This is what a Flag RSP Looks like(Bricu note:  As of Today, this add on is out of date).  It is not the best, nor is it the worst, but this is the window that is displayed if you, and your target or mouse-over, has FlagRSP 2.  The box in yellow shares Bricu’s title, first or last name and appearance.  His title, of course, is Right Bastard.  Bricu’s is the character’s name on the server.  Bittertongue is thanks to FlagRSP.  His appearance is documented as what one would see if the looked at Bricu in game.

We have discussed how to write RSP’s before.  In short, writing a Flag RSP is showing the rest of the world what your character looks like.  We cannot see your toon’s family on their face, but we can see: family resemblances, race, ethnicity, scars, tics and quirks.  We cannot hear your thoughts, but we sure as heck can pretend to hear the tone of someone’s voice.

–

The Window in which the RSPs can be positioned by the user.  This feature can be turned off or on by the user as well.  Personally, I’ve found the window interface to be the wonkiest bit about FlagRSP, which is why I typically keep the windows loading on the side.  This way, if I click on another RP while in combat, I don’t see their flag in my face.  That would be problematic.  To demonstrate, check out Fells’ newest RSP.

Another feature of the most recent FlagRSP is the “accept” button.  When editing descriptions, if you do not hit accept, the description can be lost.

One cans search a server for other RSPs, but this is a feature I have not used.  RSP does store character flags, and this data can be purged in order to clear errors or speed up performace.

I have not had any issues using Flag.  I have not noticed any conflicts with other Add-Ons and It has never caused a slow down for me.  It does exactly what I want it to do–customizes Bricu’s appearance–without any bells and whistles.

Any questions or screen shots of your own flags?  Post links in the comments. If you prefer Email, let me know and I will get to you as soon as I finish this new RSP….

I’ve deleted Bricu from Feathermoon and moved him, and as much of his story, to Rifts. Here are the screenies to prove it:

and

As you can see, I’m not sure if I’m going Guardian or Defiant. Threnn asked me to pick a faction, then we’ll start their story over. Or something. Who knows. RP is totally dead though. Just ask us next week.

When I was regularly picking up single issue comics, my favorite issues were “A Day in the Life.” Just a few panels of art and story about how one of my heroes spent an average day. We’ve been enjoying Cataclysm for months now, and we’ve returned to some sort of an RP routine. What we want is for you to submit that routine.

Do you have a piece of art, or a bit of fic (1,000 words or less), that you would like to submit to WTTRP? Drop us a line in the comments or at our customer service email stfuarrens at wttrp.com . We want to hear about your character’s average day!

Dear readers,

We’re not ignoring nor have we forgotten you. We’ve got other projects, books or Database classes to work through. This does not mean, of course, that RP has hit a slow down. On the contrary: Our RP Circle continues to grow and add new members on a regular basis.

This could turn into a discussion of how established guilds on old servers tend towards elitism or on how to approach a guild to join it. Instead, I’d prefer to invite everyone to talk about their circle.

For instance, RP night on FM is the greatest collection of RPers and characters around. The only exceptions are those characters who cannot be online at the same time. Each character has an identity and style that damn near sings with personality. It does not matter if theRP is about a story or justifying an up coming Raid, PVP or instance: The RP is thoughtful and designed to let us all interact. The people I associate with on RP night have helped my toon become my favorite character in my 15+ history of gaming.

So tell us about your circle. Whose in it? What stories are you telling? What stories have you told? What server are you on? Spread the love, talk up your peeps.

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.

The story so far: After the debacle at Wrathgate, and the youngsters of Old Town turned a game of Orcs and Humans into Riders and Watch, SI:7 took an opportunity to crush Tarquin Ap Danwyrth’s mostly civilized bastards out. They did so by putting the squeeze on the Riders and their allies, going so far as to drive Tarquin–the Man They Couldn’t Hang–out of Stormwind and fabricated charges. After months of being on the defensive, the Riders started to claw back their territory.

