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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that would just have to be good enough.

The Bittertongue Family Crest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Robert Bell.”

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

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

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

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

“William.” He said.

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

“Where’s Anna?” He asked her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Boyfriend?” Threnn said.

“Interests?” said Bricu.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Bell…” Threnn started

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

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

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

“Something sweet.” Robert said.

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

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

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

“That simply will not do,” William said.

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

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

“That’s weak.” Robert said.

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

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

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

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

“No variety!” Robert said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Older brothers.” William stated simply.

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

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

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

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

“When am I not nice.” Bricu said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

William cut him of sharply.

“You don’t get to call her that.”

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

“Och, an’ why’s that.”

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

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

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

“Aye, I have.”

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

“Aye, I know that too.” Bricu said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That we can.” William said.

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

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

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

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

“What the hell does that even mean.”

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

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

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

“You mean to stay.” Robert asked.

“Aye.”

“No matter what?” Wililam asked.

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

“Even when Thenia comes calling.” Robert asked.

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

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

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

“And why should we?” William asked.

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

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

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

“She told you about that?” Robert asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So you’re not leaving.” Robert said.

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

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

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

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

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

“What about me?” Robert asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So whose a wanker?” Threnn asked.

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

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

“His loss.” William said.

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

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

“Light Bless.” Threnn said finally.

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

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

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

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

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

“Tomorrow afternoon at the latest,” Robert said.

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

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

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

“Nothing.” Robert said.

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

“Pleasent?” Threnn asked.

“Perfectly pleasant.” William said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Vegetables.” Robert said.

“Really.” Threnn said. She glared at Robert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bricu interrupted their reminiscing, “Whose this Shifty?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Strewth, he sounds…”

“Oily?” Robert said.

“Shifty?” Threnn said.

“Like a wanker?” William said.

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

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

“It was William’s idea.” Robert said.

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

“…permanent..” Robert said.

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

“That was it?”

“Well.” William said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On occasion.” William said.

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

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

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

“Wouldn’t what?” Robert asked.

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

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

“Oh stop.” Threnn said.

“What did she do?” Robert asked.

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

“She what?” William said.

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

“No it wasn’t.” Threnn said.

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

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

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

“What did our Threnny do?”

“It is nothing.” Threnn said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He walked away.”

“NO!” Robert said dramatically.

“The bastard.” William said.

Threnn simply sighed.

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

“Ayup. No big deal.” Threnn said.

“Never liked the blowhard myself.” Robert said.

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

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

“Is a sin.” William.

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

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

“That’s for blasphemy.” Threnn said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It wasn’t that bad.” Threnn said.

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

“Robert Bell…” Threnn started to say.

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

Threnn narrowed her eyes, waiting for Robert to finish.

‘”So yer loyalty runs that deep, eh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was Marketa involed last time?” Bricu asked.

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

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

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

“Cute brunette from the North.” Robert said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Robert.” Threnn said finally.

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

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

“Please, William, finish.” Threnn said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bricu has his own invite…”

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

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

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

“Certainly boyo, certainly.”

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

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

“Of course.” Threnn said

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

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

“Yeh see ‘em?” He asked.

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

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

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

“Sounds smart.” Bricu said.

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

“What’s Marketa think ’bout it?”

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

“Really?”

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

“Nothin’ serious then?”

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

“Sounds clever.” Bricu said.

“It was William’s idea.” Threnn said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is not to say that Steven Wright has Antisocial Personality Disorder. All Steven is demonstrating is a flat affect. He speaks in a monotone. When talking about his “fear of widths” he maintains proper eye contact–which is not appropriate considering that he is talking about fear. This, in short, is a flat affect.

Rping this affect takes a bit of effort. A FlagRSP or MyRP entry should refer to the character, “normally speaking in a monotone.” Stick to using “.” over “?” and “!” as the latter will make the avatar express additional emotions. On occasion, throw in a dialog tag like “says flatly” to emphasis the flat-affect.

