Casandora

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.

((Part 1 here: http://rp-haven.com/blog/hesedd/roommate_agreements_pt_1))

Hadeel did her banking in the Dwarven District.  She'd always liked the dwarves - even lived in Ironforge for a while, before the Shattering.  Fel knew why.  And so we lived in the Dwarven District, where we stuck out like sore thumbs.

I'd learned through painful experience that borrowing Hadeel's storm drake was out.  The damn thing could tell.  So, avoiding the gazes of passersby - any one of them might know her and want to talk - I walked across the city to the Trade District bank, where I had an impersonal deposit box filled with everything I called mine.

I opened one sticky eye and looked out, as usual, on Hadeel's mess.

It looked like she'd come in from wherever in Creation she'd been this time and dumped her stuff in a heap on the floor.  At least she'd managed to get out of her armor before she fell asleep.  I prodded the chain hauberk that lay crumpled by the bed.  It was stained with dirt, ash, and blood of unguessable origin.  Couldn't the little slob at least clean her gear?

Oh well.  I dragged myself upright and stretched.  Muscles weren't sore, and that was sad.  Too many days of inactivity.  I needed to get out and run, or fight, or something.  I wished Hadeel would exercise too, but that wasn't likely - little miss "I can turn into a ghost wolf and move like the wind itself".  Sun filtered in through the crack in the shutters, and I flung them open and let the fresh air in.

It wasn't every day Echo would consider relationship advice from a girl half her age.  The whole notion still seemed ridiculous.  Even if Countess DeWynter was indeed older than she estimated, she was still - more or less - some noble's brat with little to show but an oddly subservient Kaldorei lover (if she could call Tavlo'ashmalan that) and an expansive house and lands.  It could be pure coincidence that Echo had always so enjoyed her time at Wyntersmere with Credence, or it could just be something in the water, or Light forbid some kind of lingering succubus curse hanging over the whole estate.

The low winter sunlight rolled over the snowy Alterac hills, pushing long shadows back from the pines, scattering across the windows of trappers' huts, shining off fresh-frozen streams.  The mouth of a cavern gaped to catch it, swallowing a swath of brightness to paint one inner wall.  Just inside the cave, Echo crouched opposite in shadow, careful not to disturb the fragile beam nor what it revealed. 

Near the floor of the cave, poking up among oddly arranged little piles of rocks and sticks, four lumpy animal feet were drawn.  Massive, rounded toes sported painstakingly-placed claws, spindly legs winding upwards over blocky outcroppings to meet a sausage-like body. From the body a huge shape was drawn, rounded at the front, coming to a point at the end.  Above, where the sunlight licked into shadowy crevices, a head, long-snouted, perked triangle ears.  The drawing was childlike and scrawled and yet somehow recognizable: A fox.  A magic fox.

The crisp wind rolled into the cavern, sweeping its dank depths and dusting away yet more bits of charcoal from the image.  In her bare hand, Echo held two thick sticks, heavily charred at the ends, the points dulled.  The wood had gradually warmed in her grasp. The last time the sticks had been held Kjerstin's young niece had wielded one, and Echo's sister the other.

Stormwind Harbor, usually placid, washed and heaved.

Echo looked out from the quarterdeck of the houseboat, narrowing her eyes as a hot wind seethed over her face.  Under the black night sky the horizon glowed strangely orange.

She had a feeling no elementals would invade tonight.

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 letters are written in a hand obviously new to human script, though the words are drawn out with great care and clarity.  Each stroke of ink is dark and purposeful.  The signature, though legible, appears almost as if in another language.  Sent throughout Alterac, the letters find their way into every sheriff's office, Alliance or House Guard post, and noble's house.

To the Guardians and Protectors of the Lands and Estates of Alterac,

“I’ve never seen nothin’ like it.”  The lumberjack stood over the corpse, scratching his iron-grey hair.  Sunbrowned and deeply lined, his face resembled the bark of the tall Alterac pines he often felled, his eyes dark little points under shaggy brows.  His shoulders slumped as he sighed, looking worn and defeated.  It didn’t help he was looking down at the corpse of his kin.

The younger man’s body lay splayed in the grass, a neat circular hole burned through his left breast, about the diameter of a frying pan.  The frayed edges of his yellow flannel shirt were blackened with char, likewise the undershirt beneath, and then similarly the skin and flesh, clear through to the grass beneath him.  Even the bones of his ribcage and been turned to ash. Echo, kneeling beside the corpse, looked closer, grimacing.

The roast pork was truly impressive.  A suckling pig had been prepared for the meal, surrounded by apples and persimmons, gradually losing its flesh and crispy skin to the four women seated around the table.  Conversation passed easily over bowls of potatoes and platters of buttered beans, the servants finding so little left to do after the meal was served they made sure the wine decanters were full then left the guests of Wyntersmere to while away the evening. Now and then laughter bubbled up between the women, the wine loosening their tongues as the fire in the hearth kept the cool autumn evening at bay.

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.

Ink and pastels with some Photoshoppin'.  Art Workshop post about it Here.

Warlock pew pew.  <3 my Cassie.

I touch the little cut on my neck, the least wound I have received in months.  Half of an inch long, it appears as a mere translucent line across my skin, hardly opening any chasm to flesh beneath.  It does not require a bandage.  I smear a thin salve over the incision; it will probably close by nightfall.

The assassin's sharp knife had hardly nicked my skin, not nearly deep enough to grant his poison's passage into my bloodstream.  His attack had been awkward, thrusting between my neck and my heavy shoulder-armor, having to leap for my height, grabbing my hair with his unarmed hand in an attempt to pull me back and down while slicing deep and true.  He could have cut my throat; he could have left me bleeding out and poisoned on the lawn.  He could have killed me, no more than ten steps from the entrance to my home. 

