She didn’t insult him with a key.

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

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

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

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

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

But mischief won out over practicality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Incorrigible minx.”

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

“Thit’s fuckin’ distractin’.”

“Are you complaining?”

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

Another button.  “Good.”

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

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

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

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

What do criminals do when they go on vacation?  It was suggested to Tarquin that he needed to take some time off and regain his balance — though his interpretation is probably very different from what Alishe had in mind when she meted out the advice.  Tarq and Annalea headed down to Booty Bay with the intention of drinking, gambling, and doing nothing that resembled work.  But old habits die hard, and in the Bay, opportunities for heinous fuckery abound…))

There were four guards, bulky and heavily armed, spaced around the chamber. There was a brace of breech-loading hand cannons under the desk. There was a sniper somewhere, so well concealed that even the Admiral couldn’t find him off the dot. His guests had been disarmed at the door. And still, Raza Breakwater was sweating. It hadn’t been much more than a year since the last time he’d been in this same situation, and he’d come very close to dying that day. Every day that entire week, in fact – so maybe it was just the association, and not any actual fear for his life when the odds were completely in his favor.

But a goblin in his position really had to be honest with himself. It was the latter.

“Let’s play straight,” he said, shaking off the nerves with an irritable twitch of his neck. “You want use of my properties for a week, my backing of your stake at the tables, and my name as assurance against harm. And in return, you offer me…nothing.” He leveled a gaze at the taller of the two pale yellow-haired things standing across from him. “Straight?”

“Half again your normal cut, wasn’t it?” The woman, Elcare or some such, was a gorgeous specimen, just delicate-looking enough to assure the Admiral that she most certainly wasn’t.

“That’s nothing.” He raised a thick-fingered hand. “First off, a cut of your winnings is nothing, because you won’t keep winning, because nobody ever fucking does unless they’re conning the house. In which case, it’s my fat green ass on the line for you, and I don’t see Prince Kezan coming out of the clouds with sacks of cash for all, so that’s not happening. Second off, even if you did keep winning, money is fucking nothing. I could buy and sell you both ten times before sunset.” He paused. “Seven, at least.”

“Playin’ this yin hard, are yeh no’, mate?” Every time Tarquin ap Danwyrith smiled, Raza had to keep himself from going for one, or maybe both, of his guns – partially on survival instinct, partially on principle. “A share fir yir backin’, a payment fir a room at t’inn – s’a fair standard deal.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not a standard fucking guest.” Breakwater matched the smile with a steely glare, a weight of beetle-browed scowl over the top of his braided collar and epaulets. “My boys say you walk through walls and cheat kings at dice, and that when you snap your fingers, an arrow drills itself through a warlord’s brainpan. The Horde calls you Oathbreaker, the Alliance calls you traitor, and a bunch of fire-flinging lunatics and bloodthirsty elf cannibals call you boss. You’re a pain in the ass with a hat on.” He switched his gaze to the woman. “And you, lady, I don’t even know who the fuck you are, but any woman passing time with this skinny white ghost is nobody I want anything to do with.”

She smiled at him. He did not feel the urge to reach for his guns. “Are you always this smooth with the girls, Admiral? Think if you don’t know who I am, that’d be a fine reason to play it careful.” Her eyes flicked around the room. “Don’t know how goblins say it, but in Stormwind, there’s all sorts of warnings about getting familiar with mystery women.”

Raza snorted. “Not bad. And that’s an even better reason for me to tell you to fuck off and get off my ship.”

“Wis gonna say, mate,” piped up Tarquin, “I’m enjoyin’ the new boat. Stays even a fair deal better’n the last.”

“It’s a ship, and you’re leaving it. Lucky for you, I’m not going to tell that carroty prick in the City you were down here. Not today, anyway. Boys?” Before the guards could move in, the woman stepped forward.

“Come on, Admiral. Aren’t you the least bit curious what brings us down here? What sort of business we have planned that requires the cooperation of such an infamous…businessman…” She didn’t say pirate, and he could hear her not saying it. “…with a personal grudge against us? It’s a bit of a risk, even for the Black and Red. It’s got to make you curious.”

The guards were hesitating. Raza cursed his race’s inherent weakness for good dramatic timing. “No. Not even a little. It’s some insane fucking scheme and I want nothing to do with it.” He didn’t raise his hand to the boys again, and both man and woman just looked at him in smiled. “Galzik’s loose change, alright, fine, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Yeh tell ‘im, Annie,” Tarquin said, sticking his thumbs into his belt and leaning back.

The woman began to walk closer, her voice taking on a tone that somehow passed for both businesslike and intimate. “Admiral Breakwater, my name’s Annalea Al’Cair, and this reprehensible fellow’s offered to take me on a vacation. We have no grand plans.” She paused elaborately, thinking to herself. It wasn’t a seduction – it was something significantly more subtle, and appealing. “Well, alright. We plan to ruin Booty Bay. We’re going to win your games of chance, defile your prettiest men and women, and be so blind stumbling drunk you can’t believe we got away with it.” She finished leaning against his desk, eyebrow arched, looking around the cabin with the air of a woman looking to redecorate. “And if you turn us down, you’ll never see what happens when you turn Stormwind’s finest criminals loose on the richest port in the south.”

