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[lamesorrow]

Heart of Stone

Time: The San’layn assault on Eversong woods.

-

“This is such a bad fucking idea,” Calathea said as she reached for the artifact.

The Heart of Sanguinius looked perfectly innocent. Laid out on its suede little pillow, it might’ve successfully pretended to be just an ordinary trinket... if not for the magic it radiated.

Ancient. Breath-taking. Red.

Calathea hesitated. She was no weakling, especially after the gifts of Fel had unleashed her full potential, but the pure power swirling enticingly right under the surface of the crystal filled her with a feverish sense of impending doom.

All power could be trifled with... All power could be bound and used... All power was available to her… But, for goodness’ sake, after some proper examination! That’s always been her modus operandi as a warlock: power comes at a price and only a fool agrees to a deal blindly.

There she was, breaking her one and only rule.

Sensing her hesitation, Leothias exchanged meaningful looks with Nemelia and said, “I’ll do it. Calathea, I can do it. Let me.”

Calathea just scoffed.

Like hell she would. Leothias was a brilliant researcher, but he had less self-control than a toddler. Nemelia on the other hand was a machinist through and through, great with a toolbox and schematics but horrible with anything even remotely resembling a weapon. All those who knew how to fight and could be trusted to use an ominous Mogu artifact were currently trying to stem the tide of undead pouring into the courtyard.

The experimental anima golem their little team had just reactivated was going to be invaluable to the defenders, but Calathea still remembered the last time the undead had assaulted her homeland and she had no interest whatsoever in going through that hell ever again. It was overkill or be killed, so they needed to win this fight and they needed to win it hard. And to do that they needed something to pack a punch. The Heart of Sanguinius was one of the less understood artifacts; all they knew about it was that it was a potent power-up meant to considerably empower the user’s magical abilities.

So… Between the three of them, Calathea was the only reasonable option; she was a capable combatant in her own right, she had military training, experience handling powerful magic, and no relatives that would miss her should this little endeavour go south.

She boldly grabbed the crimson crystal and had about three seconds to experience a sudden rush of dark euphoria before everything went red.

*

She woke up to a cloak covering her face, an argument in the background, and the entire world still tinted red. It became only marginally less red when she weakly pushed the cloth away.

“—the desk here, it should provide some cover. Just… aim for the heads, alright?”

“Aim how? I don’t even know how to reload this thing, Leo! Don’t just leave me here with a fucking corpse!”

“I need you to stay here. Calathea died to keep us safe, to keep you safe—“

“I’m up,” said Calathea, and rolled to the side to cough up a frankly concerning amount of blood.

What surprised her was that nothing hurt. There was blood on her mouth and probably in her eyes and oh, so much of it on the ground around her, yet Calathea herself felt fine.

She felt fucking fantastic.

People think being drunk on power is a figure of speech. Those people are weak.

Calathea ignored Nemelia’s fretting and Leo’s disbelieving silence. The polished edges of the crystal were digging into her skin, so she slowly uncurled her fingers.

Her hand was empty.

“How’s that possible? Calathea? Are you—are you okay? You were dead—“

Her fingers closed on air. There was nothing there, yet she felt the crystal’s presence—it felt more solid to her than the floor she was sitting on.

Something else—something potentially far more pressing—caught her attention, though.

Her tits were bare.

Calathea blinked drunkenly. Her shirt was torn open—quite violently, if a stray black button in a puddle of what she was starting to realize was probably her own blood was any indication—and her normally pale skin was bright red, obviously inflamed to hell and back.

And right there, in the space right between her breasts, sat the crimson crystal.

Calathea was vaguely aware of Nemelia’s fretting hands, but her attention was completely focused on the red thing sticking out of her chest. In the first thoughtless moment she tried to scratch it, see if she could make the edge of her skin peel away from the polished surface of the obviously foreign object, but to her surprise it didn’t happen at all—no matter how much she scratched and tugged, it was as if the crystal had merged with her on some fundamental level. The skin around it was oddly stiff, but it didn’t pull at all when Calathea experimentally stretched out her arms.

The more she looked at it, the more she realized that something buried deep inside the crystal was pulsing faintly in the rhythm of blood roaring in her ears.

A potent sense of wrongness battled inside her with genuine elation. With each passing second she understood more of this power, felt it become hers. And oh goodness, was it glorious. Glorious and metallic to taste.

It already made her dread the time she would have to give it up. Something this potent would never be allowed to remain in her grasp.

Calathea concentrated. The puddle of blood she was sitting in rippled.

Ah, she thought. So that’s how it works.

She finally looked up at her companions. Nemelia was teary-eyed and obviously shaken, but with frantic hope shining through the grief. Leo on the other hand seemed openly horrified. One of his flintlocks was pointed dead between Calathea’s eyes.

“Calm down, Leo. I’m not a bloody monster,” said the Heart of Sanguinius.

[lamesorrow]

Dear Helgi

Time: Shortly after the Brigade arrives in Feathermoon Stronghold.

-

A dusty and creased envelope is delivered to the Greenhouse in Dalaran. Carefully penned in Sharon's distinctive handwriting are the words: “To Helgi.”

.

My Dearest Dwarven Friend,

I don't know where I'll be by the time you receive this letter, so the best I can do is try to paint a picture of what it's like for me right now, while the ink on this parchment is only starting to dry. Imagine this:

The sun slowly starts to set over the ancient walls of the Feathermoon Stronghold in Feralas. The deck of my beloved ship is still warm to the touch, although I can feel the first hints of evening chill in the air. I'm giving it about twenty minutes until Phineas emerges from our quarters with my coat in hand. Ever since I've lost my eye during a mission in Tanaris he and Kuva have both been very protective of me. Just a few years ago such a thing would've frustrated me to no end. Today I am simply grateful for the care my crew has for me.