Agents of SI7 realized that the Riders played an important roll in Stormwind’s underbelly–they kept it in check. Mostly retired SI7 operative Braxton Sullivan begins to negotiate with the Riders. These negotiations begin in earnest once Arthas is removed from the Frozen Throne. Other crisis begin to draw Braxton’s attention, so Bricu and Threnn grab it with a scheme to get Bricu into the Watch…

The Torres Estate is a three-flat row house on the canal side of the Trade District. The building itself is tall and narrow, and of an architectural style that was briefly in vogue shortly before the Second Orc War. Whereas the other row houses on this stretch of cobblestone have small, lovingly cared for yards, complete with mini-opiaries and exotic flowers, the Torreses have a brick courtyard surrounded by a wrought iron fence, barbed and pointed in a fashion reminiscent of Old Stormwind. The only conceit to current Stormwind fashion is the pattern created with the bricks themselves. The building’s narrow, slanted windows are strategically placed to provide wide views of the streets, another difference between this row house and the rest of the Trade district. Unlike the other houses with their slanted roofs, the Torres estate has a rooftop garden, replete with flowers, shrubs with berries, and small trees.

As he approaches from the north, Bricu notes how the garden provides cover and a commanding view of all of Stormwind. He sets his jewelers kit on the ground while he rolls and lights his cigarette. As he inhales the smoke to calm his nerves, he tries to absorb all of the differences in the houses in this part of old town. Bricu nearly kicks himself for being too thick to see through this ruse. He settles on picking up his kit and marching towards his meeting.

He blows a smoke ring while pushing on the gate. It pops open, completing the story he is supposed to believe. Bricu walks straight to the Elwynn oak door and pulls on the lions head knocker. He is not surprised when a smartly dressed servant answers. He is surprised as servant hides half of his body behind the door, as if he is prepared to use his shoulder to shut and secure the door. The servant was ready to ruin his fancy frock coat –and fine hat– in case he had to close the door in a hurry. When the servant recognizes Bricu, he takes a small step away and stands at the ready.

“Mornin’ squire,” Bricu says, “Have yeh been waitin’ long?”

“No Master Bittertongue, you are on time, as expected.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want ta disappoint the famous Torres family.” Bricu stamps out his cigarette and takes two steps: one into the foyer and another so he side-steps the servant. Bricu does not show his back to the servant, even as he shuts the door. “So squire, how long have yeh been workin’ fer the Torres family?”

“Four years, sir.”

“And who hired yeh, Thomas or Mallory?” Bricu asks.

“Thomas, sir. I never knew Mallory Torres.”

“Right. Mallory passed on what, five years ago?”

“Four years, eight months sir. Thomas is waiting for you on the roof sir.”

“Well now, we wouldn’t want ta keep Ol’ Thomas waitin’, would we?” Bricu scans the room, looking for an ambush. Satisfied that no agent is ready to kill him, he smiles, “Right squire. Lead the way.” The servant stalls for a second, and Bricu’s smile widens. “How else would I find where Thomas is, squire?”

“Very good sir.” The servant walks forward, leading Bricu through the long, narrow hallways towards a spiral staircase. Bricu takes in as many details as he can, keeping track of how the row house was designed to be easily defended.

“So squire, when yeh said Mallory hired yeh…”

“Thomas, Sir.”

“Right, Thomas. So when Thomas hired yeh, who gave yeh a set o’references?” Bricu asks as they climb the stairs.

“Elling Trias, sir.” The servant answers quickly.

“Strewth boyo, yer story was spot on till yeh mentioned Trias. Next time, find a different name fer yer references, aye?”

“Very good sir,” the servant says matter-of-factly.

He leads Bricu up the spiral staircase that leads to the other flats and the roof. The stairs are not steep, but there are far too many of them. Bricu notes the same narrow, slanted windows he saw on the way in. They let in enough light to illuminate the art work that covers the walls–ideal places to hide a weapons. The thick set Elwynn Oak doors do not just suggest wealth and taste: They are stout enough to protect the other flats from attackers. The more stairs they climb, the more Bricu is surprised at the details used to cover the purpose of the row house.