More subtle, more appealing, and infinitely more dangerous. Raza closed his eyes momentarily, half-expecting to hear Tarquin crow Got yeh, yeh bastard! or something similar. But the human at least had more manners than that. “Twice my normal cut. And when you drop my name, you do it with respect.”

“S’if we could do elsewise, auld boy.” Tarquin grinned expansively, striding up to join Annalea Al’Cair in front of his desk. “Far as any punters asks is concerned, I’m here oan account ay air frequent business, an’ might be earnin’ some coin at the tables ta repay the favors I owe yeh.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Raza reached back for a bellpull. “I’ll have one of the girls show you to a suite. This had better be fucking entertaining, ap Danwyrith. Al’Cair. Now go away, I’ve got a motherfucker of a headache coming on just looking at you.”

They moved to the door, the guards folding in around them. Tarquin glanced back over his shoulder. “An’ by the by, Breakwater, Ceil sends her virra best regards.”

There it is. He kept his hands away from the guns by force of a certain effort. “Yeah, I’m sure. Shaw won’t try anything in Cartel territory, you half-vrykul freak. Keep your leashed devils away from me and don’t make me regret this.” He waved them away, ignoring the effusively barbed rejoinders, and waited until he was certain they were gone before smiling. You had to take your entertainments where you could.

—

The Bosun’s Quarters was a deceptively modest inn. Breakwater’s had girl led them along the plank streets of Booty Bay, seemingly unsure whether she should be chatting up the pair that had made her boss’ teeth grind audibly, or whether she should leave them the hell alone and hope they forgot her as soon as the doors to their rooms closed behind her. In the end, she opted for the latter, and that was fine by Tarquin and Annalea. They had sights to take in along the way — seeing which taverns looked lively, which alleys might lend well to skulking through, which others were better for pelting down at full-speed if need be. The Bay’s more opulent inns were built on the higher decks of the port city — above the stink of the docks and the rabble — but The Bosun’s Quarters was nestled snugly into the middle tier, the inn’s front looking no different than any of the others near it.

Once you got past the facade, however…

“So this is how you slum it without giving up your comfort.” Anna dropped her bags on the floor just inside and turned in a slow circle. The spacious common room was big enough to host a small dinner party in. Across the room, the balcony door stood open, the salt breeze stirring the curtains.

Tarquin sauntered over to it, peering out as though taking in the view, but his fingers traced the contours of the lock for a moment before he nodded. “This’ll do. Annie, thank our guide fir her services.”

She dropped a gold piece into the greenskin’s upraised hand and steered her to the door. “Give Breakwater our best,” she said, closed it in the goblin woman’s face. When she turned back to the room, Tarquin had disappeared. She heard a low whistle from one of the bedrooms and followed the sound.

Tarq stood, hands on hips, taking in the setup. The bed was heaped with pillows, their decorations stitched in shimmering silk. The furniture was finely crafted, gold gilding the mirrors, the arms of the chairs, even the washbasin. Not that anyone staying in Booty Bay ever needed extra blankets, but a heap of them sat on a lush divan by the window. Anna knew Darnassian lambswool when she saw it. The blankets would fetch enough back home to pay her rent for half a year. “Yeh think we could do somethin’ like this downstairs in the Pig?” He tossed a grin back over his shoulder.

“Sure. If you empty out the King’s coffers.”

“Put it on my list.”

“When we get back, I will. I’m on vacation.” The other bedroom was nearly the same, decorated in cool blues instead of the greens that graced the walls of Tarq’s room. From her window, Anna could see people strolling about, enjoying Booty Bay’s attractions while they waited for the sun to set and the true debauchery to begin. A woman walked by, hair piled high atop her head, wearing a dress that had to have her sweltering beneath it. The man at her side was also overdressed for the southern heat, but that wasn’t what made Anna curse under her breath. His black coat bore a crest she knew, had known since she was little and memorizing the Houses at her mother’s insistence. “Tarq?”

“Ayeh, Annie?” His voice came from the common room this time. When she poked her head out the door, she spied him by the window again, fiddling with the lock. He’d dragged an overstuffed armchair over to the door so he could sit while he worked on it. It was expensive seating for breaking-and-entering practice, but Tarq looked almost at home. “Have ta give it ta Breakwater. They didn’t skimp oan the security. This is a fuckin’ Wilmar an’ Young’s. If any punter in this town kin pick it, I’ll eat that virra fine hat I lent yeh.” The lock clicked under his ministrations. “Well. Any ither punter, ay course.” He looked up at her. “What were yeh callin’ for?”