Talking in this manner does not really charm other people. Steven is funny because he is awkward, he is not particularly charming. Astute readers may remember one of the other APD traits we discussed a few days ago: Charming/Manipulative. Displaying a flat (or blunted) affect is not at all appealing to other people. Many people with APD traits–at least, from my experiences–are able to mimic the appropriate emotional responses even if they do not actually feel them. They “turn on the charm” in order to reach their goals.

RPing the proper Affect is the key to RPing certain character traits: From people with APD to people who are depressed or mind controlled. The affect comes across not just in how your character acts and speaks in game, but in the RP tools we use to demonstrate aspects that the WoW client does not allow us to do.

Please, hit us up with questions and comments. I promise we’ll get around to them as soon as we can…

–

“Kara, I don’t have time to talk! Have you seen him?” Edgar Pomeroy folded his arms over his breastplate, and glared at the Gilded Roses’ waitress as he would any common criminal. Kara Thompson did not ignore the implication, she did not fully grasp them.

“Och, no Sir Pomeroy.” Kara stammered. “Not since this morning when he told me…”

“When he told you that he bought a commission?” Pomeroy said.

“Well…” Kara stammered.

“Yes or no! YES or NO?!” Pomeroy shouted.

“YES!” Kara shouted back. She flushed with obvious embarrassment, then took a few steps back. She smoothed her hair and the front of her dress.

Pomeroy stood his ground, but softened his tone. “Good. Now, is he here?”

“No, he went to the forge to see Mrs. Bittertongue. He has Naiara too…”

“Thank Mrs. Thompson.” Edgar cut her off, “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Next time, Edgar, you don’t need to shout. It wasn’t a secret. Mr. Bittertongue told me…”

Pomeroy waved Kara off. “Please. Let me talk to him directly about what he said. Because if its true, he can have my commission right then and there.”

“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.

Illithias and Varenna

Illithias by *JRinaldi on deviantART

Varenna watched in horror as Illithias threw herself at yet another Ymirjar. Unlike its fallen comrade, this one was wielding a two handed axe. One that was taller, thicker and probably heavier than Illithias herself. While Varenna fought furiously, parrying and block the attacks of the scourge surrounding her, she kept her composure. She let the Light guide her arms, trusting in her faith and training to keep her safe while she made her way to help Illi. Illithias did not demonstrate any of the discipline required to survive. She threw herself at the Ymirjar’s axe, running under the blade as it slammed into the ground where she was. Illi swung her axes in a cross cut, slashing past metal, flesh and bone. The Ymirjar toppled backwards, but it did not fall. Illithias did not stop running either. She raced into another group of the Lich King’s Skeletons, running into their necromancer handler. The skeletons surrounded her, grabbing at her arms, her legs and her hair, trying to pull her down where they could use their sharpened fingers to flay the skin from bones. The Necromancer stood just out of reach of her axes, channeling his own energy into his charges. Behind them all, the Ymirjar regained his balance, bellowing his pain and fury.

Still surrounded by ghouls and geists, Varenna focused her attention on the Ymirjar. She called out to it, her voice enhanced by the Light, challenging it to face her.

“Little Girl, I will crack your bones and drink your marrow! I will paint my face with your blood!”

Varenna gripped her shield tighter and slammed it into blade of the axe. It dug deep into the metal of the shield, but the shield held tight to the axe. She took her sword and ran it through the Ymirjar’s skull. His taunting silenced, Varenna continued on to Illithias. She watched as Illithias hacked at the growing circle of skeletons. As one fell to her axes, another would form and continue to slash or pull at her. By the time Varenna had reached her, Illi was slowing from the countless cuts and the skeletons that still clung to her. When she was in an arms length of her, Varenna called upon the light again. Her body was engulfed by the Light, scattering the skeletons to the battlefield. Even their handler briefly shielded his eyes. Illithias quickly regained her footing and lurched towards Varenna. Her teeth bared, she growled at Varenna, before spining on her heel and launching herself, axes first, into the necromancer.

Bricu
There was no safe place anymore. The phrase Bricu and Threnn often quoted each other–especially when the began thinking about children–came back to terrorize them. The Line was shattered. There could be no safe, orderly retreat without some semblance of a line. They were flanked, and not by the gargoyles they had feared, but maddened giests that had nearly lept sheer cliff walls. The battlefield itself was awash in thick green clouds of smoke–Plague flungh down from catapults manned by the forsaken. Death was swirling down around them on all sides.