“So yer sayin’ Thomas’ old bones climbed these stairs daily?”

“Only if he wanted to go to the garden, sir.”

“Not bad fer an ol’ bloke past seventy.,” Bricu says. The servant does not respond.

At the top of the stairs, the servant opens the elegant oak door. He waits for Bricu patiently.

Bricu pauses and looks up. “Go on squire, I’m still followin’ yeh.”

“I have to present you sir. Decorum demands…”

“Squire, I’ve got a blunderbuss named Decorum. Walnut stock, brass fittin’s. She’s loud an’ pretty, with a spring loaded, straight steel bayonet, an’ she can pull duty as a club. Now, all Decorum demands is powder, shot and a regular cleanin’ with a thick, dry, hand towel. She doesn’t need me ta walk up there so me back is ta yeh.” Bricu stands his ground, grinning like a madman.

Heartbeats pass. Finally, the servant speaks up, sighing heavily. “Yes sir.”

The servant walks onto the rooftop garden, allowing Bricu to gain the top of the stairs. Bricu stops at the top, listening for the servant’s introduction:

“May I present Master Bricu Bittertongue, of the Wildfire Riders.”

Hearing his name, Bricu walks up next to the servant. Heartbeats pass as neither Bricu nor the servant moves. The servant sighs, then turns to shut and lock the door. Bricu turns slightly with him, keeping one eye on the servant. With a sigh, the servant walks down the path. Another set of heartbeats pass. Bricu, still grinning, follows.

They walk towards a gazebo covered in flowering vines. There, sitting in the middle of the gazebo, is Braxton Sullivan. He is impeccably dressed and eating a small breakfast of fish and capers — a speciality of Noy Rom. He does not bother to rise as he sees Bricu, but gives him a short wave.

“Master Bittertongue! How is your conscience?”

“Jittery.” Bricu does not move.

“Oh,” he says, not unconcerned. He motions for Bricu to approach, “Do tell.” Braxton turns briefly to the servant, “Thank you. You’ve done your task admirably.”

The servant turns to Bricu. “Pleasure, sir,” He says matter-of-factly, before he spins on a boot heel and walks away.

Bricu watches him leave, turning his body so he can see both Braxton and the servant. When the door closes, Bricu turns and gives Braxton his full attention.

“Do hurry. We both have other matters to attend to.”

Bricu approaches the vine-covered gazebo quickly. His hair stands on end as he brushes one of the vines; it thrums with magical power. Bricu mutters a quick defensive prayer.

“She’s the jittery one?” Braxton says.

“Och, I’m just prayin’ fer yer immortal soul, Braxton. What do yeh think yer doin’, tryin’ ta pull a story like this?” Bricu says.

“Trying? Come now, this was an extremely pleasant fiction.”

“If it was that pleasant, Threnny wouldn’t be so jittery, would she?”

“Why would she be…” Braxton begins to say.

Bricu interrupts him. “She managed ta talk ta Thomas Torres earlier in the week.”

“Oh. I had no idea she was so…”

“What yeh lot don’t know could fill a warehouse.”

“…droll.” Braxton finishes as though the paladin hadn’t interrupted. He keeps his eyes level with Bricu.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Bricu says, “The missus was worried yeh lot were gonna change the deal on us. See, the al’Cair girls know damn near everyone in the city. When they heard it was Torres EstateI was goin’ ta, they checked. Seems Thomas told ‘em that he’d be off ta visit a ‘friend’ on an estate in southern Westfall, east o’ Moonbrook.”

“A friend?”

“What, yeh didn’t know?” Bricu shrugs his shoulders. “Bah, it happens ta the best o’ us.” Bricu sits down at the table across from Braxton, putting his kit in front of his feet.

“Now, if yeh really wanted ta create a pleasant fiction, yeh’d have a plate o’ food in front o’ me.”