“House Lambrick,” she said, tapping at her lip. “Didn’t they declare themselves penniless over the summer? Said that’s why they couldn’t donate any funds to the war efforts?”

“Ayeh, or so we heard.”

“Well. I just saw Lord and Lady Lambrick heading for The Golden Anchor. Unless they’re washing dishes, it’s not a place broke nobles ought to be able to eat at.”

For a moment, they were quiet, wheels turning in two separate golden-haired heads. But the silence between them was a sly one, of plans being mulled over, dismissed, or reworked. Anna’s grin broke first, but by the time Tarq had reset and picked his lock once more, his own sharklike smile matched hers. “Put oan yir prettiest dress, Annie,” he said, unfolding himself from the chair, “wir awey ta dine wi’ the bankrupt.”

Half an hour later, they emerged from their rooms, transformed. Anna’d buttoned herself into a crimson gown with altogether too many ruffles. It was completely impractical and the height of Stormwind fashion. Her hair was gathered up in a bun, with onyx beads tucked into the twists. She curtsied while Tarq sketched a bow, sweeping the hem of his white coat back in a manner that would impress the King himself. An intricate gold chain at his waist disappeared into the pocket of his pristine, snow-white pants.

“Didn’t the man waiting beside us at the gryphons have a pocket watch?”

“‘Did’ bein’ the operative word.” Tarq held out his arm. “Yeh ready ta go make Breakwater glad he saw things air wey?”

They headed out the door, making their way towards The Golden Anchor and its patrons. Behind them, the sun was sinking into the ocean, turning the water the color of blood.

Also, uh. Warning, adult content in both.))

—

Farley had sent for her, late in the day.  The Pride’s latest sensation had gone and caught herself a bad case of minstrel’s finger — which was a polite way of saying she’d spend the majority of her set clawing at the itch in her nethers if they put her up onstage — and that would never do.  So wouldn’t she please come and save him, just for one night?  Drinks on the house, double her old pay, anything, anything, just come and sing.

And so she had.

The inn hadn’t changed since the last time she’d performed here.  The patrons hadn’t changed all that much, either — soldiers, farmers, minor nobles, travellers passing through — though they wore different faces.  But even that was another example of all that had stayed the same.  She wondered if maybe she was still the same, too.

Her eyes roamed over the crowd, gauging their mood, choosing the songs that would draw them out, make them call for more ale, make them drop coins in her lute’s case between ballads.  She strummed the instrument idly, her fingers picking out a lilting little nothing-melody to get their attention.  It worked like it always had:  the hush spread through them like ripples on a pond, quieter and quieter, until all eyes were on her.

Then the notes trailed off, too, her fingers gone still upon the strings.  Her head was bent, eyes on the floor.  The anticipation grew until it was near-palpable.  Some of them leaned ever so slightly forward, as though they couldn’t exhale until she gave them permission.  Then she lifted her chin and threw them her bawdiest smile as she launched into the first verse of “Redridge Lasses.”

It came back so easily.  Eye contact, of course, was extremely important for a bard — give this one a grin, that one a wink, make each person in the crowd think she was singing for a party of one.  A coy look for that one, let your eyes linger a full measure on that one — within three verses, they were hers.

Then there was the one in the front row.

He sat dead center, long-fingers curled around a glass of bourbon.  His cotton shirt likely doubled for Sunday best or a night on the town.  Bits of mud still clung to the bottoms of his boots despite the brushing he’d clearly given them.  A farmhand, then, someone who had cleaned up for an evening of leisure.  And cleaned up nicely, at that. He stared up at her with eyes the color of the earth he turned day in and day out, and when he was sure he had her attention, he let them travel down, then up again.

She knew how this dance went.  She hadn’t moved through its steps for nearly two years, but she remembered every single beat.  Lower the lashes, find a smile that’s just for him, now turn away and smolder at someone else.

But only burn when you look at him.

That came back easily, too.

—

If you do this, there’s no going back.

During her break, he came to her in the kitchen.  She pressed coins into his palm, enough for a room on the quiet side of the inn, and pointed him at Farley.

If you do this, you’re every inch the whore he tried convincing you you weren’t.

When the singing was done, when she’d finished making them howl with laughter and weep with songs of the frozen north, when they’d gone hoarse from shouting back the chorus of “The Fox and the Cocks,” she packed her lute in its case and made her bows.  They begged for one more and she gave it to them, unaccompanied.  A lover’s song.  She closed her eyes as she sang, her voice gone hushed and husky.  She tried not to remember the feel of golden hair beneath her fingertips or the smell of the sea, where she’d been when last she’d sung this song.  When she’d sung it for him and him alone.

When she opened her eyes, she saw her new conquest ascending the stairs.

She followed.

If you do this, you’re not worthy of him.

She couldn’t tell if she was dragging him backwards while he kissed her, or if he was the one in charge, driving her forward in his enthusiasm.  Either way, her back slammed into the door hard enough to make it rattle in its frame.

