Azeroth has a variety of alcohols, tobacco products, and it has coffee, but what about other, more illicit narcotics? In Dalaran we can see the washed up mage, a victim of Kungaloosh:

Shattrath had it’s own down-on-their-luck NPCs, and let’s not forget the Blood Elves. I’d be remiss if I didn’t include herbalism and alchemy as well. Addiction is a real thing in Azeroth, my question is what are people using?

I know there are people who will be up in arms about drugs (either for or against legalization) but that is neither here nor there. What we want to talk about is the seedier side of RP. Have you run a story where people were using narcotics? Do specific races–like the Belfs–have specific narcotics? What if the Tauren have a hallucinogen that is extremely addictive (and damaging) to gnomes? What are the policies of the factions regarding drug use?

Can Forsaken really get wasted?

Stories involving illicit substances can be personal–one character’s struggle to over come addiction–to a large scale story pitting guilds against guilds–I’m thinking of Traffic. The Riders have examples of both of these stories: Bricu’s work to overcome alcoholism and dealing with a lotus peddler. Fallout out from both stories will be examined in our regular RP event.

This kind of story is worth looking into. But there are also pitfalls. Addiction is exceedingly common, and a number of people have their own attitudes towards the personal, legal and societal implications of drug use. Be understanding when plotting these kinds of stories, otherwise, your story may never get off the ground.

Does anyone have examples of drugs in Azeroth? Anyone care to share their stories involving the illicit substance of WoW? Let us know!

This week, we get the real deal on Shad, the official midwife of Feathermoon.

Celesse was his first. He never counted Eurydice, because no matter how she plead, promised, or punished, he always refused her that final step. No, it was the woman he chose to be his wife with whom he finally joined under the shade of a great oak on the shores of Lake Elune’ara. She was beautiful, graceful, so much the ideal woman that he’d been sure that it was love. That it was forever. He didn’t regret those six months, two of whirlwind courtship and four of everything men bemoaned when they shunned marriage. Was it any surprise that he also didn’t regret the kiss that had ruined it all?

In an occupation where these things should have been months preplanned, his first was a surprise. He’d offered some help at the start, but to be there for the terrifying, bloody end of it hadn’t been on the menu. To this day, he’d still never had one that bled as much as that first one. It had taken all his training not to run, but in the end, it was worth it. Most Riders made their way in the world by killing. He considered it a blessing that he’d found another path to take. Nerida O’Connaugh was a most satisfying first child to have to his midwifing credit.

Like most boys, he could count his father as his first. And like so many boys he was so certain that No Really, His Father Hated Him. Why else had he been such a draconian instructor? He’d once made his son sit for three days and nights in the freezing cold of Winterspring, refusing him shelter until he’d felt the pulse of a pine. Even then, he’d never been satisfied. Never once praised him. But he’d show the Dreaming bastard. He’d be twice the druid his father ever was.

There was no question that Fells was his finest. Though his mother had taught him about love, it had been Fells who taught him how, and in the flickering shadows of the waterfall that blurred the bliss of fireworks into a shimmering glow, he’d thanked her for her patience in spades. She wasn’t everything he’d ever dreamed of, but it turned out everything he’d ever dreamed of was pretty stupid, and he never could have fathomed what it was like to actually be happy with someone. She didn’t try to make him into someone he wasn’t; she transformed him effortlessly into who he was supposed to be. Even if she’d only live sixty years more, he knew they’d be the best he’d ever see.

If he had to pick just one, it would have to be Felicia that was his finest, as she demanded that she be born all of fifteen minutes before her twin. Regardless of who’d come forth first, they’d both been his greatest triumph: twins gotten on a once-barren woman thanks to his magics, and a difficult delivery for which he didn’t have to call in more competent help. She–they–were proof that he wasn’t a failure, and the best gift he could offer to the woman he loved. And during the long nights full of screaming infants, that was the thought that kept him sane.