We came to Feralas to answer a call to arms; the War of Thorns had left many Kaldorei without a home, and the Feathermoon Stronghold is bursting at the seams with refugees. The Sentinels hope to retake the Ruins of Feathermoon and establish a new settlement on the isle, so that the displaced Night Elves might finally have a proper place to stay.

Not a bad picture, is it, Helgi? Of course, I've glossed over some less glamorous details, such as the a dull ache of my barely-healed bones—an unpleasant souvenir from our last incursion into the Wetlands, where a scourged orc had cracked two of my ribs with the handle of his axe. And have I mentioned my eye, or lack thereof? Still getting used to that one.

At least I no longer start projectile vomiting whenever I see something (or someone) die in front of me—it used to be a big problem at first, but these days I feel a little more hardened. Funnily enough, it works retrospectively in a way; I can now think of Brennadam and not break out in cold sweat.

So that's how it feels like to be Sharon Wells at this very moment.

I often find myself thinking about the Botany Band, wondering how you've been doing during all those months of my absence. Can you believe it's already been over half a year since we've last seen each other? The open sea makes time flow differently. Slowly. Back in Dalaran I could jump through a portal and find myself on another continent in a matter of seconds. Now it takes me weeks to move from one place to another. Even the way I miss you and the other Botanists is different now; fonder, more serene.

It's this feeling that spurred me to bring some floral fervour back into my life; I've just finished setting up a small green room on my ship. I have only a handful of planters and some basic herbs for now, but it's a start; it will never come close to the magical splendour of the Greenhouse, but it's enough to dull the ache I feel whenever I reminisce of our happy days in Dalaran. As I sit here on the Blackfall's cooling deck, somewhere in the Stronghold merchant completes my order of seeds and fertilizer. Old habits die hard, huh?

I hope that the Greenhouse flourishes, and the Botany Band flourishes with it. I think of you whenever I spot a rare plant or mushroom. I wonder if you've met any new friends since I've left; I've been a Botanist for so long that the idea of new faces in the Greenhouse, faces I've never seen before, feels bittersweet. Sometimes I like to imagine myself quietly joining a lecture. In those daydreams the Greenhouse is full of familiar faces from the past; Alunaria, Inky, Kitten, Mairead, Isilae... I don't think I will ever see everyone together in one place like this again, but those beautiful days will always be alive in my memory.

Please give my regards to Dulvarinn and Yang, Helgi. Kuhuine as well—I hope she's taking good care of the Greenhouse and the Band. Hug Beart from me. I would love to hear how you and the others are doing.

With love,

Sharon

PS. I know you like to use your little bird to send messages, but I don't think it will find my ship while I'm sailing across the ocean. I have a friend in Hearthglen who gathers my post for me. It might take ages, but if you pass a letter to Nereus Winterleaf, it will certainly find me at some point!

[lamesorrow]

A Herbalist Always Pays Her Debts

Time: Sharon in the Botany Band. Back when the Greenhouse got destroyed by What'shisname.

-

“I just need you to tell me one thing,” Sharon said slowly. She took a deep breath, leaned forward, and slowly pressed her hands to the antique desk. “Are you fucking shitting me, sir?”

The goblin behind the desk sniffed nonchalantly. “I'm afraid I'm not in the business of shitting anyone, Miss Wells,” he said with palpable disgust. Sharon had no idea how someone roughly half her height could look down on her so much.

She instinctively felt that goblin bankers were not the kind of people a sensible woman would want as enemies, but something about Uda fucking Dryden and her demented husband just made Sharon bypass all the progress she's made over the years and revert back to something feral.

Reining in her temper was a feat of self-control she genuinely did not expect from herself at this point, but somehow she managed to stop herself from clobbering the damn goblin to death with his own paper weight.

Sharon took a deep breath.

“Sir. This interest rate is ridiculously high.” The goblin smirked and fucking preened, as if Sharon had just given him a bloody compliment. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop a string of profanity from slipping through her clenched teeth. “We are not a booming enterprise, but a simple study group! Most of our income is spent on keeping the Greenhouse and the Botany Band running!”

“This is fascinating, Miss Wells,” the goblin said in a voice that strongly implied he doesn't give a single shit, “but your group's circumstances are of no importance to my Cartel. Here in my drawer I have a signed copy of the loan agreement. You have received—and, as far as I know, already spent—a certain amount of money that you will have to return to the Steamwheedle Cartel, with interest you agreed to pay.”

“We did not agree to anything!” Sharon helplessly slapped her hands against the desk. “It was one guy who overreacted and did a stupid thing without my knowledge!”

The little toad had the gall to smirk at her.

“The contract is legally binding,” the banker said with an air of finality. “Now, my bruisers will show you to the door, Miss Wells...”

*

Sharon did not dare enter the Greenhouse. She hovered in the entrance, grimly surveying the damage.

It looked as if a grenade had gone off in the middle of the room. The stained glass ceiling was all but gone—just a few stray shards were left of the pretty mosaic that used to paint the interior of the building with vibrant shades of gold and green. Both trellises were smashed to pieces with only their charred frames still remaining in place. The grass in the middle of the Greenhouse, normally green and healthy, was now black, dry, and completely devoid of any life. Even the soil felt tainted with lingering Fel.

As she looked at the wrecked Greenhouse, Sharon felt her hands involuntarily curl into fists. This place was like a home away from home for her. In the saddest moments of her life it became a safe harbour. And now it was ruined because Uda's husband was a fucking idiot. An absolute bloody moron.

Sharon really hoped Dulvarinn was going to ban warlocks, demon hunters, and other such deviants from ever running lectures again. Between that stupid warlock who pressured the Band into summoning fucking demonsin fucking Dalaran, that stupid demon hunter who threw a toddler tantrum over the requirements of basic courtesy, and now another stupid demon hunter who exploded the damn Greenhouse, Sharon had had enough of Fel-chugging bastards for lifetime and a half.