Fin would have stopped, asked if she was all right, eased back in.  Her new companion didn’t even seem to notice.  She was glad for it; she didn’t think she could bear even that small kindness tonight.

I was never worthy.

—

“I… I sometimes find myself thinking about your past relationships.  What… what you told me.  And I know I shouldn’t! I really do.  I don’t care about them.

“But, you know. I grew up in the country. I haven’t…  I found Johanna when I was young, and that was it. After the plague, working for the church doesn’t leave much time for a social life, aye?  I’m just sayin’ for various reasons I haven’t… I haven’t been with many women.”  Fin looked down, embarrassed.  “You were likely expecting a more… worldly man.”

“Fin, look at me.”

He did, reluctantly.  She took his hand and moved in closer.

“I’ll bet you knew every curve of Johanna’s skin.  And what kind of day she’d had by how she kissed you.  Walked into a crowded room, and you could find her by her laugh.”

His grin was tinged with memory.  “We were still young, but aye. I knew her well.”

“I had to start from the beginning.  Every time.”

—

For the third time, she guided his hand to where she wanted it and for the third time, it felt good until he got caught up in what she was doing to him, and he forgot all over again.

She’d been patient about it, once upon a time, willing to let them figure it out as the candles burned lower and lower.  But it had been so long since she’d had to to that at all, she was surprised to find herself contemplating throwing out some verbal directions.

Fin would have known.

He would have known that when she gasped like –this– he was getting something very right, and shouldn’t stop.  Or that when she moved –so– it was her way of telling him to slow down, to give her a moment to catch up to him, because they moved together so beautifully, so perfectly when one was right there with the other, when their breaths came in ragged sync and every move was harmony.  Fin had learned those things even during their first awkward night together, when they were still shyly learning the nuances of each touch.  He’d picked up on it and never forgotten.  And she could get there now, she could, if he’d only slow down a moment, if he’d just hold back a few more seconds, if he’d just wait, if he’d just slow down, if he’d just

“…wait, wait, please…”  But it wasn’t Fin straining away above her, tonight.  He took her whispers for encouragement and upped his pace.  He groaned into the curve of her neck, shuddered, and lay still as she ached beneath him.

—

The second try was better.  She took what she wanted, sparing little notice for the things she’d recognized the first time around that signalled his pleasure, concentrating solely on her own.  She set her own rhythm as she moved atop him, let her fingers roam to wherever felt best.  Her cheeks colored with the wantonness, the pure carnality of her actions.

But her bedmate didn’t seem to care; in fact, it only spurred him on.  She finished seconds before he did, but none of the hoped-for consonance came with it.  They were two people who had finished similar tasks at a similar time, nothing more.

He gathered her into his arms after, nuzzling at her neck and asking quiet questions as their breathing slowed.  She answered politely, pretending she hadn’t had this same conversation with a hundred men before him.

(A hundred men save one.)

(Shut up.)

Her replies slid from her tongue like a song she’d memorized long ago, one that had faded in her memory, but one she could never fully forget.

It all came back so easily.

—

She drew her knees up to her chest in the pre-dawn light, wondering why she felt so cold despite the blankets that covered them both, despite the warm body at her side.  She thought about waking him up again, for one more fuck before the sun rose.

But it would be just as fruitless as the first two times.  Fin had gotten under her skin — she’d let him get there, let him dig down through her muscles and settle deep into her bones.  No matter how hard or fast or deep the man beside her might thrust, it wouldn’t drive out love, or hurt, or loneliness.

And she knew, even though she didn’t dare face it yet, that when she got home, no matter how hard she scrubbed at her skin, she’d find she’d done the irrevocable.  No amount of soap would wash away this betrayal.

We’re over.  I went to him and said as much, and in the end, he let me go.  I can bed whoever I want, and so can he.

I hope he’s fucking a camp follower, right now.

I hope he’s fucking some woman from the Silver Hand, or the Kirin Tor, or whoever else he takes a fancy to.

It was a lie, but she repeated it to herself anyway.  She pictured it, too, for good measure, conjured up women both real and imagined writhing above him, and pretended it didn’t bother her.

“Fuck,” she muttered, and threw the covers off.  She dressed hastily; they hadn’t bothered with a fire last night, so now her skin prickled with gooseflesh as she yanked her dress over her head.  Something else had come back, too, the mantra that rattled around in her head at times like this:  men leave.

Men left.  Even Fin, with all his good intentions, had left her behind.  She had no delusions that this time would be any different.  So she did what she’d taught herself to do long ago:  she gathered up her lute and her cloak, found her underthings, and started for the door.

“We were good together,” he said from behind her.  She paused at the door, but didn’t turn.

We were, Fin and I.  But that’s over now.

“I could make you happy.” As though she hadn’t heard that before, either.

“No,” she said, gently as she could.  “You couldn’t.”