“Bricu, if I set a plate in front of you, would you eat it?”

“No, but I’d greatly appreciate the gesture. Especially if the gesture came from Noy.”

“Why waste food–good food at that–on a pleasant fiction?” Braxton smiles, all pearly white teeth and no mirth. “I assume you know why you’re here.”

“Aye. I’d sooner be done with these negotiations with yeh lot. I’d rather get back ta real work.” Bricu says.

“That is only part of the meeting.” Braxton’s smile widens and comes close to his eyes, “I am also assigning the Riders their first job.”

“Brilliant…I assume that’s why yeh wanted me ta bring me tools.” Bricu lifts his jeweler’s kit and sets in the middle of the table. Braxton moves his plate to keep its contents from spilling on his lap.

“A keen sense of the obvious, Mr. Bittertongue. Now, for your work, I want a chess set and a matched set of three rings.”

Bricu opens his kit and reaches for a pad of paper and a pencil. “Right, tell me ‘bout this chess board.”

“The pieces are marble and onyx, naturally.”

“Naturally.” Bricu says.

“I want his Majesty as King, Shaw as Queen, Prince Anduin as a Knight…”

“Let me guess, yeh want to a be bishop.”

“Excellent guess. Make Lady Jania a rook, and the marble pawns should be styled in traditional Stormwind regalia.” Braxton says.

“Right. I’ll make sure the piece reflects that she’s a rook.” As Bricu speaks, Braxton’s toothy-smile fades into an honest grin. “Now then, I’m gonna assume yer gonna want the onyx pieces ta be Riders. Tarquin as King…”

“You’re the bishop. I’m not sure who the Queen should be. I’ll leave that to your artistic talents. I want the onyx pawns to be dressed as…”

“Rabble?” Bricu interjects.

“I was going to suggest thugs. Maybe we could compromise and call them ‘militia.’ The Pig and Whistle is to be your Rook. Personally, I think that psychotic warrior woman should be your knight.”

Bricu shrugs his shoulders, “Yer the client. I’m just the bloke doin’ the work.”

Braxton shifts in his seat. He finishes his cup of tea while Bricu takes notes. “I also want three rings made. Three simple bands inset with amber. Each ring is to have an inscription. One is to be titled ‘For my Love,’ another ‘For my Son’ and the third is ‘For Victory.”

“Braxton, if I didn’t know better, I’d have ta say yeh were gloatin’.”

“I do not gloat, Bricu. I simply win. And this is a win to be treasured.”

“About that win–” Bricu starts to say.

Braxton interrupts. “You will be given the materials I want used. I will not give you a single coin for your work. However, in all fairness, this will count towards your first job of the crown.”

“Ne’er let it be said that the Crown is not gracious an’ kind.”

“We all get what we have coming to us, Bricu. For your punishment, you work for the crown. For my victory, I get a bonus.”

“Well, put that way, I’m proud ta slave away on behalf of his royal majesty.” Bricu says.

“Oh come now, you’re being melodramatic. Would you prefer to swing from the gallows? Now then, about our final terms.”

“There’s an issue with us spyin’ on the merchants fer yeh.”

“Oh.” Braxton’s face falls slightly.

“Aye. We’ll agree ta report threats ta the entire Alliance, not the Crown.”

With a heavy sigh he shakes his head. “Bugger. You just cost me a bottle of Arathi Gold.”

“I’m sure yeh have at least a crate o’ ours.” Bricu says.

Braxton waves him off and continues. “ Shaw knew your employer would not make such a deal. I had hoped you’d be able to convince him otherwise.”

Bricu allows himself to grin. “It was a provision that I was goin’ ta be very conservative with.”

“A moot point. What else was of concern?”

“Aye. Our work is ours. We’re not yer thugs. We’re a free company. We don’t target enemies o’ the Crown. We deal with threats larger than Stormwind. Yeh need wetwork done in our city, work with yer own folk fer that.”

