Arasminna

ANOMALOUS ITEM LOG
OBJECT NUMBER: 778
OBJECT CLASS: SAFE

Containment Protocols:  Item 778-A is to be kept in a reinforced 6" x 6" x 2" box, lined with velvet to reduce item movement.  The box may be composed of any non-metallic substance, as long as the box is hinged, the hinges are located on the interior to prevent easy removal, and the box has an integrated locking mechanism.  Additional locking security may be applied if deemed necessary by vault supervisor.  The box is to be kept in a standard Order archives secure item vault, sealed with standard safe-item warning stamps.  Every 6 months the box is to be opened and inspected for signs of tampering.  Item 778-A is to be removed with a pair of standard jeweler's tongs, and only directly handled by personnel wearing gloves.  At no time is the item to touch bare flesh.

A letter won't do.

The moon hung fat and full over Stormwind City.

Suldrae was not sleeping.  A warm front had washed in with the tide, changing temperatures too quickly, leaving her sweating alone in the pink room.  But the heat, she knew, was not wholly at fault for her sleeplessness.  Once rested, once fed, once Arasminna had left her, she had found herself staring at the ceiling, rolling over in her head all the offenses, defenses, fears, resolutions, solutions, questions... what was she going to do?  Her pink room.  Amara's obsidian key.  The look in Arasminna's eyes when she had left her, torn between the two.

Simultaneous with...

You do not have to be good. 
You do not have to walk on your knees 
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. 
You only have to let the soft animal of your body 
love what it loves.
- Mary Oliver, "Wild Geese"


Suldrae woke in a haze of pink.

My study of relics brings me to that great old wall.

As I sift the dust and fragments, I find my own crest, fallen from armor I once wore.

I take a news clipping out of my pocket, staring at it, and the crest.

I came looking for history.

This place holds my history too.

Ripples spread across the surface of the pool, far more than the waterfall usually generated. One big male troll noticed, gliding ankle-deep through the running waters. He paused, sank down low, small eyes scanning the mossy stones and bobbing plantlife. The spray caused him to blink his eyes. He spoke some low, rolling words and rose. 

Behind him, a leaner male barked out an exclamation, standing to his full height.  Bone necklaces dangled across his dusky blue chest, a thick leather strap bearing the painted holster of a curved hand-axe. He pointed one long arm to a few clumsy objects stashed near some stones, away from the damp aura of falling water. The big one jerked a nod to him, replying with an inquisitive tone. The lean one bent down and picked up from among the things a leather belt bearing two sheathes, and from one sheath pulled a shining steel dagger.

The wellspring rises
trickles under leaves and runs
deep into the earth

High in the hillside a spring rose, leaking out between the stones as a determined sheen. Strand by strand the waters ran together, twirling into a thin stream that pattered off sandstone and large leaves of plants clasped close to the source. Farther down, the waters pooled, deep and clear, resting cold in a basin of sediment. Gravity begged for a sip, however, and in reply the pool released its waters in a smooth arc across the sandstone. Over time, the waters carved a cravasse, puncturing the stone in a long lacy drop, to be caught by the jungle's floor below. 

Response to...

Continued from...

"It's written in Darnassian."

My eyes widened as they caught sight of the words unfolding from Flamefist's letter.  Not written in my sister's hand, either; no, he had translated his thoughts, perhaps asking for her clarification here and there, but the entire letter was written in our mother tongue.  I glanced to Suldrae; she remained curled in her defensive cocoon, breathing deeply.  I wondered if I should continue, running the risk of her exploding from her huddle to silence the words. I had not forgotten her keen appraisal of me when I had first approached.  The long knives still hung at her sides.

Okay. Five dummies, set up at Orc height. First...

My hammer swings down, crunching into the wood-and-straw head of one training dummy. I'm already shifting my weight to the side.

...then the flankers would attack. Open them up with the parry, one good stroke for all. And turn...

Three whirling strikes later, the targets have all broken from their posts. I stand and breathe deep a few times, shouldering my weapon.

Feh. The real thing would've rolled with the hit. At least this'll help me teach the form.

Someone walks up to me, clapping. Actually, when I look, it's four guys. I don't know them well, but they're other mercs. I nod to acknowledge them as I mop my brow. I've been working on codifying my fighting methods all morning, which is almost as tough as actually fighting.

Continued from...