Era was definitely his finest. After the months they’d struggled for control of the plague-ravaged body they shared, the panther would surely have felt fully justified simply slaying his captor and/or taking over entirely. Instead, he’d taught the lonely child what it meant to be a cat, and gradually helped shape him into a man. That they’d grown into equal brothers only made Shad all the more grateful that Era had endured his years of obnoxious condescension. How had he failed to see then that he’d never really been in charge at all?

His last was something of an awkward topic, at least outside of their little family. Sure, he’d been the one to propose the arrangement and insisted that all things had to be equal, but that didn’t make it any less strange to be pulling Zeve down to the mattress with him. But oh, he’d moved as slowly and gently as he would have while treating a wounded tiger, forestalling both flight and fight from both sides of the dance. Of course it wasn’t perfect; he’d have been concerned if it was. But in the end, Zeve’s words always put it best: it was Right.

Technically, his last wasn’t finished yet, but it was his most recent. Baby Boy Windwhisper (as he was presently known) would not come into the world for months yet, but he’d already made his mark. Shad didn’t get many kaldorei clients for obvious biological reasons, and those he did had always been, if not ready, then grateful for the blessing. But in so many ways, his last was also his first. Corrienda was the first to complain of being too young. She was the first for whom he’d researched the remedies taught by whores who’d disposed of unwanted baggage. And even though he hadn’t had to put them into practice for her, she was the first he had to struggle not to despise.

Tarquin was his last. The Riders pledged allegiance to the black and red, not directly to him, but all jobs and orders ultimately filtered through the Boss’s nimble fingers and trickled off his wicked tongue. Shad didn’t know him very well, but did anyone, really? He knew enough; he’d put his life in the man’s hands as both ally and adversary over the years, and his heart still beat, and that was all he needed. Really, if anything made Tarquin special, it was that: Shad didn’t need a damned thing from him other than trust.

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.

A few weeks ago, the GM of our guild posted a story of Tarquin entitled First, Finest and Last (FFL). This brilliant piece summarizes and presents the history of Tarq in a new, vibrant way: Discussing Tarq’s first, finest and last bosses, loves and kills. It inspired dozens of similar posts. The format changes slightly for each character, but the major points remain: Who, or what, was the first, finest and last? How was this character shaped by other people?

Bricu’s isn’t finished yet. Normally this would just be an example of my slacking; however, my slacking can be your gain. If you want to write up your own FFL, you can my processes for writing Bricu’s story and apply it to your own.

I started by listing names of persons and places that matter to Bricu:

Then I looked for natural groups. For instance, Teigue, Threnn and Soli have all been romantically involved with Bricu. Aelflaed, Tundale and Uthas have managed to give Bricu some sort of a beat-down. Arthas is a particular example of where this can get sticky. Arthas was Bricu’s prince and commander, but he also put a beat down on Bricu (as well as everyone else alive in Azeroth). With a few additional names: Tarquin, Ulthanon, The Roses, the Maunts, Bricu’s groups start to firm up.

Once the name and the groups are structured, it’s easier to assign the First, Finest and Last. Aelflaed delivered a mighty fine (and well deserved) punch to the face, but was it the Finest or the Last? Looking at the other names in that group, it is clear that Aely is most recent, so for now, she’s clearly the Last.

FFL can be considered an epilogue. It might be the highlights of the RP and a way to say goodbye. I, personally, think its just a way to take stock of the character. It’s a chance to revisit what has been done and see how the RP has shaped your character. That may be what you need to get the RP flowing once more.

Share you FFLs with us. What are you going to write about? Loves, losses, fights, deaths? Something else? Share the works in progress and the completed story with us!