I let bowstring loosen, abandoned weapons. The sporebat lingered in the fresh spring night.

I shed my armor upon entering, death and plague left behind.

I went upstairs, my hair at my shoulders, every step one step closer.

I took her in my arms and lifted her up.

One step closer.

The Professor had fallen.

It is Monday morning. I go out from the House for a run.

Rain had come to Alterac over the weekend and melted much of the snow.  Water now lay in thin transparent pools in every low spot of the ground; my feet splash through them, wet leaves and dead grass clinging to my bare skin.  Each cold kiss of the forest drives me onward through the mist and fog. Where the snow still grips my ankles I grin a little, quickly escaping winter's grasp.  Though it is a gray world of barren trees and browned land, the rising water bodes of spring and the turning of the seasons.  

It is the middle of the week.  It is time to prepare.

I entered through the back door.  The maid's face, when she saw me, fell open like a sheet to a gale-force wind.  I found my voice, caught in my throat as it was, and rasped out hoarse words.

“Tell the lady of the house I am home.  Tell her not to come down.  I will see her in the morning.”

The maid nodded, her eyes still wide and fixed upon me, her mouth a thin line.  She turned away swiftly.  If she spoke words from the place of her expression, Cassie would know not to come down. 

I did not prop my polearm against the wall, or set my bow where I usually did.  I did not touch anything.  Another maid and a houseboy came into the pantry, their faces as wan and eyes as wide as the maid before them. I stood without moving.

“I need three vats of hot water.  One with lye, one with vinegar, one with soaps.  I need a pitcher of warm oil and one of boiling water, crushed icecap in each.  A fire in my den.  Many hot stones.  Many towels.  Many -”  My rough voice broke, and I swallowed back the interruption.  “Chamber pots.  Many of them.” 

I scatter bones in Icecrown. I must. They must be broken and they must be scattered, as much as possible. It had been a skeleton of a man or an elf or an orc... I had not looked closely when with a gasping howl it had attacked. It had been Scourge, I had dispatched it, and now I scatter the bones. Among them, clinging to the small bones of the hands and wrist, or twisted around a vertebrae, I often find little reminders of a shadowed past. Rings, trinkets, talismans. I found a rotting leather pouch once that broke open at the touch of my boot; teeth fell out, little whisps of hair, another bone, whiter than those here, untouched by the pervading evil of the Scourge. They scattered into the dust and snow and were whirled away by the wind. Lost in Icecrown, as the Lich King's cold hand must sweep away all such things.

AN ORC!

After bones were shattered, whispers silenced, airships driven back into the frigid dark -

One orc alone barred our way.

ONE ORC.

Slayers of our trees, murderers of our gods, minions of the last great evil...

They wonder why we fight the Horde even here.

Last night, she had to tie me down.

Cassie raised her head as I entered the room. In an instant, she was clambering from where she had curled herself in the armchair to reach for me, and in two steps I had her in my arms. I kissed her like I had been away for years. I had thought my lips would never be so warm again.

 She broke the spell.

"How did you find me?"

As she asks me that, Lady DeWynter sets her cup of tea on its saucer, then puts both aside on a small table beside her chair. She seems especially slender and drawn, and not as tall as I remember. Her face is set in frown lines, and the squint-lines by her eyes are not from laughter. Since she is not made up at all, the gray streaks in her black hair are in full force as well, and even the strands with color seem thin and brittle. Her elegantly conservative black velvet dress with pearl buttons is the thing of most substance about her.

"The housing market in Stormwind isn't what it once was, what with the zombie invasion," I explain. "And of course, all the soldiers and adventurers leaving for the north. So really, it was quite easy to find out who had recently purchased a suite. I knew the minimum standard you would put up with, mother."

"Welcome back, Ambassador," says Tricia Stockman, the chipper thirtysomething customs clerk at the Stormwind Dock and Customs Offices.

"Thank you," Amara replies, accepting his papers back after Tricia has stamped them. "I'm glad to be back."

"Oh yes, it's good to see your legal troubles all cleared up."

"Mm, yes, well, just makes another few documents for you to approve," Amara shrugs with a smile. Since there's no line at this time of day, he leans on the desk. "I bet the whole deal made good gossip for your girls over coffee."

Tricia favors him with a coy smile, arranging various papers into piles and drawers. "A little legal drama is certainly more interesting than the usual grind checking shipping manifests. Though we had a little excitement with that, recently."

"Oh?" Amara asks, raising his brows with interest.

My hand lifts from the water. Cold and clear, it drips from my fingers, rippling the surface, shattering my reflection. I watch; I breathe. My face comes into focus again.

The limbs of trees, clinging to the last gold leaves of autumn, lash out at my bare skin as I run. Encouragement or punishment? I snarl at them, eyes narrowed, and run faster.

My mind races.

Age brings wisdom.

The only thing wisdom brings is the knowledge when something, such as extreme, severe, white-hot bouts of jealousy are blatantly stupid. Beyond blatantly stupid; where younger races can get away with acting rashly, we of the well-marinated pickles are looked to as the epitome of proper behavior. Hah hah hah, like we're unfeeling machines or some such. Well, some of them might be...but I've known even the greatest and wisest to go into an insane rage at the oddest, silliest little things.

Morning breaks on the Fjords. In some places of the world, morning creeps up quietly through misted trees, or rolls like a tide of gold over open land. Morning rises. Morning wakes. Here, on the Fjords, morning breaks.

It was said among my people before our immortality was sacrificed, “We are ever-bound to the turning gyre.” When life has no end it must still be marked, and so we traveled the seasons in cycles of our own. Each of us, we were taught, walks the path of a circle, and throughout our lives we will walk the circle again and again.