All she wanted was to study some plants and take her mind off the horrors of Brennadam. For fuck's sake, she was barely twenty! A girl straight out of teenagehood should be having fun and focusing on her future, not playing babysitter to insane adults! Why was she the one keeping an eye on fucking Uda, a self-proclaimed Super High Priestess of Light and Shadow and Fuck Knows What Else, who thought it was a good idea to turn into a Void-fuelled furry beast in the middle of Goldshire and just rip a random chicken to shreds in front of the entire town?

Ugh, just thinking about that bullshit gave Sharon a headache. It was a bloody miracle nobody had called the guards on them back then. Or fucking exorcists.

Sharon scowled at the ruined Greenhouse and was surprised to feel her eyes prickle.

Dealing with strong emotions has never been her strong suit, and now she was... Pissed, obviously—really fucking pissed at the stupidity that caused all this—but also pretty heartbroken to see her poor Greenhouse ruined like that. Almost all their samples had perished in the blast. Plant specimens painstakingly collected over the months, gathered by old friends—Helgi, Kitten, Inky... Alunaria. All of them gone, smashed to pieces. The ground was littered with colourful pieces of broken pots mixed with soggy, rotten remains of the Band's prized plants and mushrooms.

It all felt a bit too much like standing amid the ashes of Brennadam. The level or loss was impossible to compare, but the anger bubbling inside Sharon was very familiar. Something had been taken from her.

Sharon clenched her teeth and raised her fist. She slammed it against the charred doorframe of the Greenhouse in helpless rage.

Like most things in her life, it hurt like hell.

[lamesorrow]

A Friendly Favour pt.1

Time: Sometime during Cata.

-

Shadow lazily watched the guests of the inn as they bantered, laughed, argued... Fought, sometimes. Cheap wine was flowing freely and it made young elves haughty and arrogant; The Golden Tambourine attracted all sorts of lowlifes and they had no habit of playing nice. More often then not nights such as these ended with someone bleeding out on the floor.

She eyed the revelling crowd. She wasn't sure what the celebration was even about—some decisive victory against the Twilight Hammer secured by one of the elven regiments, from the sounds of it. Not that it mattered—the patrons of The Golden Tambourine considered every opportunity to drink a good opportunity, and most of the time they did not even need an opportunity at all.

Footsteps. A creak of a heavy wood against the floor. A sigh. Shadow's ears twitched, but she didn't look away from the celebrating elves.

“You just had to choose the worst fucking shithole possible, huh?”

She smirked, amused at Meldran's annoyed tone. There was a time, once, when they were both just unkempt kids haunting inns similar to The Golden Tambourine, drinking their problems, fears and aspirations away. That was centuries ago, though, and now Meldran was pretending to be a respectable merchant while Shadow was... well...

“I come here for the atmosphere,” she drawled lazily. “And a dash of nostalgia.”

She finally looked at Meldran. His lips were pulled down in an unamused scowl and his bloodshot eyes were watching her from under furrowed brows. He seemed tired—either hungover or sleep-deprived. It didn't escape Shadow's notice that he's gained quite a bit of weight since the last time they've seen each other. Life was treating him well—perhaps even a little too well.

Then again, Shadow knew better than to judge. Fortune favours the assholes, after all.

“What do you have for me?” she asked.

Meldran grunted and started digging through his pockets. Eventually he retrieved a scrap of paper  roughly the size of a postage stamp. He placed it on the table and tried to slide it towards Shadow, but when he noticed the stains and small pools of spilled booze he gave up on the theatrical gesture and simply handed her the note.

“This,” he said simply.

Shadow slowly unfolded the paper. It turned out to be a tiny picture, the kind that just begged to be placed in some lovestruck fool's locket. It depicted a young elven woman with a pretty face and a mane of blonde hair decorated with an ornate headband. Judging from her fancy dress and the gorgeous necklace she was wearing, it was safe to assume that the woman had to be of noble birth, or at least a daughter of some disgustingly rich merchant.

Shadow quickly calculated the total worth of the woman's jewellery (assuming the trinkets were not simply the artist being a bit creative; people loved to pretend they were richer than they actually were) and looked up at Meldran.

“Okay,” she said. “Tell me more.”

Meldran scowled and hesitantly leaned forward to rest his elbows on the dirty table. He grunted in disgust when his skin immediately stuck to the tacky surface. His obvious discomfort did not escape Shadow's notice and she snickered quietly, cruelly amused by what wealth and comfort could do to a man's psyche—an elf who used to notoriously wake up covered in his own puke and piss was now openly scandalized by poor sanitary standards of one of the shittiest taverns in the city. Hilarious.

“Young lady Andelisa Sunchild,” Meldran said, snapping Shadow out of her amusement. “The only child of lord Nalethas Sunchild. She's currently studying herbalism in Suncrown Village.”

Shadow scrunched up her nose. That rung a bell, especially in the context of some news she's heard regarding Meldran. Some very interesting news indeed.

“That sounds boring and she looks like a brat,” she declared, unsubtly testing the waters. “I don't like killing brats.”

Meldran smirked. “No. I don't want you to kill her—I want you to kidnap her.”

His smirk instantly vanished when Shadow let out a loud screechy cackle that made several inebriated patrons of The Golden Tambourine look her way and send her looks that ranged from mildly curious to outright hostile. She ignored Meldran's furious glare and curled up in the rickety chair, trying to calm down, although her shoulders still shook with barely contained giggles.

“Oh, Meldran,” she groaned theatrically and looked at her mug, fully aware that another glance at her companion would surely restart her laughing fit. “Why don't you buy her flowers first? I'm sure a nice bouquet of roses and a fancy dinner would be enough to make her overlook the fact that you're a sla--”

“Red,” Meldran said calmly. “You taking the job or not?”