Welcome to another installment of Spotlight! Given that Aely made a decent man out of Arrens last night, it follos that today’s spotlight has to be about Aelflaed. Excuse the heavy handed set-up…

Brother Sarno stands at the entrance to the Cathedral, greeting each person that passes the threshold. Balding, and with a middle-age pudge, the priest does not look like an SI:7 asset. Still, your contact assured you that Sarno knew much more than your average priest in the Cathedral. He starts to greet you as you approach. He stops halfway through as he notices the gestures–the cant–that make it quite clear you are not here for prayer. He pulls you to a dark corner and waits for your question.

“He sent you? Fine. But next time, wait until I’m not working. You want to know about who? Light forfend if he figured…no, not the one who sent you. Nevermind. Aelflaed, right?” He continues…

Aelflaed Lasrdottir–no, Caltrains, she just married –doesn’t seem to be a proper fit for the Wildfire Riders. She’s pious and devout, a truly good person. She even answered the call to serve with the 7th Legion. She’s not had any trouble with the law and she doesn’t spout off on want to cause a revolution. She doesn’t even seem to care about making profits. On the surface, then, she’s a terrible fit for Tarquin’s crew. And that’s what most of Shaw’s men said.

She’s a Northwoman. A number of us “Southrons” simply do not get what that means. Lordaeroners have always been a proud people. When Arthas destroyed the Old North, he did not just create the Scourge. He took away identity, traditions. He even stripped them of their language and their Faith. Losing everything has not made them humble. It’s made some of then infuritaitng. Not Aelflaed…

I digress. She was raised in a mining town, now known as Terrordale, just outside of Stratholme. Her friends, her family and her land were taken by Arthas and the Scourge. I know she stayed North for a long time–I don’t know why,but I have a guess–but there’s no record of where she stayed or who she stayed with. But that doesn’t matter, really. She went south, like they always do, went straight to the part of Stormwind where all good Northfolk go: The Pig and Whistle.

Tarquin hired her as a healer, but she’s not afraid of the front line either. At the Wrathgate, she was tending the wounded, pulling Legionnaires behind the lines. She was there when Putress dropped the plague that destroyed our advance… She survived that somehow. That just makes it clear. Someone is looking out for her.

She was close to Jolstraer Taborwynn, close enough that the old bastard gave her his leek farm. When she felt Bittertongue was disrespecting his memory, she decked him. So she’s watched over by something and has absoultely no fear. Is it any wonder Tarquin hired her?

Aelflaed’s wedding was just the other night to Headmaster Arrens Caltrains, from Stormwind University. She was going to marry another Northman, Phileas, but he just disappeared. Arrens won’t do that. He’s too old fashioned to abandon her, and while she’s too headstrong to stop working, he’ll be there to back her up.

I get the interest, I truly do. But tread lightly with her. She has a mean right hook and she is more than willing to use it. And if her punch doesn’t drop you, I’m sure someone from the University–or Light forbid, the Riders–will follow up.

The Pig and Whistle is full of people tonight: A Northern music session is drawing a crowd to the loft, while the back tables are full of smoke and schemers. Bricu is sitting to the right of the head of the table. The chair is empty, of course, and despite the crowd none of the regulars go near it. Bricu waves you over and invites you to have a seat…

Strewth, yeh want ta know ’bout the boss? That’s his chair yeh know. He’ll be in later. Till then…

I first met Tarquin ap Danwyrth when I was King o’Stormwind. I was three sheets ta the wind, stumblin’ down the main thoroughfare o’the Trade Quarter when I heard him yell after some crazy bugger ’bout bein’ some sorta fuckin’ dragon or some such nonsense. I turned ’round–hopin’ ta actually see a dragon–an’ instead I see this lanky wanker o’a bloke, leanin’ up against Pestle’s like he was supportin’ it with his own ego. I can’t remember rightly if he was in twill, but he sure as shite was wearin’ a bloody brilliant hat.