Annalea crawled out of the tent as the first hints of dawn tinged the sky. It wasn’t so much light as it was a lightening — the mountains became a darker spot on an already dark background; some of the stars winked out, while others had time yet to shine.

She wasn’t the first one awake. Just beyond the entrance to their camp, a match flared as whoever was on watch lit a cigarette. Someone was smoking closer by, too — northern leaf, its scent curling around her on the pre-dawn wind. She turned to her right and saw her brother-in-law, building the fire back up and tossing some herbs into a pot. The snow crunched beneath her boots as she made her way over to him.

“Yer up early.” He glanced up at her, then back down to a list at his side. It had been folded and refolded, probably twice a day at least since she’d given it to him — all the things Threnn would need to keep herself and the baby healthy.

“So are you. Is Threnny still sleeping?” She eased herself down beside him and held her hands out to the fire, trying to coax the ache out of her fingers. Weeks of harvesting followed by days and days of grinding away with her mortar and pestle, she was amazed her hands hadn’t bent themselves permanently into claws. And wouldn’t that be a fine bit of payback for Aumery Fane? Wouldn’t he just laugh at that? She shoved that thought away. There were things far more fearsome coming in the next few hours.

“Aye, but fitfully. She’ll be up an’ about once she hears more o’us walkin’ around.” He gave the pot a stir. “Fin still out cold?”

“Yeah. It was a long day. Longer one ahead. I didn’t want to wake him.”

They sat for a while, while he tended to the pot, occasionally tossing in another handful of herbs. “Yeh still look like shite,” he said at last. “Better than last time, but yer still on the fuckin’ potions, aren’t yeh?” He pitched the butt of his cigarette into the snow. Before it hissed out, he had his tobacco pouch out and was rolling another with a long-practiced motion.

Anna eyed it. “Um. Could I…?”

“Och, they’re shite fer singers.” But he passed it over anyway, flicking a match as she raised it to her lips. He seemed only mildly surprised when she didn’t explode into a coughing fit. “Since when do yeh smoke?”

“Off and on since I was seventeen. It’s a bit early for a shot of whiskey to go with it.”

He chuckled and rolled one for himself. “Yeh didn’t answer me question.”

She attempted a smoke ring that ended up more of a smoke oblong. It wobbled its way into the sky while she mulled over her response. “It’s a different formula, now. And I don’t take it when he’s home on leave.”

“I’m rattin’ yeh out ta both o’them when this is done. Fin an’ yer sister. It’s gotta stop, Annie.”

“When all this is done, it might not matter.”

His teeth ground together, audible evidence of keeping his temper in check. “Annie. No one’s dyin’ today.” There was hollowness beneath the anger; he wasn’t convinced of it himself.

“Well. I’m not.”

Something in the way she said it gave him pause. “Yeh’ve seen it, then?”

“In a sense.”

“That shite with Chromie an’ the Bronze?”

“Yeah. I live long enough to start going grey, at the very least. But when I asked about Fin…” She shrugged and took another drag.

“No answer? Strewth. Annie, yer future self’s a bitch.”

“Act surprised.”

He snorted. “Fair enough.”

“You two are safe. Stonemantle saw Naiara. That means Threnny lives. And she’s not going to let you fall.”

“Fin can take care o’himself. He’ll be watchin’ yeh, same as Threnny’ll be watchin’ me. An’ if he gets in trouble, she’ll be watchin’ him, too. Yeh’ll be unlivable if she doesn’t.” He nudged her when she didn’t smile. “Fer a priestess, yer faith is shite.”

“That assumes I ever had any.”

“In yer sister? Yeh’d fuckin’ better.”

“Mmph.” But he was right. The gods might have their eyes on the heart of the battle today, but it didn’t matter. Riders watched out for Riders, the gods be damned. She took one last drag and pushed herself to her feet. “I’m going to go catch a little more rest. Thanks for the smoke, brother-mine.”

“Aye,” he said. “Go on back ta Fin.” His caught her hand as she turned. “An’ Annie.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t yeh fuckin’ dare be goin’ back there ta say goodbye.”

She looked at him for a long moment in the firelight. “I won’t if you won’t.”

“Deal,” he said, and turned his grip into a handshake. “Now piss off. I’m bringin’ breakfast ta yer sister.”

A few of the others were stirring as she retreated back to the tent she and Fin shared. People murmurred to one another inside their own canvas walls, packing up bedrolls, changing clothes. The slow rasp of a whetstone on a blade came from Jolstraer’s tent, a husky laugh from inside Ilanna and Chryste’s. The mountains stood out, distinct now from the sky behind them, but when she let the flap close behind her, darkness reigned once more.

Fin swam awake as she shed her cloak and crawled in beside him. “Light, Anna, you’re freezing.”

“I went for a walk. It’s early yet. Go back to sleep.”

His arms snaked around her, hands rubbing at her back to speed up the warmth. “Are you all right?”

“Fin?” She wriggled in closer as he nuzzled at her sleepily.