Shadow took a deep breath and looked at the other elf. He probably took the whole 'ball and chain' thing too literally, she thought and her mind immediately conjured up a captivating mental picture of Meldran kneeling down and offering a ring to a gagged young woman with a wedding bouquet chained to her wrist. Hysterical laughter bubbled up in her throat, so she quickly looked back at her mug and attempted to keep her composure. It was a difficult task.

“Depends. How much?”

“Six hundred,” Meldran answered immediately.

Shadow snorted.

“Haggling with your friend? Really?” she asked coldly. “A thousand.”

“You need to adjust your rates, Red. This is not an offing. Six fifty.”

“I said a thousand. Kidnapping some noble wench is more complicated than murder. You gotta secure the target and then store her somewhere while the whole bloody city guard runs rampant.”

“Six hundred seventy five.”

Shadow discreetly bit down on the inside of her cheek.

It's not like she needed gold in the first place; her life was blissfully comfortable and she could easily afford to tell Meldran to get lost. The loss of this job wouldn't hurt her at all.

Only... she was bored.

Boredom was the single most wretched state of mind that she could think of. It siphoned all colour from life and turned it into a bleak, monotone experience which unavoidably led to retrospection, and that was something Shadow desperately wanted to avoid.

She tapped her fingers against the sticky table and glared at Meldran.

“Seven and you got yourself a deal.”

[lamesorrow]

Danger Within

Time: BFA. Baine's imprisonment.

-

She stood in the middle of a steadily growing crowd, eyes wide and lips parted in disbelief. People around her rippled back and forth, exchanging shocked glances. Finally one voice, loud and nasal, rose over the combined murmur of whispers and complaints.

“What do you mean: imprisoned for treason?”

Shara looked over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of a large tauren man in a bloodstained apron. She briefly recognized him as one of the butchers who used to buy game meat from her back when she was still reluctant to wander too far away from Orgrimmar.

The royal herald sighed deeply.

“Baine Bloodhoof betrayed the Horde by delivering an important hostage to the Alliance,” she repeated, pointedly. Her voice was surprisingly loud and clear for a Forsaken.

The crowd around Shara vibrated with anger, exchanging scandalized murmurs, but—for once—she didn't mind. She stared at the herald, who was impassively watching the gathering through the dark holes in her helmet. The Forsaken seemed mildly annoyed and slightly bored. As if the news she was delivering were nothing special.

Shara didn't miss that the herald's bony hand hadn't left the handle of her sword, though. Or the fact that she stood flanked by two heavily armoured undead guards. Or the fact that, for all her feigned indifference, her eyes discreetly darted back and forth, taking notes of people's reactions. When those eerie yellow eyes fixed on Shara for a few seconds, the young tauren shivered involuntarily and looked away.

The herald waited for a few seconds before adding: “...And in order to do so, he had hijacked a royal ship and brutally murdered several loyal members of the Horde who guarded it. A memorandum for those brave heroes who tried to put a stop to Baine Bloodhoof's treachery will be held in the Valley of Honour one week from now.”

A rift suddenly broke in the crowd, and Shara could feel it through her skin. When she looked at the faces that surrounded her, many seemed stricken by grief or disbelief, anger or bitterness, but on many—so many—she saw grimaces of fierce understanding.

The Horde was losing the war, and everybody knew. It was not something you heard mentioned on the streets, because the proud people of the Horde were fierce fighters who refused to give up and accept defeat, but it was something you could feel in the air. In every tired sigh, in every concerned look, in every mumbled curse.

And now Baine had betrayed them all.

It was so unreal.

“No, the loyal subjects of Her Majesty have nothing to fear,” the herald said calmly, and Shara realized that her grim thoughts made her miss a question asked by someone in the crowd. “But those who choose to betray the Horde will be brought to justice.”

Shara shivered.

The undead herald was good at her job. She knew how to handle the crowd with well-timed pauses to give the people surrounding her a moment to digest her words.

“Members of the neutral organizations are strongly urged to re-think their allegiance,” the woman continued. “Now is not the time for divisions; if we are to finally defeat the oppression of the Alliance and secure a prosperous future for our children, we must act now.”

You're Forsaken, you can't have children, Shara thought. For some reason hearing the herald appeal to such a living thing rubbed her the wrong way.

“Prosperous future?! My brother is a shaman! He says Azeroth is dying!”

Just like that, something changed.

Somehow the atmosphere, already tense and grim, became... morose. Fearful, Shara thought as she watched the faces of the tauren and the orcs and the trolls that surrounded her.

The herald must've sensed the shift as well, because she immediately raised her hand to calm the speaker. “The Dark Lady is aware of the situation and has already sent most of the druids and shaman the war effort could spare to aid the Speaker's efforts in Silithus.” The eerie glow in the herald's eyes dimmed slightly as she squinted.

Shara didn't like it.

Slowly she started to retreat, careful not to knock into anyone as she navigated her way out of the crowd. It took her a while to free herself from the group; the commotion kept attracting more and more people.

Zuya swooped down from the sky and perched on the reinforced part of Shara's left shoulderguard. The tauren absentmindedly scratched the eagle's neck and let the bird playfully nibble on her fingers. It was just a little show of trust between the huntress and her companion, but the animal's presence grounded Shara like nothing else could.

She slowly walked south, to the Valley of Strength. She no longer wheezed and puffed in the sweltering heat like she used to back when she had first arrived in Durotar, but the stuffy air was still unpleasant to her senses.

When she finally reached the ramps she couldn't help but glance to the right, where a metal gate would lead her to the Horde embassy.

And the portal home.

Shara felt her ears pull back. She left Highmountain because she felt trapped in the land of her birth. She left because she wanted to learn more about foreign animals and the traditional ways to hunt them. She left, because Highmountain reminded her too much of death.