“That is equitable. You are your own thugs; however, if your effectiveness is going to be reduced, we are going to need to increase the number of jobs you need to complete.”

“Three.” Bricu says.

“That is acceptable.”

“We’re gonna want two months –minimum– fer yer jobs. We can refuse at least three jobs yeh throw at us, an’ yeh ask us fer shite on good faith. No front-loadin’ jobs on us.” Bricu says.

“We’ll give you three weeks for most jobs, up to six weeks for jobs that are extremely dangerous ones. You can refuse two jobs. Jobs are to be completed on time.”

“Now yer insultin’ us. O’ course they’ll be completed on time. We’re professionals.” Bricu leaves off the “yeh fuckin’ wanker,” but the tone is clear.

“This is acceptable. Are there any other problems we need to address for this agreement?”

“None that I can think of.” Bricu stands up and extends a hand.

Braxton does not stand, nor does he take Bricu’s hand. He remains seated and smiles. All teeth, no mirth. “We’re not finished yet, Bricu. We need to have a discussion about this ‘commission.’”

“Yeh want another commission?” Bricu says, still standing.

“There is a rumor that you have purchased a commission with the Watch.”

“As a tradesman, I take commissions. I don’t buy them.”

“Please, can we dispense with the obfuscation. I have spent days looking into this. We have witnesses. Even I’ve seen the badge of office.”

“Och, well then, the rumor must be true.”

“And yet, there is no official word from the Crown. Now we assume that you purchased a badge of office from someone in the Old Town precinct. Given Dannis’ disappearance…”

“Which we, more specifically me, had nothin’ ta do with.”

“We know.” Braxton says flatly.

“Then what more needs ta be discussed, squire?” Bricu asks.

“I could ask you who you purchased the badge from, or what you wanted with a commission in the first place. The simple fact is…”

“How many men yeh have lookin’ after me commission?” Bricu asks.

Braxton rests an elbow on the table and stares back at Bricu. “You invented this entire story to grab my attention?”

“Not just grab, but ta hold it… an’ fer leverage. I’m more than willin’ ta drop the commission as part o’ the deal.”

“And the badge of office?”

“I don’t own one. But, if I see a fake I’ll be sure ta hand it yer way.” Braxton watches Bricu carefully. Bricu does the same, staring over his open jeweler’s kit to meet Braxton’s glare.

“We’re done fer a month. Yeh can pass the jobs ta me. If there’s nothin’ else, I’m goin’ home ta me wife an’ wee one.” Bricu says flatly.

“Nothing else. We’ll be in touch by the end of the month. That should be enough time to get one of the jobs done. A pleasure working with you, Mr. Bittertongue.” Braxton extends his hand. Bricu returns the gesture.

“Likewise, Braxton.”

The stalemate over, Braxton produces a document from inside a vest pocket. He sets pen to paper, crossing out some words, adding new sentences elsewhere. When he finishes, he hands it to Bricu with a flourish. Bricu reads it closely, absorbing every word and as many interpretations he can. Braxton produces another document and makes similiar changse. When Bricu signs the first document with Braxton’s pen, he gives the second document the same detailed reading. Satisifed with the language, he signs another copy.

Bricu puts the document into his kit before sealing it back up. “That’s all then?” He asks before leaving the tower.

“The ring first, Bricu. The chess game second.” Braxton calls from the gazebo.

“Enjoy the orders now Braxton. Yeh get ‘em three times a year. Till we negotiate another set o’ terms.”

“I look forward to savoring the jobs and the new terms. We’ll be in touch.”

Bricu makes his way through the nearly empty house. He looks for the servant –in the shadows, behind the tapestries– but he does not find him. He makes his way out the door and walks to the next row house over. He knocks four times in rapid succession, and Threnn –armed head to toe– answers the door.

“How did it go, love?” she asks.

“As well as can be expected. Wanker loves ta give, an’ place, orders. Everyone here?”