But they ran together. Bricu kept pace with his wife, even though he sorely wanted to stay behind and ensure no new giests could reach them. Threnn, winded but not exhausted, ran down the slope, ever mindful of any last minute escape plan that her husband would enact. One that would that would get her home safe, but as a widow. All she saw were those still trying to rally the line. Jolly, standing now on a mountain of scourge, and Linedan, touring over the field that he reaped with his axe. There was hope–but it was still yards away.

The sound of battle horns caught Bricu’s ear. They were not the horns used by the 7th legion, and the Vyrkul had no use for the instruments, given their own shrill war cries. The tones were not the same used by any units associated with the Horde. Someone else was charging the line. Bricu scanned the horizon for their standard, all while holding on to Threnn’s gauntleted hand. All around them, the battlefield broke down into chaos. Scourge rushed through the broken line, tearing into the any living they reached. With their attention focus to the battle that was before them, neither Bricu nor Threnn gave thought to the battle behind them.

The first giest landed on Bricu’s back, slamming him into the ground. Threnn wrenched her hand free, to keep from being pulled down. She spun on the snow and ice, slamming her shield on to the ground, her hip into the shield. The giest on Bricu’s back bent back his epulate and started to squeeze his neck. The giest pulled Bricu up by the neck and slammed his head into the frozen ground. Before he blacked out, Bricu heard the sound of the battlehorn and saw their standard. It was the Eye. Bricu’s stomach twisted into knots as his world went black.

Yva and Jack

Jak and Yva: Kicking ass and taking Names.

You are my creation. I took you, molded you, and changed you to prove my sovereignty. Life and death are mine to command, and so too are you, Jakob. I took the common dross that you were, made you strong and unbending, set high in my legions. Your blades sing the north wind; winter courses through you and dances at your whisper. You were reborn those months ago as a soldier of the great nothing – my gift to you, and your inheritance. You are my knight, and you will draw life from this world as one draws poison from a wound.

Open yourself to me and claim what is rightfully yours. End the weak and undeserving. End them now and prove your fealty to your liege lord.

For a moment, Jakob felt his head turning. He felt his impassive blue eyes skim over the Bittertongues – Bricu with his wild eyes, his fists clenched around his weapons, geists atop him, Threnn with her shield, protecting the unborn child growing inside of her – and he felt the lich’s loathing rising inside. They were low and weak and beneath Him, they were the discordant notes in the master’s grand symphony.

He drew his swords and stepped forward, ever the dutiful knight. This was his purpose, his function now. He was a soldier in his king’s war, the only war, destined to slaughter and maim for the greater tomorrow, and these insects would make proper offerings.

A rictus smile spread, his lips receding to a terrible smear of white teeth and spittle.

It’s so close, now, Jakob. So very close.

He hefted the swords, a comforting weight in his hands.

And then it all went wrong. The king’s voice broke, his hold on Jak’s mind shattering with an echoing scream of frustration. Sylvanas’s people, the Apothecarium, had interfered, their plague oozing over the cliff sides in a wash of green haze.

Jak staggered to a knee, bile rising in his throat. Realization at what he’d wanted to do, had almost done made him clamp his eyes shut. His stomach rolled, threatening to deposit his meager dinner onto the snows below.

Breathe. Breathe, damn you.

In through his nose, out through his mouth, over and over. The sounds around him, the disaster of Angrathar was all but forgotten as he tried to piece the remnants of his tattered soul together in the wake of Arthas’s hold.

Who am I?

Jakob Balthasar. No longer the Lich King’s puppet, but a living man, a freed man.

Where am I?

The camp. The Red and Black’s camp on the hillside. Far too close to whatever had fallen from the cliffs with enough power to wound the Bloody Prince.

But why are you here?

Guard duty. That was right, with a tinge of sardonic shame. Guarding the tent on the hill.

No, BUT WHY?

Her. He was here for Her.

Who is she?

Black hair, white skin, and lips as red as the river roses of his youth. She knew him. She loved him.

