid. She hold her head high an’ walks back up with another drink in her hand. It’s not often yeh see a lovely girl who does the right thing with that much fire. It was enough ta ge me attention. Bein’ a generous bloke I was able ta forgive her fer spillin’ the beer, an we all know that spillin’ beer…”

“Is a sin.” William.

“Cardinal at that, boyo. Remember, I’m a servant o’the Holy Light.” Bricu said.

Bricu turned in his stool to look at Threnn, “An’ that’s how I fell fer Threnn Al’Cair. ” When he finished, Threnn leveled a punch square into Bricu’s shoulder.

“That’s for blasphemy.” Threnn said.

“I’m not the one that spilled the beer on the war hero.” Bricu said.

“All this attention over spilt beer.” William said dryly. “It must be true love.”

“Beer is a magical thing mate. Spillin’ it gets attention.”

“Bricu has a point, William. I mean, how much shit did Threnny and Anna give you when your spilled your beer at their house warming party.”

“I will hit you too, Robert Bell.” Threnn said.

William glanced from Robert to Threnn. She held her mug of cider in front of her face as she met his gaze.

“So instead o’forgiveness, yeh gave another man trouble” Bricu said.

“It wasn’t that bad.” Threnn said.

“Not that bad? Robert, what happened at her house warmin’ party?”

“Robert Bell…” Threnn started to say.

Robert shrugged his shoulders. “Well, Bricu, my dear sister doesn’t want me to tell you what happened. Who am I to turn against my oldest friend.”

Threnn narrowed her eyes, waiting for Robert to finish.

‘”So yer loyalty runs that deep, eh?”

“As deep as the great sea.” Robert said. “So don’t push. No matter how hard you try, you will not here the brilliant story on how the Al’Cair girls mocked William out of true love.”

Bricu looked from Robert to Threnn, a look of fake shock plastered on his face.

“This isn’t a love story. This is far more pedestrian. Someone,” Threnn turned toward William, “had far too much to drink and spilled and was nearly sick. The end.”

‘”So why won’t yeh let one o’the Brothers Bell tell that story, eh?”

“Bricu has a point, why won’t you let me tell the story?” Robert asked.

“William doesn’t need to be embarrassed like that. Again. In front of Marketa. Again.”

“Was Marketa involed last time?” Bricu asked.

“I’m sitting right here.” William said finally. “I’ll tell the damn story.”

He scooted his barstool closer to the Robert, and spoke just above the din of the barn.

“I had a bit too much to drink. I was talking about one of Annalea’s newer friends…”

“Cute brunette from the North.” Robert said.

“My story, brother. Not yours.” William shook his head, “Regardless, I went to talk to her. I sloshed my beer all over her…”

“This is gettin’ ta be a pattern with yeh Southrons. Spillin’ yer beer when yeh should be drinkin’ it.” Bricu said.

“I have no trouble.” Robert said, draining the rest of his cider. He put his empty mug on the table and slid it towards Marketa. She missed it by an inch. It crashed to the ground, shattering into a dozen fragments.

“Robert Fucking Bell!” She shouted. The Ruddy man behind William leaned into say something, but Marketa shook her head. The Ruddy man stared daggers at the Bells, but neither of the brothers noticed. Threnn placed a hand on Bricu’s leg, then nodded with her head. Bricu gave her a wink and a nod.

“Damnit Robert, I am telling a story here.” William said.

“Now wait a second, that was Bricu’s fault for interrupting me and Marketa’s for not catching the mug. I am innocent here..”

“Robert.” Threnn said finally.

“Fine.” Robert said, “Marketa, dear, can I get another drink?”

Marketa, busy with the Ruddy Man, gives Robert a quick nod. The Ruddy man turned with Marketa to glare at Robert. If Robert noticed, he paid him no mind. Bricu and Threnn did notice. Both gestured their apologies, but before either could say a word, the man snorted and turned away. William sat patiently, nursing what was left of his cider.

“Please, William, finish.” Threnn said.

“I’m sure you both would rather hear more about Robert’s antics.” William said.

“Usually, they probably would. But you insisted on telling this one.” Robert said.

“Och, William, I’m listenin’. Don’t let either o’them distract yeh from the story.”

“What’s this about ‘either’ of them?” Threnn said.

“Ta my memory, love, yeh didn’t want William ta tell the story.”

“That’s my memory.” Robert said, “I was truly hurt by the attack on my brother’s person.”

“Now hold on a moment, I was preventing William from being embarrassed by the two of you.” Threnn stated.

“So now my brother is an embarassment?” Robert said.

“Och, ta turn on William like that, love. That’s a cruel cut.”

“I didn’t…”

“Threnn, I expect this from Robert…and I should expect it from the Northman.” William said, nodding to Bricu. “But you?”

“I get you drinks, and this is how you repay me?”

“So now we are friends to be bribed, not brothers to be cherished?” Robert asked.

“I’m an embarrassment you have to pay for?” William said. He leaned forward, his palms up and out, with a plaintive look on his face. “Threnn, how could you?”

