Tavlo

Once I sat and watched the days stream endlessly by.

Now the days seem to fly by faster than I can count.  

Between the troubles abroad and at home, the work of managing the county and the order, and an apprentice... well.

One thing is sure.  

She still looks lovely by the winter moonlight.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Dear Miss Martin;

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.

The voice was quiet in the middle of the night, but it was still loud enough to be heard over the sound of paperwork.

"Shaw."

The man looked up, eyes reflexively narrowing to speed the transition between paper and candlelight.  He turned this way and that, slowly, smoothly, not telegraphing his movements.

"Always the professional, Shaw.  I'll make this fast and painless, for old time's sake."

His hand gripped the arm of his chair as he slowly swiveled about, fingers tightening on the trigger mounted under the leather-covered oak.  He'd get a shot off, but only if he saw her first.  That's how the game was always played.

"You keep using wanted posters this way, they're going to send the wrong message.  This is the third time you've put up a price on our heads.  You're making yourself look a fool if you don't bring us in.  I don't think Matty Shaw wants to be the court fool."

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,

Tavlo’ashmalan had the broadsword on her back again, quite the imposing accessory, as she walked down into the little lumbermill town.  Echo matched the elf’s pace, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword.  Despite beholding the same morning scene as she had the day before, her eyes were restless now, darting from one person to the next.  The little white-haired old man was eating his doughnut again as he crossed the street; he caught sight of Echo and the Warden headed for the barbershop and paused.  Echo glared at him and held up a cautionary hand.  He nodded slowly and shuffled off a good distance away, continuing to peer at them both as they approached the red and white pole outside the doorway.

An oak tree grew in the corner of Pidge’s horse pasture, the kind that had stood for centuries until its wide trunk could no longer be embraced by man. It spread a crown of heavy, waxy leaves high over the rolling field, with a few sheltering lower limbs slumping over massive twisted roots below. It was altogether inviting and comfortable to sit beneath, and could cradle one person’s camp safely against its broad bole.

Echo shrugged back against the tree, trying to find a comfortable position. She hadn’t brought out her heavy Northrend armor, but this lightweight set of cured leather and fine links proved disagreeable enough after months in summer civilian clothes. The evening had brought a cool wind with it, however, so she was thankful for the warmth, and depending on how the night went she would probably be thankful for the protection as well.

“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.

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.))

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