Funny, that.

She stomped down the ramp and hoped that her stride looked purposeful and confident. The urge to go home has been sprouting in her mind for many weeks now, but it would be too much like admitting defeat.

There are other places to visit, Shara thought firmly. Places the war haven't reached.

Yet.

[lamesorrow]

Back to the Future

Time: End of that awful Mag'har recruitment scenario.

-

Kargan spat on the ground and winced when he saw red blood on red dust.

Poetic.

He pressed a hand to his shredded flank—fuck, that paladin got him good with a strike of her Light-infused battlehammer, nearly fucking gutted him—and blinked sweat out of his eyes. It felt... so weird. One second he was fighting for his life, and the next he was...

Here. Wherever the fuck 'here' was.

There was something cruel about so brutally tearing a warrior away from the thrill of battle. The sudden change of scenery left him reeling. Adrenaline and fury and bloodlust had suddenly found themselves with no outlet, and the feeling was tearing him apart even more than...

Somebody was pushing at his side. He looked down and met Nora's blood-spattered face. It was only after he noticed his arm around her shoulders that he realized how heavily he was leaning on her. She opened her mouth and said something, but he couldn't make out the words. They were just intelligible noise to him.

...Fuck. Was he concussed? He felt concussed.

Nora must've realized that she was not getting through to him. She took a step forward and he had no choice but to move. Someone's calloused hand pushed him from behind and he had no choice but to move faster.

Nora was big and strong, so she had little problem steering him where she wanted him to go. They followed Geya'rah—where the hell was Hellscream?—to a... fortress?

Kargan's vision blurred. Adrenaline was leaking out of him along with the blood, and then it was gone and so was his consciousness.

[lamesorrow]

Not Quite Ready

Time: Botany Band Era. Shortly after Sharon becomes the leader.

-

“How about... something like this?”

Sharon curiously leaned over the desk and watched—with no small dose of jealousy—as handful of seemingly random pencil strokes suddenly came together, forming another design. This one was fancy, with a form-fitting cut and an elegant collar.

“We could do some embroidery here... Something that looks like a plant... maybe a tree...?”

Five more sparse strokes and the emerging vine-like pattern suddenly changed, sprouting long branches.

Sharon watched, fascinated.

“I like this one,” she said quietly. “It looks nice. Fancy.”

Lady Emma gave Sharon one of her trademark mischievous smiles, the kind that scrunched up her nose and turned her gleaming eyes into two dark half-moons.

“It really does, doesn't it?”

They shared a private giggle and turned back to the fabric samples.

Both tables of the Keep's tailoring station were completely covered in all sorts of cloth. Sharon knew they were arranged according to lady Emma's very complicated sorting system, but to Sharon's untrained eyes the collection was a (barely) controlled chaos. She spotted precious Quel'dorei silks next to simple Kul Tiran canvas, chiffon next to coarse kodo wool, cheap satin half-buried under gentlemanly tweed... Fabrics of all types and grades mixed together, forming an eclectic mandala of colours and textures, and that wasn't even all the cloth that lady Emma had in her little arts-and-crafts corner. Her sewing supplies filled almost every nook and cranny of the tailoring station (with the notable exception of one chest dedicated exclusively to Tharien's yarn).

Denizens of Whereverthefuckever Keep took coping mechanism extremely seriously these days.

Lady Emma looked up from the chaotic arrangement of fabrics and gave Sharon a calculating look.

“Ivory,” she said with no hesitation. “Ivory, with a little bit of golden thread? Oh!” She snapped her fingers. “Dark green. Ivory, gold, dark green.”

Lady Emma picked a few scraps of different fabrics and held them up to Sharon's bare shoulder.

“Perfect. Look how it makes the colour of your skin pop.”

Sharon knew little about colours and the only skin-popping she was familiar with was set firmly in the objectively gross context of her teenage years, so she decided to shut up and let lady Emma do her thing. Between the two of them only one was knowledgable about art and fashion, and it sure as hell wasn't Sharon.

After the colours were chosen there came a natural lull in their conversation. Sharon sat down with a mug of herbal tea in her hands (her own blend, the latest in a long series of trials and errors—not nearly as good as Dulvarinn's, but slowly getting there) and watched the sketch fill out with colour.

The nonchalant ease with which lady Emma was rendering her drawing made Sharon a little self-conscious about her own artistic endeavours. Her botanical journal was full of more or less fortunate attempts at capturing the likeness of many plants she had examined, but the quality of her sketches was very hit or miss (with a strong tilt towards the latter).

That wasn't good enough for an Elder. Frankly, many things about Sharon weren't good enough for an Elder.

Most things, really.

“So, what's chewing your tail, as the Tauren supposedly say?”

She startled and looked up, feeling very much like a child caught doing something bad. Her companion was still focused on the sketch, but her dark eyes kept darting between the page and Sharon's face.

Sharon had learned a long time ago that lying to lady Emma was an exercise in futility. The woman was both too sharp to miss any odd behaviour and too unyielding to let the subject drop once she sank her teeth into it.

The sketch was almost done. The robe idea that lady Emma came up with was... beautiful, really—it reminded Sharon of a stained glass window, something straight out of a cathedral, but with a strong botanical twist. The colour combination was perfect. Sharon tried to imagine herself wearing the robe, looking confident and regal, like an Elder should.

She sighed.

“It looks really good,” she said slowly. “Really good, but I'm afraid I will... I don't want it to be like a disguise.”

Oh, for fuck's sake.

Okay, so, the Band called her their Elder, but Sharon wasn't even twenty yet! Dulvarinn was demoted to atone for... for whatever the fuck his timewarped escapade was, and he left behind big scary Elder shoes which Sharon was somehow supposed to walk in. Her friends were almost unanimous in their choice. She was to lead them. Sharon Wells, the teenage Elder. What a fucking joke.