The bloke he was yellin’ at stood rightly Seven Feet tall, but with each shout, the nutter slouched more an more. Now, I knew this nutter. I’d crossed words, an swords, with ‘im in the past. I didn’t feel any sorta loyalty ta ‘im. I didn’t feel any pity either. I wanted ta see if the lanky blonde bloke had stones. So I shouted after ‘im. I said:

“Oi, shut yer mouth yeh great blonde poofda!”

The nutter stood a wee bit taller fer a moment. Me great blonde poofda didn’t miss a beat. He shouted after the nutter–by the light, the nutter shrank a good foot–an’ then shouted after me:

“Shut your bloody mouth you red-haired sheep fucker.”

Please notice, I’m translatin’ his accent fer yeh. Accoridin’ ta Southrons, Northman’s accents sound like one part cotton-mouth, one part gentry an one part drunk, topped off with clipped tones o’a pipe player bein’ pelted by rotten fruit. Personally, I think we speak perfect common–its yeh other bastards that mispronounce words.

Anyway, we’d exchanged our first witty banter by shoutin’ down the streets. I think I shouted that he shouldn’t talk ta his king that way… It doesn’t really matter. We eventually both made route ta the Pig fer a drink. Turns out he knew me “nephew” Uthas, an’ that he ran with a crew from Gilneas: The Greymane Exiles. I don’t remember whose colors I wore at that point. I know I wasn’t drunk enough ta be slummin with the Cats, nor was I with the Heroes… That doesn’t matter either. He told me he’d get me a job here an’ there. I told him his majesty welcomed the work.

Turns out the Oathbreaker–that’s a story fer a different time– was good ta his word. I ran with their crew a few times ta the Molten Core. Once ta the Lair. We did a few odd jobs ’round the world. Never went ta Stratholme t’gether. That was ta painfull fer us both…

Then me nephew went wonky. An’ bloodthristy. He sent assassins ta e’ery big lights damned hero in the known world–Alliance an Horde–an fled ta his camp. That helped shatter the Greymanes. Hell, it shattered a lot o’folk. But we rallied enough ta send me nephew an’ his flock North without their bloody boats. A victory is a victory, even if it leaves ashes in yer mouth.

Once Tarq an’ the remains o’his crew came back south, ta the Pig, they started up with the Riders. I wasn’t at the plannin’ session–or maybe I was an’ I was King o’Stormwind again–but he handed me a piece o’paper incorporatin’ the Black an’ Red. Now last time I signed a contract, I enlisted with Lordaeron’s Army. This time, I signed up with a merc group. I thought it o’er fer a second, demanded ta have a say in what booze we bought fer the Pig, an’ signed me life o’er.

That’s our boss. He’s a quick wit with a plan. I never saw his knife–lest he was workin–but I can assure yeh at least one is in reach at all times. Even when he’s sleepin, he’s got one nearby. He’s a Northman who has done his share o’work fer the Crown–why else do yeh think Shaw has a hard-on fer ‘im?–but now works fer his crew. If yeh want ta see him, he’s upstairs. That session that’s goin’ on? He’s the fiddler. The blonde next ta him–the one singin’–is me sister-in-law. Turns out he’s not a poofda after all…

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.”

These are minor failings. The fic we wrote up as a guild and shared with each other is brilliant. As a guild, we were able to share an event together, an event we all did on our own time. We’ll dissect Wrathgate later….but for now, let me share with you the last of the Original Fiction from Wrathgate.

Bricu, Illithias, Varenna, Threnn, Fingold, Annalea
She didn’t stay still for long. After a few moments of relative silence once Bricu had walked away, Illithias resumed her struggling against her bonds. The Northman had used a lot of bandage, and cinched it all tight – there was precious little give, and the fabric was already freezing over from the soaked thaw. Varenna still kneeled on her back. Bound and pinned and twisting this way and that, the elf resembled an fish thrashing away on dry land.

“Sun… ! Gah… ! Var… ! Varenna!” she barked, voice horse and strained from the angle.