“Truly, Threnn, you should be ashamed of yourself. Look at how you’re destroying William.”

William rubbed his eyes. “Please, robert,” he said in sotto-voice, “Don’t draw attention to it.”

“Love, this is a terrible thing yeh’ve done.”

“What I’ve done!” Threnn interrupted, “how is this my doing. How did you turn the Bells against me?”

“And now you blame Bricu, our newest friend? Threnn, maybe you’ve been on the road too long.” Robert said. “You should stay home and relax a while. Maybe Bricu would cook for you.”

“Och, that’s a brilliant idea mate.” Bricu smiled sweetly, “Love, yeh should let me take care o’yeh. Yer obviously stressed ta the point o’breakin’ if yer turnin’ on these wonderful lads.”

Threnn narrowed her eyes and looked at Robert and William. “You two were supposed to help me with Bricu, not turn on me. And you!” Threnn said, turning toward Bricu, “Took away my two dearest friends and turned them on me.”

“Love, a Northman always inspires loyalty in a bar. Its our blood-heritage.”

“It’s true Threnny. I mean, the only way we can trust a Northman is if they’re drunk.” Robert said.

The shattering of a wooden mug interrupted William and Bricu’s responses. The ruddy faced man, sparying everyone near him with the remainder of his cider, held the broken remains of his mug and glowered at Robert.

“Yeh great fookin’ arsehole. Yeh bump me, spill me cider an’ then call me race cra’en drunkards?”

“I didn’t say craven. I said untrustworthy.” Robert said. He did not flinch from the man’s glower, but he had to look up to meet his eyes.

Neither Bricu, nor Threnn, have Antisocial Personality Disorder. While Bricu might score as high on the checklist, he has far too many protective factors to have high levels of psychopathy. Threnn’s scores would be, at best, average. Regardless of their scores, Harvest Ball is a newish story from the early days of their relationship. They’ve arrived at the Barn, but they have yet to meet the infamous Brothers Bell.

The Longwell’s barn was packed by the time Bricu and Threnn made their entrance. Unlike most Southron parties, it was not a servant that announced the couple. Instead, Josiah Longwell, the heir apparent of the Longwell’s farms and orchards, greeted them the same way he greeted every invited guest: With a mug of cider.

“Threnody! Bricu!” Josiah said. He plunged two mugs into the barrel of the amber liquid. The cider sloshed into the mugs, and the scent of spiced apples grabbed their attention.

“Thank you both for coming.” He handed the first mug to Threnn first, the second to Bricu. Josiah took his mug, topping it off with ladel of cider, and toasted the couple’s health. Threnn and Bricu returned the gesture, careful not to spill any of the cider back into the barrel.

“Thank you for the invite.” Threnn said. She took a healthy swig from her mug.

“Cheers mate!” Bricu said before slamming half of the cider.

“I’m glad you both could make it, although…” Josiah gave Threnn a wink, “Your mother did not say you would be bringing Master Bittertongue.”

“Did Thenia say who my date would be?” Threnn asked. Bricu could hear the irritation creep into her voice. Either Josiah didn’t hear it or he didn’t pay any attention.

“Oh, she had a list. Thomas Maunt was at the top of it. I was in the middle.” Josiah laughed, “No offense Threnn, but your mother has no clue about my tastes. My ‘guest’ is hobnobbing with the gentry.” Josiah nodded to well dressed, man at least ten years older than Bricu or Threnn. He looked back at Josiah frequently. “I mean, we’ve been together for five years. You would think she knows.”

Threnn said, “She knows, she just hopes for something else.” Bricu took another sip of his Cider. Josiah gave Bricu another ladel.

“Yer a brilliant host.” Bricu said. Josiah smiled and winked at him.

“Now tell me” Josiah placed a hand on Threnn’s forearm. “is she going to give you any trouble for bringing our Bricu?” asked Josiah.

“She can’t get pissed if two folk show up t’the same party.” Bricu said.

“Bricu has his own invite…”

“That’s right!” Josiah said, “How dense of me! You helped the family address some … unpleasantness a few months ago. Where are your friends?.”

“They’re indisposed.” Bricu said, sipping at his cider.

“That’s a shame. Give Makarah my best, will you?”

“Certainly boyo, certainly.”

“How many more were you expecting?” Threnn asked.

“Oh, we invited at least another twenty adventures of various stripe and station.” He looked past Bricu and Threnn to the couple that just entered the barn. “Oh look. Lady Gontaut has yet another new young escort. She’s old enough to be his grandmother. Still.” He dipped two more mugs into the barrel, “Excuse me while I talk the blue bloods up a bit more. You two go enjoy the party!”

“Of course.” Threnn said

“Cheers mate.” Bricu slid his arm around Threnn’s waist and led her away. Josiah gave them a polite nod before greeting Lady Gontaut with the respect due her station.

They waded into the sea of guests and party goers. Bricu craned his neck, scanning the crowd for the infamous Bellsm while Threnn made a bee-line to the bar.

“Yeh see ‘em?” He asked.