“Oh, here and there.” Threnn points to the roofs of other Row houses. Bricu can barely make out the snipers on the rooftops. Some are Riders. Some are Sevens.

Threnn pulls her husband inside the row house. “A few were really looking forward to knocking down the doors and rescuing you. Maybe next job.”

“Love, me next job is a simple lunch. This last one,” Bricu says as he hands Threnn the Contract, “took far too bloody long. Fer the rest o’the day, I’m not workin’ on anythin’ more difficult than cucumber sandwiches an’ a fruit salad.”

“As long as you make the lunch, I believe you’ve done your duty to the Black and Red.” Threnn smiles as she reads the contract.

Bricu sets the jeweler’s kit down and let’s Threnn lead him to a borrowed kitchen when he sets back to work on his last job of the day.

“I need you to hold onto this for me.” Threnn slid the box across the counter and watched the Bells’ eyebrows raise.

Robert picked it up and rubbed his thumb across the smooth-polished surface. “This is one of ours, Threnny.” He and William shared an identical dubious glance. “What are we supposed to do with it?”

“Just keep it for me, for a little while.” She gave them her best smile, but they were having none of it. All of Stormwind knew by now that the banners had been called. Still, Robert might have let her get away without digging any deeper, but Will slipped his fingers along the seam and prised open the lid.

Inside, on cushions of silk, were a small fortune in rings, necklaces, and earrings. Atop all of them rested a letter, one word inscribed in Threnn’s flowing hand: [i]Naiara[/i]

Robert hissed in a breath, then threw her a glare that would have sent most sensible people scurrying. “I’m not fucking discussing this with you.” He moved around his brother, grabbed his toolbox, and stalked over to the door. “You’re comin’ back, Threnny, an’ that’s the end of it. Will, if you’ve any sense, you won’t entertain this… this…” His voice broke. He stood there, staring at her in mute rage for a moment, until the tears welled in his eyes. Then he spun on his heel and walked out of the shop, slamming the door behind him.

Threnn and Will stood silently while Robert’s boots stomped up the stairs to the apartment he shared with his brother and his father. That door slammed as well, making the shavings of sawdust tremble on the counter.

“Don’t mind him,” said Will. “He’s spent the morning being reminded that we learned to make coffins before ever we made cradles.”

She smiled. “We’ll be back, Will. This is just… a precaution.”

His brow furrowed, an echo of the hurt Robert had so loudly expressed. “You don’t hand over your things and write letters like that if you believe–”

“Will.” The warning note in her voice was unmistakeable.

He subsided, dipping two long fingers into the box and coming out with an amethyst ring, mounted in silver. “It’s fine work. Always has been.”

“I told him someday he’d be making rings for queens. She’s still just a princess right now, but she’ll grow into them.”

“And you’ll be there to see it.” When Threnn didn’t answer, Will sighed and put the ring back, closed the lid on the box. “Threnny.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not making your coffin. You hear me? Bricu’s either. So you’d both better come home, or you’re spending eternity in a box of subpar quality.” He reached across the counter and took her hand. “You come home, and give these to her yourself. Clear?”

The seconds ticked away on the shop’s clock as they regarded one another. For once, Threnn dropped her gaze first. “That’s the plan.”

“Good girl. Now fuck off, yeah? I hear there’s some big to-do up North you ought to be at.”

Threnn looked up at the ceiling, towards the apartment above. “Should I go see him?”

“Nah. He’s liable to say something stupid. I’ll have him buzz you later, when he’s feeling appropriately contrite.” Will came around the counter and wrapped his arms around her.

Threnn breathed in the scent of sawdust and wood polish that had been a comfort to her since childhood. Eventually she pulled away, her eyes dry. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Damned right.” He tousled her hair and dodged her swat. When the door closed behind her and Threnn had melded into the foot traffic heading for the trade district, Will sank to his knees and said a prayer, begging the gods to watch over them all.

Naiara Bittertongue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My wee girl,

Your Da.

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

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.