From her vantange astride Illithias’ torso, Varenna Sungale turned her head slight and looked down at Illi, addressing the filthy, bloody hair plastered wo her scalp and scarred ears.

“Miss Illithias. Please do try to be still. If you don’t calm down, I’ll knock you out and tell Sergeant Bittertongue you somehow got free.”

Flopping heavily back into the slush and ice, Illithias let out a long, croaking sigh. She had stopped struggling.

—
With Illithias dealt with, Bricu walked back to Threnn. She was flanked by Annalea and Fingold. They were deep in converation, but Bricu managed to catch Threnn’s last words.

“We have to see it.” Threnn said to him.

“See what?” Bricu asked.

“The battlefield.” Threnn said. “We…I want to see what happened.”

“Threnny…” Bricu stopped himself. He knew the look. Threnn was set to go to the valley, regardless of what he said or did. From the looks of it, Annalea and Fingold would follow.

“Right. Then we go back. Threnn, stay behind me, Annie, behind her. Fin, anchor the rear.”

Two northmen and two southron women descended the rough cut path to the valley of Angrathar. In the distance, they could see Dragon Queen Alexstrasza and her consort Korialstrasz holding court in the ruined valley. The began walking calmly, orderly, like soldiers. It was the smell of the fire and cooking soliders that shattered Bricu’s resolve. Anthragar became Stratholme. There were no ruins or burning buildings, but there were soldiers writhing in agony from fire and from plague.

Bricu held out his hand to keep Threnn from running past time.

“No!” Bricu screamed. “Threnny! Stay back!”

Threnn did nothing of the sort. She walked up next to Bricu and looked down into valley. Bricu ground his teeth in response. Annalea and Fingold, whether afraid of Bricu or the view below, stayed back by a dozen paces.

“Oh light. Oh, Gods.” Threnn said.

“The plague is burned…” Bricu stopped himself. “We can go.”

Threnn continued to gaze at the ruin in the valley. She whispered, “They…They killed… They’re screaming.”

Bricu watched as soldiers from the Alliance and the Horde writhed in agony. He knew that the luckier ones would die after a few minutes of excruciating pain. The unlucky ones would scream and cry for water or mercy, only to die alone and in terrible pain. The smart ones–the ones Bricu identified with–ran down the goat path. Bricu unclenched his teeth to shout orders at the troops.

“Hold yer ground yeh tossers!”

“There’s no ground to hold.” Threnn said sharply, “They’re all dying.”

Bricu gestured to the soliders who had left their shields and swords on the valley floor. “There are ones runnin’. They need ta help with the burned an’ the wounded.”

“So do I.” Threnn said. She marched down the path, with Bricu, Annelea and Fingold in step with her.

Threnn started looking over the soliders, trying to judge which one she could save and which ones were too far gone. Bricu interrupted her.

“Then we can drag ‘em t’saftey.”

She did not stop to look at Bricu as he spoke. She noticed a solider, Westfallian by the look of her, whose tabard had been burned away. Her armor partially melted to her skin. Her breathing was ragged and shallow.

“They don’t have that kind of time.” Threnn said softly.

She started to pray, calling upon the Light to heal this woman’s wounds. The woman inhaled as deeply as her damaged lungs would let her. The air rattled in her lungs, a sound that Threnn could hear standing above her, and she was gone. Threnn let her prayer end before it was finished.

Bricu walked to her side, putting one gauntlleted hand on her shoulder. “Yer mum ta be. If they don’t have the time, then they get The Mercy.”

“Mercy?” What fecking mercy?” Threnn said, not too sharply.

It was Annalea who answered her.

“Mine.”

Annalea stood, with Fingold at her side, a short distance away from her sister. She held her up a worn, brown leather satchel, full of pockets for vials, herbs and potions. “This is what I’m here to do.”

Bricu nodded to her, Threnn paused. His hand still on his shoulder, Bricu whispered in Threnn’s ear.

“Come on now love, we’ve got a job ta do.”