“Yva.”

He stood, having to dig his sword into the ground to gain leverage. Hundreds were running, horde and alliance alike, and the speck that had been the woman – his woman – was gone, lost to the swarm of panic.

Find her.

*****

Her.

Retreat, then, for the first time in her life. Retreat because when death came, that long sought after dream, that thing that whispered promises of peace and respite, she didn’t want it. Not now, not in front of Jakob where he’d see yet another piece of his life torn away. She owed him that much.

Death on her terms, then. Not Arthas’s. Not the Apothecariums. Hers.

Even in her despair she found the anger, the strength of will that had broken her away from Him in the first place. Brill, seven long years ago, she loosed the parasite that was lich and found her name. That tiny shred had been enough to rebuild an existence from the flickers of her memory. It took her years to piece it together, and as painful as it had been remembering how her mother had bled from her eyes and nose with a stomach swollen with plague, as terrible as it had been remembering how her father had used the shotgun on himself instead of succumbing to the same painful end – Yva’d forced herself to relive every moment so she could claim what little identity she had left.

It wouldn’t be for nothing.

Run.

And she would run, wanted to run, but her legs were as frozen to the snows as her victims had been. It was like a dream where you started to get away from the wicked nightmare at your tail, but you couldn’t move fast enough, no matter how hard you willed yourself. She was pushing against the current. Crawling then, across the battlefield of Northrend, over the bodies of fallen scourge and fallen soldiers. She turned her head, and through the wash of her tears she didn’t know were there, saw the flaps of the red tent on the hill. Garish she had called it before, but now, it was just the color it ought to be, a beacon of hope on the horizon.

She began the long ascent, her fingernails breaking as she pushed over armor and desecrated corpses and squishy blackened things that had fought in Arthas’s name. People – men, women – were retreating and screaming, running in every direction. Some brushed by her, some knocked her down as she forced herself towards the hill, but she was undeterred.

This is not how it ends. Not here. My terms. MY BLOODY FUCKING TERMS, MENETHIL.

A kaldorei soldier mistaking her for one more lost to the battle of Wrathgate stepped on her back in his escape. A lash of pain sizzled up her spine, and she arched her head back with a scream.

“Bloody HELL, you fucking idiot.” He didn’t stop to look at her, but then, given the circumstances, she didn’t expect him to. He was running for his life, as she ought to have been.

She breathed deep, nostrils twitching at the burn and rot and wrongness of the land, and collapsed forward, face to face with the charred visage of what may have been a geist before Genise had unleashed her fury. Its mouth was open in a soundless scream, its chest was caved in where something had run it through.

Or perhaps it does end here, and there is no justice in this world, and you will be forgotten just like this thing that was once a man.

Her “no” was an inaudible groan.

“Yva! Where – MOVE OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY – are you?”

Light and gods be merciful, thank you. Thank you.

*****

Them.

Above the clamor of battle, shouting somewhere to the west, was Jakob Balthasar. She was so happy to hear his voice she started weeping. She tried to make words come, but they just twisted around her tongue and ended up as gut wrenching sobs. She pushed herself up to her knees, her thumb squishing into the eye socket of the geist beneath her. It took at least a half a dozen tries before she could get Jak’s name out. She was so afraid he’d not hear her, but somehow, above the cacophony of dreams ending, he answered her, calling her name and cursing.

The curses were the loveliest thing she’d heard in hours.

“Yva! Where the fuck are you?”

His name was a strangled litany, but it was enough, he was coming closer and closer, hollering so loud his voice cracked like a boy half his age. And then he was there. In his fist was the mangled remains of something stupid enough to get in his way, and he tossed it aside, shoving past the frenzied masses until he was before her, crouching to her level. He tore his gauntlet off to streak his hand over her hair, as if the only way he could ensure she was whole and real was this one touch, possibly the most important touch they’d ever shared.

“Oh Jak. I-I . . .” Song and anger and panic jumbled inside of her throat, crushing anything else that wanted to be said.