“No, I can’t see anything but the back of the crowd. But I know where they’re going to be.”

“An’ where’d that be love?” Bricu pulled his arm from her waist to let her lead the way.

“By the bar. Willliam will be flirting with Marketa Longwell.”

“Sounds smart.” Bricu said.

“It is. This way, he keeps her company and he gets cheaper drinks.”

“What’s Marketa think ’bout it?”

“Usually, she prefers the company, and the flirting is mostly harmless.” Threnn said. She continued to snake through the crowd.

“Really?”

“Oh, they both prefer flirting to actually being with each other.” Threnn said.

“Nothin’ serious then?”

Threnn nodded, “This way they can flirt, keep off underiserables and make each other feel better. It’s a win-win.”

“Sounds clever.” Bricu said.

“It was William’s idea.” Threnn said.

“Yeh’d figure that one o’them wouldn’t be pleased with the idea after they gave it a shot.”

“No.” Threnn said, “Love, it’s hard to stay mad at a Bell for long.”

“Och, I need t’learn their tricks.” Bricu said.

Threnn glanced over her shoulder. “It’s innate love.” She said, “If you haven’t managed to do it by now, I don’t think you’ll ever get it.”

“Strewth, the more yeh tell me ’bout the Bells, the more it sounds like I’m in way o’er me head.”

Threnn smiled back at him, and for the first time that night, Bricu started to feel a hint of worry. “The bar is this way.” She said. Threnn weaved in and out of the crowd, with Bricu following her lead.

Like the art?  Buy some from Lore today!  I’m not following the Nano rules this year. I’m working on finishing a number of pieces that are well over due. Today is the first part of that fic: An early Bricu and Threnn story that I started last year.

Bricu arrived at Threnn’s apartment at a quarter past seven, a full fifteen minutes early. He resisted the urge to roll up the sleeves of his red shirt–the same shirt Delion the Tailor had fussed over for nearly an hour–and rolled a cigarette to calm his nerves. He stood outside the apartment and gathered his thoughts. He started chuckling from the first memory.

“You simply do not understand, Bricu.” Delion said, “The difficulties involved with making garments like this. To mar its perfection by rolling up the sleeves is unthinkable. It is simply blaise.”

“But mate, it’ll get fuckin’ hot in the barn.” Bricu said, “An’ now yer sayin’ I need ta wear a shirt underneath this one?”

“Of course you do! You don’t want to perspire through this shirt! Why, you’d be a laughing stock! More importantly, you would make me a laughing stock!”

“Oh, we woudn’t want that.” Bricu said dryly.

“No, we certainly would not. Now, kind of pants are you wearing with this shirt?” Delion asked. He raised his index finger to his mouth and the side of his nose.

“I was gonna wear the linen…”

“Linen!” Delion yelped, “Are you mad? Oh, that would not do.”

Bricu was dumbstruck. “What?”

“Honestly, this is a harvest event. Textiles matter. Cotton at least, probably more of a cotton-wool blend.” Bricu watched as Delion crossed his arm across his chest, then started tapping his nose with his finger. The tailors eyes darted from Bricu to bolts of fabric neatly organized by textile, color and price, and back to Bricu.
“Yes. That would do nicely. Now, when is this again?”

“T’morrorw.”

“Tomorrow!” Delion shouted. “Oh why would you wait until the last moment to bring this up?” He rushed foward towards Bricu, measuring tape and pins in hand.

“Because they’re soddin’ pants Del. Strweth, they’re supposed ta be comfortable.”

“Honestly Bricu, if comfort was the driving force of fashion, we wouldn’t get out of bed!”

“While Threnny an’ I might call that a party…”

“Keep your sordid affairs with miss Al’Cair to yourself, please. Neither myself nor the Bells would want to hear such details.” Delion interrupted.

“Och, yeh think I”d kiss an’ tell mate? I’m a holy man an’ Threnny’ is a devout servant o’the Light. Such accusations…” Bricu said.

“Bricu.” Delion cut him off. He stopped measuring Bricu’s waist, letting one end of the tape measure fall to the ground, and stood straight, a half head taller than his client. Delion gave Bricuone of his practiced looks, the kind reserved for disreputable merchants and fashion diasters. Bricu continued grinning.

“Spare me the bluster.” He said after a sighing in resignation, “or I might slip and poke you with this pin. Twice. Now hold still, I’m taking your measurements.”

http://www.flickr.com/photos/wwarby/ / CC BY 2.0

A number of the Nano-folk talk about slogging through their word counts. They want to to keep up–or exceed–their daily word totals. I can understand that. Writing is a craft that, on occasion, requires a lot of slogging: Prep work, Revisions, Dialogue you’re not sold on. I know when I write an evaluation, there are parts where I think, “If I can just slog though this part, the rest will fall into place.”

Have people had similar experiences with WoW RP? Have you participated in a story, or event, that had the similar feel? Slog through this messy bit and then…. Then what happened? Did the Slog turn into RP awesome? Did the RP die?

Tell us about your experiences with Slogging Through RP!