Bricu pointed towards the mass of soldiers gathering near the Dragon queen.

“She’s talkin’ t’em. We need t’hear what she’s sayin, aye?”

Threnn looked at the shields of the fallen soldiers around them, and avoided looking at her sister.

“All right.” Threnn said, not meeting Bricu’s eyes. She looked around the battlefield, trying to look for one person that she could pull to saftey. Threnn didn’t see anyone.

“It feels wrong, leaving them.” She said finally. She turned back to Bricu.

“We’ve done what we can…” Bricu said. He pointed out the fires that still burned sporadacicaly across the valley. “These aren’t like Stratholme’s fires. These are the fires o’the Queen.” Bricu said, sounding as sincere as he could. “This lot will go on ta their rest. The rest o’us will just have t’keep workin’.”

A woman led the procession of mourners from the great Cathedral in Stormwind to the back alley of the Pig and Whistle. Some of the mourners, those farther away from the front, wept. Those in the front, all of whom were decked in the Black and Red–even if the edges were torn and the colors faded from age–were as silent as the grave. In between the mourners and the Riders, the occasional Agent of the Crown could be seen, studying the faces of the assembled mourners.

When they reached the back alley, the woman turns to address the crowd. She has auburn hair and northern eyes. She does not cry nor does her voice crack with emotion. She says these words with practiced ease.

My father was a bastard. Some of you, the more forgiving of you, might credit this to his childhood: Growing up on the streets of Lordaeron with the other refugees and orphans. While he was quick to point out that he was an orphan, I would be remiss if I did not remind you all that he was, in his heart, a right bastard.

He was a solider of so loyal to his Prince that he put his own countrymen to the sword and burned down his home. While many men would repent this sin, or follow their prince to the bitter end, my father did neither. He marched his way south, to Northshire Abbey, where he cheated and conned his way into what was left of the Order of the Silver Hand. Maybe he mentioned his liege–a landed knight who lived near Stratholme–or maybe he begged for sanctuary. He never spoke of it to me. He did tell me how he spent his days sneaking out to Goldshire and drinking away his memories. He did tell me how he challenged the faith of his instructors and mentors, how he was punished for heresy–twice–and yet he managed to charm his way into a set of spurs.

What kind of Paladin is a founding member of the Black n’Red? Maybe the Light he worshiped is the light reflected off gold and silver coins that he helped steal.

That’s how he taught me about the Light–A story of how the Fox stole enough the Light to hunt for food for her kits, another to keep her kits warm at night–stories that he swore were told to him by his own parents. This is how I was raised: with the criminals of Old Town, and taught fantastic heresies from the Old North. Only a bastard would raise a child this way.

He was smart enough, to put down his bourbon long enough to see my mother for who she is. Threnody Al’Cair is as beautiful and clever as the day she met my father. Bricu had no chance against her. To his credit, from the day they stood watch at my family’s shop, my father put ahead of everyone else…until I was born.

My father was there to kill the Bloody Prince–the bogeyman that still haunts those who have Northman blood. Then he hosted his wake. My father was there to help the people of Stormwind when Deathwing appeared. Then, once the dust settled, he delivered the Riders’ Bill For Service to the King’s steward.

A good bastard keeps account of who has what coming. No one could do that better than my da.

I’m sure that many of you here, in front of the Pig and Whistle, are part of the King’s Service. The illustrious organization that my father refused to call anything but Seven, or the Bloody Arseholes of Seven. You locked him away before I was born. You took him away from me when I was just a girl. You may even have had something to do with us being here today. So it is for your benefit today that I remind you of how my father, Bricu Bittertongue, was a right bastard.

He wouldn’t mind you lot speaking ill of him–he didn’t have a kind word to say about you either–and he would be offended if you lied about him.

But he was my bastard, and I would rather have a right bastard with me then King or Country behind me.

Good bye Da. I love you. We’ll miss you.