“Aye?”

“Shut up and hold me.”

“Aye.”

On learning that not only was Bricu now married, but also that he and his wife were expecting their first child, Uthas inquired after the baby’s name.

Word of that got back to Threnn.  Names have power, and she wasn’t going to give the Wordweaver opportunity to wield that kind of power over their child.  Bricu agreed, and they chose two names for their daughter.  To the world, she is Naiara Bittertongue.  This is the story of her other name.  Her True one.

—

Annalea sat beneath the rowan tree, the full moon’s light filtering down through its leaves, affording her just enough illumination to dig by.  She sang as she worked, softly enough so she wouldn’t wake Mrs. Stone and her apprentice.  The chandler had planted this tree before Annalea was born, to ward off evil spirits; now Anna hoped it would lend its protection to her niece.

She pawed down through the soft earth until her fingers struck the jar she’d buried when the moon was new.  The concoction inside bathed her hands in a soft glow as the moonwell water caught its lady’s light.  Flecks of crushed herbs floated within — sage and kingsblood for wisdom, dreaming glory for clear sight.  She unscrewed the cap and set it aside.

From her herb pouch, she pulled a few more ingredients.  First, a tiny sprig of foxglove — they said the stalks leaned over when spirits were present.  Then Khadgar’s Whisker, to strengthen the spell.  She rolled them both in her palms, to crush the leaves and release their oils.  The only things left to add were contained in two crystal vials she’d wrapped in white silk.  One was half-filled with a thick, dark liquid; the other contained only a few drops of something clear.

—

She handed her belt knife to him hilt-first.  “Prick your finger for me.”

Anna dropped hers, too, even though none of the staff seemed to be listening.  “I’m not playing at anything.  I need it for the Naming.  ‘A father sheds his blood to protect his child.’”

“These days, my sister cries at the drop of a hat.”  She showed him the twin container to his blood-filled one, the liquid within barely visible.  “Or a stitch.”

“If it’s any consolation, she was so confused when I came at her with the vial, it stopped the crying.”  She tucked her tools away and kissed him on the cheek as she stood.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

—

Anna swirled the contents of the smaller vials together, still crooning her song.  A woman’s tears, her husband’s blood — they were the elements of countless songs.  Stark images, but true; it was what gave them power.  She tilted the mixture into the jar, the glow of the enchanted water dimming as the darker liquid diffused throughout.

One last ingredient, and tonight’s work would be done.  She took a slip of paper and a pen from her pocket, and wrote a single name.  Three times she folded it, until it was smaller than a fingernail, and tucked it into the jar.

In three days’ time, the moon would be waning and she’d add the last things — ashes and sweet oils for the anointing — but for now, the jar went back into the ground, nestled in its earthen bed beneath the rowan tree.  As Anna patted the dirt over it, she sang a lullaby that was older than the founding of Stromgarde.

Into its melody, so softly even the night-birds couldn’t hear, she wove her niece’s Name.

—

Three weeks later

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Etaine.

Bricu started the tradition of Friday fiction, and I think stories are a great way to kick off the weekend.  So! Here ’tis, a bit of an interlude on the morning of the battle.

—

Annalea crawled out of the tent as the first hints of dawn tinged the sky. It wasn’t so much light as it was a lightening — the mountains became a darker spot on an already dark background; some of the stars winked out, while others had time yet to shine.

She wasn’t the first one awake. Just beyond the entrance to their camp, a match flared as whoever was on watch lit a cigarette. Someone was smoking closer by, too — northern leaf, its scent curling around her on the pre-dawn wind. She turned to her right and saw her brother-in-law, building the fire back up and tossing some herbs into a pot. The snow crunched beneath her boots as she made her way over to him.

“Yer up early.” He glanced up at her, then back down to a list at his side. It had been folded and refolded, probably twice a day at least since she’d given it to him — all the things Threnn would need to keep herself and the baby healthy.

“So are you. Is Threnny still sleeping?” She eased herself down beside him and held her hands out to the fire, trying to coax the ache out of her fingers. Weeks of harvesting followed by days and days of grinding away with her mortar and pestle, she was amazed her hands hadn’t bent themselves permanently into claws. And wouldn’t that be a fine bit of payback for Aumery Fane? Wouldn’t he just laugh at that? She shoved that thought away. There were things far more fearsome coming in the next few hours.

“Aye, but fitfully. She’ll be up an’ about once she hears more o’us walkin’ around.” He gave the pot a stir. “Fin still out cold?”

“Yeah. It was a long day. Longer one ahead. I didn’t want to wake him.”

They sat for a while, while he tended to the pot, occasionally tossing in another handful of herbs. “Yeh still look like shite,” he said at last. “Better than last time, but yer still on the fuckin’ potions, aren’t yeh?” He pitched the butt of his cigarette into the snow. Before it hissed out, he had his tobacco pouch out and was rolling another with a long-practiced motion.