Before he pulled her face to his chest, before he picked her up into his arms and carried her out of the throng, making for the incline as fast as the body strewn field would allow, she saw his eyes, saw the horrible emptiness and sorrow there, like a light had been ever dimmed inside of him. Whether it was fear or the grotesque horror of this day’s end, she couldn’t say, and she wasn’t sure she would ever truly know.

Some things were too personal to broach. If he wanted to tell her, he would, but she would not ask.

“Ohgodsohgodsohgods,” she suddenly sobbed into his neck, her arms twining around him like he was the last solid thing in her entire world. “Home, Jak. HOME. N-now.”

“Home,” he rasped in agreement, pushing through the frenzy, towards the red tent and the Riders and everything dear and familiar.

“Home.”

Haylie Dannis calmly strolled from the front entrance of the Pig and Whistle, jaw set and cheeks flushed. Bright, metallic armor glinted as the sun reflected from the polished steel, glowing an eerie blue as large, Stormwind officer’s cloak upon her shoulders gave brief rise to the passing, end of winter breeze.

“Wail nae,” the moment of clarity she enjoyed as she stepped from the pub was suddenly interrupted by a voice that grated on her mind possibly as much as that of ‘Shakes’ Everett, the stuttering pickpocket from across Old Town.

“Looks t’be as if ye wair enjoyin’ ‘at lunch a’fore Battertongue reckoned t’be a sore-arse at ye.”

Haylie’s jaw set tighter as she slowly glances aside into the shadows. “Erskine…”

Haylie’s armored back slammed into the wall as she gasped, eyes wide in a mix of excitement and fright – and quickly squinted shut as the mouth of her assailant pushed daringly against hers. Plated hands slapped at the leathered shoulders of the slender, short black-haired man upon her, who eventually released her from the kiss, dark eyes set upon hers as he kept the paladin trapped against her office wall.

“Boss wants t’see ye.”

“Shaw?” she asked, blinking and staring at the man in the shadows.

“Albrecht, an I do kin he means t’see ya righ’ nae.” A smiles, visible even in the shadows, rolled across the lips of the agent, white teeth sucking in what light they could to become visible.

“Fine.” She turned away and began her stroll towards the SI:7 building.

Erskine blinked and slipped from the shadows, following behind her. “Jes fine aye? No ‘allo Erskine – lookin’ sharp t’day Erskine – sorry ’bout yair balls, Erskine?!”

“I rarely find need to be apologetic about comedy. Good day, Agent.”

“Wah? ‘Ow’s abouts I buy ye a drink later?”

Haylie continued to walk, expression unphased. “I don’t date anyone I’m potentially going to arrest one day. Good day, Agent.”

Erskine grinned and tilted his head, watching the armored guard stroll away. “Ye’ll be changin’ ‘at tune soon enough, Dannis.”

“Commander Albrecht, it’s good to see you, sir.”

“Quite a charm to see you too, Knight-Captain Dannis. Do have a seat.”

Haylie obliged the aging man, who’s once coal-black hair and goatee was now lined with traces of grey. Luckily for him, they came in stylishly at the center of the beard and side of the head, making the Commander appear rather striking in his fifties.

“A little bird tells me you just had a run in with the Riders on your lunch break?”

Haylie blinked, eyes going wide as she stammered. “B..but, that was not more than ten minutes ago… How did you..?”

“We’re the government – we know everything, Haylie. May i call you Haylie?”

“I err…” She blinked again, caught off guard. “Well, we’re both on duty…”

“Ah yes, duty. Duty calls, and the brave Knight-Captain Dannis always answers the call! It’s a trait we all enjoy about you, very much.”

Haylie squirmed a bit and just stared, already knowing the coming moments weren’t goingto be too preety for her.

“What a coincidence it is that tempers had to get heated in your presence, Dannis. I am rather sure you’re going to enjoy the ‘duty’ I have set for you tonight.”

Haylie groaned and rubbed at her eyes, murmuring. “Commander Albrecht, can’t you have someone else deliver them? I can’t even go into my favorite bar without arresting six people anymore because of all this.”

“On the contrary, Knight-Captain, that’s why we do send you.”