"I care, you know," she said, raising her face from her arms to wipe her eyes with the backs of her hands, silvery streaks on pale skin.  Her sobs had settled to a mere tremble in her breath, but beneath my hand her body still quivered, like a wounded deer.  I settled myself beside her, to listen if she would speak.

"I care about all of them. I see a woman with some need in her eyes... some deep emptiness, or perhaps a shallow curiosity... and I invite her in. Simply invite, with no expectations but to see that need fufilled. To see... happiness.  Do you know what happiness alone can do?  Just a touch, an exchange, and an entire life changes."

Suldrae's eyes never met mine as she choked her confessional, but I did not doubt her sincerity.  Her beatific vision, however - I moved my hand to the packet of letters and quietly withdrew the small, perfumed envelope, the lady's handwriting looping and twirling in the firelight.  I held it up to her.  The thumb and forefinger of the hand holding the radio device closed upon one corner, her eyes resting heavily on the calligraphy.

Continued from...

At the rowdy Goldshire tavern, I had described her: a tall, pale, female kaldorei with a deep violet tattoo across her eyes and white hair.  No one had seen her in weeks.  In placid Lakeshire, the innkeeper had recognized the name Suldrae Redwing, mentioning a man from Redridge was also looking for her.  I had moved on to Duskwood, under the grim dark trees.  At the tumbledown hostel there, the master of the house nodded and tossed into my hands a bundle of mail.  She went into the woods to the North two days ago, well supplied, he said.  This mail came for her since; if you are going to find her, can you deliver it? 

As I turned to the dark forest, I read over the addresses before the weak lamplight dwindled behind me. Two packets bore the stamps of the Stormwind Auction House. One small envelope reeked of perfume, marked with a lady's fine calligraphy.  The last, sturdy, square and sealed with wax, displayed a bold familiar hand, Flamefist's mark, as well as his name, Amara Niall.  I stared curiously at the last, but tucked them all safely into my jerkin before heading off into the wood.

"She left," Arasminna said.  "There was a... disagreement."

She didn't look to me. I leaned in the doorway of the bedroom, my arms crossed, eyes taking in the pink walls, pink doorframe, pink wainscoting, little pink rosepetals curled and drying on creamy-pink floorboards.  My sister stood to the side, packing small items into a box, her hands moving so quickly I could not see what she took away from the top of the chest of drawers. I had stopped by the apartment in hopes of seeing the pink room she had described during our last meeting. I had found her alone, closed, quiet, relentlessly busy.  This was another person entirely than the one who had laughed and smiled just three nights before. This was the sister I had known for so many years.  Only in my youth had I seen her as happy as she had been, telling me of her new lover.

Now, the new lover was gone.

"You painted the whole bedroom pink..." she said.

Suldrae crouched further beneath the umbrella, shrugging protectively over the little cloth bag resting in her lap.  She might not be made of sugar, but the candies contained within most certainly were, and she didn't particularly wish them to melt.  One after another she picked out a little heart, read it, then threw it back, giving the bag a shake for good measure.

"This should be one of Instructor Yolaana's exercises," she said, smiling as she imagined the stern draenei teacher.  "I could read to her, 'Hot lips!' and 'You're the best!'"  The draenei in her vision turned even more severe, and Suldrae chuckled and threw back two more hearts.  At last one arose between her fingers with a suitable message.  She offered it to her companion.

Echo’s lungs burned.  Every footfall rang like an explosion through her legs, but they kept pumping nevertheless.  She flung back her hair and looked behind her; Kast, Rothmal and Malifor had planted themselves around the steamtank, the last of their loyal soldiers sweeping around them like parted waters.  The cultists were hot on their heels.

Shit shit shit... They wouldn’t last long, especially if the cultists found a moment to summon up another round of elementals.  With a shaking hand, Echo fumbled at her belt, trying to loosen a flare.  If she could just reach the arch of the bridge she’d shoot it up, with every hope that some patrol from Hammerfall or Refuge Pointe would see it.  Then she’d turn and get back behind Kast and hold back the Cult as long as she could.