Anna eyed it. “Um. Could I…?”

“Och, they’re shite fer singers.” But he passed it over anyway, flicking a match as she raised it to her lips. He seemed only mildly surprised when she didn’t explode into a coughing fit. “Since when do yeh smoke?”

“Off and on since I was seventeen. It’s a bit early for a shot of whiskey to go with it.”

He chuckled and rolled one for himself. “Yeh didn’t answer me question.”

She attempted a smoke ring that ended up more of a smoke oblong. It wobbled its way into the sky while she mulled over her response. “It’s a different formula, now. And I don’t take it when he’s home on leave.”

“I’m rattin’ yeh out ta both o’them when this is done. Fin an’ yer sister. It’s gotta stop, Annie.”

“When all this is done, it might not matter.”

His teeth ground together, audible evidence of keeping his temper in check. “Annie. No one’s dyin’ today.” There was hollowness beneath the anger; he wasn’t convinced of it himself.

“Well. I’m not.”

Something in the way she said it gave him pause. “Yeh’ve seen it, then?”

“In a sense.”

“That shite with Chromie an’ the Bronze?”

“Yeah. I live long enough to start going grey, at the very least. But when I asked about Fin…” She shrugged and took another drag.

“No answer? Strewth. Annie, yer future self’s a bitch.”

“Act surprised.”

He snorted. “Fair enough.”

“You two are safe. Stonemantle saw Naiara. That means Threnny lives. And she’s not going to let you fall.”

“Fin can take care o’himself. He’ll be watchin’ yeh, same as Threnny’ll be watchin’ me. An’ if he gets in trouble, she’ll be watchin’ him, too. Yeh’ll be unlivable if she doesn’t.” He nudged her when she didn’t smile. “Fer a priestess, yer faith is shite.”

“That assumes I ever had any.”

“In yer sister? Yeh’d fuckin’ better.”

“Mmph.” But he was right. The gods might have their eyes on the heart of the battle today, but it didn’t matter. Riders watched out for Riders, the gods be damned. She took one last drag and pushed herself to her feet. “I’m going to go catch a little more rest. Thanks for the smoke, brother-mine.”

“Aye,” he said. “Go on back ta Fin.” His caught her hand as she turned. “An’ Annie.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t yeh fuckin’ dare be goin’ back there ta say goodbye.”

She looked at him for a long moment in the firelight. “I won’t if you won’t.”

“Deal,” he said, and turned his grip into a handshake. “Now piss off. I’m bringin’ breakfast ta yer sister.”

A few of the others were stirring as she retreated back to the tent she and Fin shared. People murmurred to one another inside their own canvas walls, packing up bedrolls, changing clothes. The slow rasp of a whetstone on a blade came from Jolstraer’s tent, a husky laugh from inside Ilanna and Chryste’s. The mountains stood out, distinct now from the sky behind them, but when she let the flap close behind her, darkness reigned once more.

Fin swam awake as she shed her cloak and crawled in beside him. “Light, Anna, you’re freezing.”

“I went for a walk. It’s early yet. Go back to sleep.”

His arms snaked around her, hands rubbing at her back to speed up the warmth. “Are you all right?”

“Fin?” She wriggled in closer as he nuzzled at her sleepily.

“Aye?”

“Shut up and hold me.”

“Aye.”

* Does your character have any musical inclinations? Can he or she sing or play an instrument?

Threnn can sing, but she does it very rarely, often only if her sister goads her into a duet, or if she doesn’t think anyone’s in earshot.
Annalea is a bard before she’s a priestess. She sings and plays the lute, the harp and the flute.
Davien might sing the occasional lullaby to her niece and nephew, but that’s about it.

* If yes, are they trained or self-taught? If no, have they ever tried to make music of any kind?
Threnn and Anna both took lessons while they were growing up. Anna also spent a bit of time apprenticed to a bard her sister found.
Davien I would suspect learned a bit of chanting while she studied incantations at Ambermill, but otherwise, no.

* What kind of music, if any, reminds your character of home?

For Threnn, it’s battle songs, though northern music make her think of Bricu, and home is wherever he is.
For Anna, it varies — courtly dances remind her of Stormwind, tavern songs and ballads remind her of her favorite places to sing, and Kal’dorei songs make her think of the time she spent training in the Temple of Elune.
Davien would think of home if she heard music from Westfall, harvest tunes and farmer’s reels. I get the sense she doesn’t hear them very often.

* What kind of music would your character listen to, if given an iPod?
Threnn — bands with an Irish influence: Great Big Sea, Flogging Molly. Bands that can go from a drinking song to a tear-jerking ballad in a heartbeat.
Annalea — probably a lot of indie rock, though she’d have a hidden guilty pleasures collection filled with 80s pop.
Davien — classical music and a ton of traditional/folk songs from all over the world. She’s a collector of stories, so she’d be fascinated by songs that have survived hundreds (or thousands!) of years.