“It's a fancy design... and I want to look fancy—for myself and for them. But it doesn't feel like I'm a fancy person. So it just makes me feel like I'm... pretending. To be fancy.”

More like pretending to be competent. Sure, she wasn't completely clueless about herbalism—despite her initial apprehension, the subject had completely gripped her and now she had a genuine passion for all things botany—but she considered herself... a capable amateur. Maybe an employable herbalist at best. Definitely not an expert. Definitely not a teacher.

How the hell was she supposed to lead the Botanists when they were all much older—much more experienced—than her? The idea seemed foolish. Laughable. Sharon Wells, a little girl in a fancy robe, teaching herbalism to ancient elves, a brilliant gnome, a dwarf who was probably old enough to be her grandfather...

Sharon's babbling received no response. She knew exactly what her companion was doing, but even aware of the trick she simply couldn't stop herself from filling the awkward silence with noise.

“I'm like a girl who can't cook, but buys a new apron because she wants people to mistake her for a cook.” She said hurriedly. Scornfully.

The more she talked, the less sense she made. Great.

In the silence following her outburst, lady Emma put a green pencil back in the wooden case and placed the finished drawing in front of Sharon.

“There's a word for that, you know. It's called the Impostor Syndrome.”

Sharon scoffed.

“I know what the Impostor Syndrome is! It's the one that makes you believe you're a fraud who somehow tricked people into...”

“Fashion Impostor Syndrome, then?”

Sharon pursed her lips and half-heartedly glared at lady Emma's mischievous smile.

Her annoyance lacked any real heat, though. Lady Emma was almost twice as old as Sharon, and yet as far as familial figures went she felt more like a sister than, say, a mother or an aunt—probably because she had that energetic feeling about her that didn't really fit a seasoned woman nearing her forties. Once unleashed, her enthusiasm was contagious, which is why Sharon found herself rolling her eyes and smirking despite herself.

Her amusement was short-lived, though. She heaved a tired sigh and picked up the drawing. The robe was perfect for the Elder of the Botany Band. Just... maybe not quite perfect for Sharon specifically.

“The point of that impostor thing is that it's irrational—no!” She pointed her finger at lady Emma, who was already opening her mouth to say something. They sat still for a few seconds, sizing each other up, until Emma relented. “No. I'm not fishing for compliments or reassurance or whatever. I'm just trying to be realistic about my own capabilities, alright? Look, it's only been a few months since I had joined the Band. Yes, I'm like, okay, really good at this herbalism thing, but I'm nowhere near the kind of good a leader should be.”

Lady Emma plucked the drawing out of Sharon's hand and set it flat against the table. She reached for a pencil and made a few extra strokes, then a few more... Sharon stared at her own likeness, which was looking right back at her with a confident, lopsided grin and a dangerous glint to her eye. Sharon snorted.

“Sometimes,” lady Emma said. Stopped. Clicked her tongue. “Most of the time,” she amended, “you have to fake it till you make it.”

“This is doing wonders for my Imposter's Syndrome,” Sharon informed her cordially. Emma laughed.

“You have nothing to worry about, Sharon. They're your friends, and it's just a little study group, right?”

Internally she bristled a little at that. Lady Emma was not wrong, except that she was; the Band might've been a study group, but for Sharon it was so much more—it was home. It was the place where she had finally started to get better. With gentle words, patience, and absolute lack of judgement, the Botanists have slowly coaxed her out of her shell that she had built around herself after... after Brennadam.

The Band was the reason why thinking about Brennadam no longer made Sharon want to scream.

She idly picked at the fabric samples. The dark green cloth was thick and soft to the touch. She ran it between her fingers.

“Even if you mess up, what's the worst thing that's gonna happen?”

Sharon was keenly aware that Emma's idea of “messing up” was dramatically different from Sharon's own—the Scourgeslayers “messed up” when they accidentally crashed a flying necropolis into the frozen sea of Icecrown. When it came to “messing up” they were in a league of their own.

Knowing that made her feel a bit better. A bit.

“I just don't want to disappoint them,” she sighed. “But I... I am no leader. I told them I can do it, but I'm not sure if I... You know. Actually can.”

Lady Emma hummed quietly. She pushed the sketch aside and reached for a blank sheet of paper. Sharon idly watched the sniper's graceful fingers glide over the page, breaking the robe up into separate tailoring patterns with irritatingly efficient strokes.

She really had to practice her drawing. She really had to practice her writing. Bloody hell, she had to learn how to do paperwork.

“Try it,” Emma said absentmindedly. “Maybe it will be easier than you think. Or maybe it will be an absolute mess. You know know only after you try.” She looked up and flashed Sharon a small smile. “Leaders are not born, Sharon. They are made.”

*

She found a glimpse of green fabric on the very bottom of the chest while trying to find something to protect her from the burning desert sun. It surprised her a little—she didn't remember ever putting the robe in.

And yet here it was.

Sharon's fingers carefully trailed along the golden thread, following the curving lines of meticulously embroidered branches. The robe has seen its share of trouble—there was some fraying happening along the rim, a few patches discoloured by sap or juice.

It put a wistful smile on her face. By the Tides, she missed all those peaceful times spent relaxing in the grass of the Greenhouse, surrounded by friends. Maybe she should write a letter, ask how they're doing...

The door creaked and gently swung open. The Blackfall's resident druid poked her head inside the room. “Sharon? We're almost there. Phineas says he needs you up at the wheel.”

“Alright.” Sharon carefully folded the robe and put it back in the chest. “Let's get this party started, shall we, Listener?”

Kuva smiled a leonine smile at her.

“Aye, Commander.”

[lamesorrow]

Leaving the Nest

Time: Sharon joins the Botany Band. (May 2019) - With every step that brought her closer to the greenhouse, Sharon felt more and more like a little child on her first day of school. Cautious, apprehensive, and accompanied by doting parents.