The Commander opened a folder on his desk before Haylie, who watched on with a flat gaze, obviously a good bit more upset by now. Lifting several sheets of paper, he began flashing them briefly before her, all loaded with a list of names and numbers.

“Your peers, Dannis. Exactly four-thousand six hundred and thirty-eight of your peers. A growling list of employees in the Stormwind who have accepted bribes of some sort or the other.”

Haylie’s gaze grew wider in a mix of shock and anger. “You’re spyin’ on…”

“What do you think Stormwind is,” he interrupted. “A magical kingdom where every citizen is of free will to do as he wishes, live as she wishes, deciding who and what goes?”

Albrecht laughed. “This is a monarchy, Dannis. The only true ‘right’ any citizen of Stormwind has, is the right to pay their taxes and not question the uthority of the government. Speaking of, you truly should quit being so kind to these people running you over.”

“Bu-…”

“Drag Bittertongue out into the street and have his teeth kicked out of his mouth in public one day, you’ll find a lot more respect the next time you go for a drink.”

“No, thank you, Commander.” Her gaze fell to the desktop and the older man smirked.

“Sense of justice, and humanity. Amazing woman, just like her father. Regardless of whether you wish to be bullied around or not though, Knight-Captain, when Shaw informed me to choose someone we could rely on in this matter, I went straight to you. Why? Because your name is not on that list, nor will it ever be. What’s that name they’re calling you now?”

“Commander…”

“Yes, yes, the one they call you in the alleys. Haylie No-Purse?” He laughed. “Not too creative, but quite true. Listen to me, Dannis. The Riders are infamous for their bribes, as well as they are for their charming attitudes, bullying, and their sly, serpentine, mountan-breasted snake-tongued sorceress who keeps weaseling her way higher on the positional charts.”

He tapped the bribery sheets on the desk, and then pointed to Haylie. “None of those things are problems with you. Duty is your ally, your driving force, and you’d rather die then not perform your duties. We need you for this.”

“With all due respect, you’re using an honest officer to serve an investigation into bogus crimes, Commander. ” Haylie frowned deeply as she spoke.

“Oh, Dannis.” he waved his hand absently. “Don’t go assuming we’ve led a witch hunt against ap Danwyrith. These are simply charges, and if so bogus as you say, he wouldn’t have needed to flee, and he would have stood before the magistrate to be cleared. I’m quite sure there’s a lot more things he’s actually guilty of if we were just out to get him. Aren’t you?”

“Well, I…”

“Exactly,” interrupted again! “So I want you to deliver these summons back to the Pig and Whistle. Afterwards, have a drink on me and the rest of the night off.”

Haylie swallowed, cheeks reddening as she gathered the scrolls from the desktop and slipped to her feet, saluting. “I’ll get right on it, Commander Albrecht.”

“I knew you would, Knight-Captain… Oh, and…. Haylie?”

“Sir?” She blinked, caught off-guard by the casual shift of his voice.

“Just Nathan. Expect a nice little bonus with your pay this weekend.”

The commander’s lips tugged upwards in a smile, as did Haylie’s. She watched him for a brief moment, only for the smile to face before responding.

“No thank you, Commander Nathan, I won’t be bribed, by anyone.”

Albrecht’s smile dropped as the Knight-Captain turned and exited his office.

“She’s a wild wan, Commander.” a chuckling voice of familiarity drifts from the shadows as Erskine slips into view. “I’m wailin’ t’bet she’s a fookin’ tiger in th’ sack too.”

“So we dream, Agent.” The Commander shakes his head and sighs.

“Aye, dream, aheh.” The rogue stopped beside the desk, drumming his fingers on the wood. “Anythin’ goes bad at th’ interrogations, an’ ye know they’re ganan kill ‘er, aye?”

“Without Tarquin in town, and those other idiots running his show – the thought had crossed my mind, Agent Erskine.” Another folder is brandished from the desk, and handed to the rogue.

“That’s why you’re going to send her north again. It’s time she logs her field training and the necessary combat time required for her Marshal studies. That should give things time to blow over.”

“I’ll get righ’ onnit, sir.” Erskine responded, snatching up the folder and slinking back into the shadow. An audible pop and a puff of smoke left the Commander to silence.