* If you had to pick a song or two to represent your character, what song(s) would that be?
We did this one in a Friday Five for today. Here goes…

* Does your character have any musical inclinations? Can he or she sing or play an instrument?

Threnn can sing, but she does it rarely.
Annalea is a bard before she’s a priestess. She sings and plays the lute, the harp and the flute.
Davien might sing the occasional lullaby to her niece and nephew, but that’s about it.

* If yes, are they trained or self-taught? If no, have they ever tried to make music of any kind?
Threnn and Anna both took lessons while they were growing up. Anna also spent a bit of time apprenticed to a bard her sister found.
Davien I would suspect learned a bit of chanting while she studied incantations at Ambermill, but otherwise, no.

* What kind of music, if any, reminds your character of home?
For Threnn, it’s battle songs, though northern music make her think of Bricu, and home is wherever he is.
For Anna, it varies — courtly dances remind her of Stormwind, tavern songs and ballads remind her of her favorite places to sing, and Kal’dorei songs make her think of the time she spent training in the Temple of Elune.
Davien would think of home if she heard music from Westfall, harvest tunes and farmer’s reels. I get the sense she doesn’t hear them very often.

* What kind of music would your character listen to, if given an iPod?
Threnn — bands with an Irish influence: Great Big Sea, Flogging Molly. Bands that can go from a drinking song to a tear-jerking ballad in a heartbeat.
Annalea — probably a lot of indie rock, though she’d have a hidden guilty pleasures collection filled with 80s pop.
Davien — classical music and a ton of traditional/folk songs from all over the world. She’s a collector of stories, so she’d be fascinated by songs that have survived hundreds (or thousands!) of years.

* If you had to pick a song or two to represent your character, what song(s) would that be?
We did this one in a previous post, so I’m being a bit copy/pasty:
Threnn — Consequence Free by Great Big Sea and Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol.
Annalea — B.T. by Yuki Kajiura, from the ./hack soundtrack and God Says Nothing Back by the Wallflowers.
Davien — Fake Wings by Yuki Kajiura, also from the ./hack soundtrack.

Annalea was one of those.  Let’s be honest, she was originally just an NPC — Threnn’s little sister, a sometime bard and confidant for my paladin.  The only reason I ever actually rolled the character was because I had a very strong image of a blonde girl in a white dress in my mind.  Woe to me when I learned you needed to be level 17 before you could equip the White Woolen Dress.  So, a-levelling we went, with Anna occasionally offering commentary in our IC channel as she melted faces.

And then she started to grow on me.  I knew very, very little about her, really.  She was generally happy-go-lucky.  She got along with her mother far better than Threnn did.  She was good at singing.  She took up being a shadow priestess so she’d be able to defend herself when she went out into the world, not out of any desire to be a true priestess.  Anytime I tried to sit down and think of her story beyond that, though, she eluded me.

Revelations about Anna have come slowly over the years, sometimes sneaking up on me and clubbing me over the head, sometimes slipped surreptitiously into the stack of ideas for other things where I’d find them, like someone snuck over to my desk and left a note when I’d stepped away.

Her very first one was the former kind: I was working on a conversation between Anna and Threnn, wherein Threnn was fretting about having children.  I’d established (in my head, at least) that their mother and maternal grandmother and so on back through their family had trouble carrying babies to term.  Anna was explaining most of them away, trying to reassure Threnn — this woman was always sickly, that one was probably preventing her pregnancies on purpose — when Threnn looked at her and said, “Anna, what about you?”

I sat back from the keyboard and frowned at what I’d typed.  That hadn’t been in the plan.  But as I explored the possibility of this bright, sunny character having such a terrible thing happen to her, and having come through it, it felt more and more right.

I left the details fairly vague.  At that point, they didn’t matter to the story, and whenever I tried to tease out the specifics, nothing came.  Nearly a year passed before I figured them out, and even that story came slowly, growing from random RP that was meant to just fill in a lull in our IC channels.

Smaller things came to light about her between that first revelation and its eventual fleshing out:  my girl had a temper.  She was in some ways stronger than Threnn believed her to be, but in others, far more fragile (Threnn, I created to be nearly unbreakable; Anna, I’ve realized, has the potential to shatter).  She got freckles when she went out in the sun without a hat, and thought she could bleach them away with lemons.

Most recently, she revealed yet another to me.  She and Tarquin were sitting in the Pig, being miserable gits together (as he phrased it), and he pulled out a cigarette.  After a moment’s pause, he offered one to Anna.

And, after a moment’s pause, she accepted it.

It’s a small thing, just a little bit of flavor added to the character.  Her smoking is only an occasional thing, not the constant chain-smoking of her brother-in-law, not even something she does regularly when drinking.  She coughed at those first couple of drags as her lungs remembered the feel of it.  A small thing, but something so very Annalea that it became instant canon.

So, how about it?  What surprises have some of your characters sprung upon you?