Only in this scenario the role of doting parents was played by two seasoned killers. Lara's back was ramrod straight, hands clasped together in a position Sharon had learned to recognize as casual vigilance. She seemed vaguely at ease in Dalaran, exchanging polite nods with the blue-eyed elves and purple-clad wizards. Tharien on the other hand seemed determined to make his displeasure known. He stomped angrily next to Sharon, glaring and sneering at unfortunate bystanders. He didn't need to make any rude gestures—somehow he managed to make his entire being feel offensive to look at. “Don't worry, Sharon,” Lara murmured when they found themselves in plain view of the greenhouse. “They seem to be kind and compassionate people. You will fit right in.” Sharon wasn't so sure about that. Truth be told, after all those months in relative seclusion she wasn't sure if she could fit in anywhere at this point. It was like Emerisa said: humans are wild animals only tamed by each other, and Sharon allowed herself to become a lone wolf. It sounded interestingly dramatic for full four minutes, because this is how long it took lady Emma to explain that lone wolves were pitiful creatures, unable to hunt alone and forced into the life of carrion eaters—a life which was unnervingly short for such outcasts. Tharien had a similar idea, although he chose to voice it far less elegantly. In short, he made Sharon painfully aware that she was turning into a feral child, so it was important to stop her before the social isolation inevitably made her wear her pants on her head. When she asked them why the hell flowers of all things were their choice, she received no answer beyond a vague argument that botany was adequately idiot-proof. (“Aren't some plants poisonous?” “Some of them, yes. Venomous as well. And acidic. And carnivorous.” “How is that idiot-proof?”) Sharon realized that their little parade had stopped halfway to the greenhouse. She felt two pairs of eyes on her—one apathetic, one annoyed. She ignored them and instead looked at the building. It was... Nice? The elegant arch of its glass dome fit nicely with the whimsical architecture of Dalaran. It was green inside, with several figures seemingly lost in a peaceful conversation. Their unfamiliar faces made Sharon sweat. “Do you need a kick in the arse for good luck or something?” “Piss off, Tharien.” The idea of being in a room with several strange people was suffocating. Walking the streets was difficult enough. Walking the streets was something Sharon had to warm up to. Walking the streets took effort. Sharon felt like she barely had any effort left to spare. “Can we try this tomorrow?” she asked, suddenly aware of how sweaty her hairline was. The distance between her and the greenhouse seemed to stretch endlessly the longer she stood rooted in place. “Nope.” Sharon quietly wished somebody had explained the concept of baby steps to Tharien. All he ever knew was trial by fire. She tried regardless. “I wanna go home.” “Nope.” Someone inside the greenhouse laughed. It was a polite, relaxed sound, yet it grated on Sharon's nerves like a rusty saw. She's never been a particularly sociable person. True, back in the day she used to have some acquaintances at Sagehold who, perhaps, could've been called her friends, but those were ties made out of sheer convenience. Sharon was not the kind of person to go out of her way to meet new people. They just happened. Sometimes they stayed, which was fine. Sometimes they moved on, which was also fine. Sharon was even less sociable now that she knew every single person she ever saw could actually be a concealed K'thir, silently spreading its corruption and waiting to strike. (Sometimes, when things got really bad in her head, even the other denizens of the Keep didn't feel safe enough. On days like that Sharon pushed her dresser across the room to block the door and sat wrapped in blankets in the empty corner, back pressed flat to the wall. It made her feel marginally better as long as she was careful not to let her thoughts drift towards fire.) Sharon glanced over her shoulder. Tharien stood there with his arms crossed and gaze keen. Lara was a frozen picture of amiable serenity (which, frankly, still freaked Sharon out every now and then). Neither seemed particularly sympathetic to her plight. Assholes. Sharon sighed. “Will you let me go home after this lecture bullshit is over?” she asked bitterly and gestured at the greenhouse. One of the night elves inside turned around and was now watching her through the glass with a curious little smile on her face. Sharon scowled and tried very hard not to catch her gaze. (What if she turned into a fucking K'thir? Nowhere was safe from those monsters. How many of them walked the streets of Dalaran with none the wiser?) Predictably enough, Tharien scowled at her. “Bloody hell, just get in there and pretend to act like a normal person,” he growled. “Lara will come pick you up in two hours.” Sharon's skin suddenly started to crawl. “Two hours?” she snapped. “Two hours, you want to leave me—are you kidding?” Something ugly bubbled right beneath her skin. “Shae.” At this point Sharon was very familiar with Tharien's Trying Very Hard Not To Set Something On Fire voice. It meant he was trying, which is something she might've appreciated if only he didn't fucking trick her into this whole lecture bullshit. Granted, it's not like she had much choice in the matter, considering she had been picked up by her collar and dragged through a series of portals by a man completely impervious to her venomous tone. Fine, he hadn't exactly promised he would stay either. But it was implied, and Sharon was really tired of being fucked over by implications. She growled when Tharien put his arm around her shoulders. It weighed a ton. She hated that it somehow made her feel just a tiny bit better. “Shae, look—Lara is gonna sit on the balcony at the Lounge, the one overlooking the greenhouse.” He pointed at something. Sharon stubbornly refused look at it. “First sign of trouble and she will crash through this stupid roof and start smiting.” “Oh. Yes. Of course,” Lara piped up absent-mindedly. When Sharon glanced at her, the priestess' eyes were glazed over and unfocused. Well, that's bloody promising. “Alright?” Tharien muttered. He attempted to catch her gaze. Sharon stubbornly stared at her feet. He made it sound like a question, but they both knew it wasn't one. Tharien was... frankly, a very lenient (if not to say half-assed) caretaker—he had no issues with Sharon living like a hermit for months. For the longest time he was content to let her do things at her own pace. This, however, was Tharien Concerned. Something must've clicked in his head to make him realize that Sharon wasn't getting any better, and now he was a man on a mission. She had no bloody choice about the stupid greenhouse. No choice about the stupid lecture or plants she gave no fucks about. He wasn't going to let her burrow back into her hiding spot, not any more. ...She had a choice, actually. She could run. Sharon glanced at the greenhouse and then beyond, at a cobblestone road leading between the buildings. She was certain that if she suddenly started to run she could outrun Tharien, decked out in full armour as he was. She would have no chance against him out in the open, but... The man was like a battering ram—sharp turns were not really his strong suit. She could outmanoeuvre him in the hectic tangle of narrow streets and twisting alleys. She could leave him in the dust and go back home, back to her dusty room and deafening silence. Sharon resentfully toyed with the idea, but deep down she already knew she was not gonna do it. She didn't care much about pissing Tharien off, but... Well, she owed him. She owed him big time; a life debt is not the kind of thing you can simply brush off like it's nothing. Sharon was brought up with a deep aversion to debts instilled in her from the very beginning. If Tharien wanted her to waste an evening on flowers or whatever, that's exactly what he was going to get. In and out. No chatting. Just get this shit over with. She could do it—sit in the corner and pretend to listen to them talk about grass or whatever. Wait it out. All she has to do is wait it out and then Lara will pick her up and they will go back to the Keep and Sharon will barricade herself in her room for a week. Sharon took a deep breath. “Yeah,” she grunted. “Alright.” She could handle it.