The silence of a siege.  Behind the barricades of Dun Modr the Horde sat, stubbornly digging in.  Before the barricades, Alliance soldiers picked through the mud to pull out bodies.  They put their own on carts to take back to the encampment.  They lined the Horde fallen before Dun Modr, as a wrathful reminder.  A chill Wetlands rain spattered both the living and dead, and the mud was tinged red and black and stank worse than ever.  Now and then an arrow with rugged plainstrider fletching would zip through the Alliance soldiers from some hidden sniper in the Dun Modr buildings; a mortar would be fired in return, sending up a cloud of smoke to be beaten down again by the fog.  

I went to Stormwind for roses.  The early Alterac frosts had withered those I planted outside House deWynter, the last blooms dropping petal after petal.  Stormwind always has fresh roses, and a beautiful variety.  Cassie deserves roses every day of the year.

We have no certain date or time to call our anniversary, but we both remember the music and festivities of Brewfest ringing around certain words that could not be unsaid.  No, the brews of the season were not involved.  Our exchanges are clear in memory, if not in exact time.  For the day, for the week, for the month, I will bring her roses. Red ones. White ones. Black ones hinted with the deep violet of her soul.

The water flew by, white-capped waves shadowed by the span of the gryphon’s wings.  Ahead, the salt marshes spread into a low delta, and beyond them the towers of Menethil rose into the afternoon sky.  Masts of ships criss-crossed one another in the harbor, steamships adding clouds of white and slate-gray to the clear blue sky.  A gull soared past, seeming fantastically fast as the gryphon flew on, strokes of its wings buffeting the smaller bird.

A light rain spattered down from low steel-gray clouds, masking the twilight with a further layer of obscurity.  Shadows celebrated by cloaking everything with enthusiasm, and the mist welled up between them.  In the high grass, a hundred chirping things cried out their last pleas for end-of-summer romances, each sound overlapping the next.  Echo moved along the roadside undetectable beyond her flitting silhouette.

Perfect.  The perfect night to reconnoiter, and the last night she was staying in the damp chill of the highlands.  Heather and broom twisted about her ankles as she walked quickly through the grasses, their sharp scent tingling her nose.  She kept trying not to think of the warm bedroom back in Wyntersmere.  She’d been trying not to think about it for days now, as all her searches lead to dead ends.

“Toby, Toby, Toby...”  

Echo let the name drift from her lips, replacing it with her cigarette, taking a slow drag as the Arathi landscape rolled away.  She had been riding south for a while, first making time to Southshore to check on any suspicious activity there, and when no clues to the barber’s flight came up she stocked up her horse and kept riding.  Now and then she referred to notes taken from papers found in the Cultist’s encampment and the Barber shop, though they were vague and unreliable.  She had never been very good at puzzles.  By the time she passed under Thoradin’s Wall her search had turned from determined to thoughtful, and her hurried pace had likewise slowed.  It suited Arathi, after all; the wide open hills, the mists that clung to them, and the faint cool sunlight hid little from her eyes. She was content to ponder and plan.

An empty bed beside her. Where is her beloved?

I shift in the saddle, five miles from Warsong Hold. Dusk lowers his head, the slip and clatter of his barding ringing in the Borean stillness, as he seeks rare fodder among the lichens. The wind is sharp and relentless along my right side, blowing down from the North.  As I sit waiting, it reminds me.

This is my first return to Northrend since that night.  The cold wind feels both fresh and familiar, ruffling the fur of my cloak's collar and seeping through the layers of my clothing.  I am wearing leathers beneath the warm hide on my back, and carrying only my axe and my crossbow.  I have not come here to make war.  The war is over.

The war is over.

Trust is your weakness...

It's too damn cold up here.

((After a few months of missed or short raids due to real life events and after a welcome break for the Meet and Greet, the Ghost Scions finally got another full night of attempts on The Lich King...and guess what happened?  Big grats to the best little raid team out there.))

The cold pervades everything here: The air that snaps at our lips as we breathe, the bright clattering of weaponry and armor, the low rumble of crunching ice beneath our feet.  The spire is brittle and threatens us with its tenuous surface; if our boot-heels catch the edge, shards break away, whirling down into darkness.  It would have us fall, tumble away from the icy throne and the evil we seek to destroy.  But we cannot fall.  We will not fall.

He will not fall.  Melersian Corinth is one with the abyss, despite the voice of amusement often rising from behind his mask.  How much is he still human?  He will not fall.

She will not fall.  Beisel Goldthread sets a dwarven table, feeds us with laughter, then disperses in a puff of shadow.  How can a shadow be smashed or broken?  She will not fall.