[lamesorrow]

Stagnation

Time: Right before the Fall of Quel'Thalas.

(TW: Substance abuse and its consequences. Gross and stinky.)

-

At some point he stopped counting days. There was no point, really; days, weeks, months, they all clumped together into a tasteless pulp that was all just an endless repeat of the same and the same and the same.

Baelklad's day (or, as he liked to call it, his everyday) started with a bottle of something cheap and vile, just to get him going. Then he would get dressed, choosing whichever clothes didn't stink too much, grab a few coins—few enough that wouldn't hurt too much if someone robbed him, which wasn't unusual—and then he would walk downstairs to the main room of whatever inn he was currently calling home.

Sometimes he would pick fights, just because. Most of them he won, because even drunk he was still bigger and stronger than most of his opponents, but some of them he lost, and then he woke up under the table or in a trash pile behind the inn. Once he found a dagger sticking out of his thigh. It was enough of a disruption to the routine that he remembered it. He kept the dagger but then lost it somewhere. (He lost a lot of things these days, but he no longer had anything worth missing.)

Usually he just sat there on whatever bench had the best view of the main room, pouring mug after mug of cheap booze down his throat. He spent whatever money he brought from the room and then dragged himself back to bed, secure in the knowledge that the next everyday meant nothing but more coins, more booze and more numbness.

Baelklad never really wanted the money, but he couldn't insult the memory of his fallen brothers by refusing his cut; according to their sacred custom, the one older than Baelklad himself, after the battle the riches of the fallen were distributed evenly amongst the surviving members of the battle brigade. In the end Baelklad, Tami and Langren had inherited a combined wealth of thirty accomplished dwarven mercenaries. An abundance of wealth. A ticket to a better future for anyone with a plan.

What it meant for Baelklad is that he got so much gold it was almost certain his liver was going to kill him long before he put any noticeable dent in his undeserved fortune.

(He should have died with them. He should have been the grave number thirty-one, always the odd one but always in the right place amongst the dwarves—amongst his people.)

He closed his eyes and dug his fingers into his hair, trying to coax the raging headache into leaving him the fuck alone. Sometimes, before he drowned his brain in alcohol, Baelklad wondered what the others would've said if they knew he was wasting their life savings on cheap booze.

He wondered what his father would've said if he knew that his firstborn son—his biggest investment, his hopes and dreams all in one big defective package—was currently swaying on his feet in a dingy room, trying not to puke all over the floor of... uh... the inn. Where was he again?

Baelklad frowned. Actually, he wasn't sure where exactly he was.

Then again, what did it matter?

He licked his chapped lips. Waking up with a brain so bone-dry he could hear it rattling in his skull was something he had gotten used to ages ago, but the thirst... The thirst was a constant thing, one that could force his legs to move no matter how tired he was.

He found a pair of leather trousers crumpled up in the corner of the room. There was a flaking smudge of dry puke on them. Meh. As long as it wasn't piss, Baelklad could deal with it.

Hell, on some everydays even piss wasn't a dealbreaker.

Something in Baelklad's stomach gurgled dangerously when he tried to align his foot with the right hole in his trousers. A familiar sour taste flooded his mouth, so he tilted his head back and swallowed it down. For a hot minute the world flipped itself upside down, which did nothing for Baelklad's fine motor skills, so he clenched his puffy eyes shut and committed to muscle memory.

It took him a minute—an hour?—but eventually he managed to stand up—when the fuck did he sit down?—and open his eyes. The lopsided contour of the door promised great things: booze and alcoholic oblivion. He was ready for both; he put the trousers on, after all. Some scrap of conscious thought still flickering in the back of his aching head reminded him that he probably needed a shirt too.

The shirt conundrum proved very easy to solve because, as it turned out, Baelklad was already wearing one—it was stretched out, threadbare and discoloured with old sweat. A more thorough inspection revealed that he was also wearing boots—a fact he really should've noted during the laborious process of putting on trousers, but somehow didn't.

Oh well.

Rise and shine, it's a brand new everyday, Baelklad thought tiredly. He grabbed a few silver coins from the dresser and reached for the doorknob, ready to face the rest of his awful life.

….And then somebody knocked on the door.

Pain exploded inside his skull. Every infernally loud knock felt like it was drilling directly into his brain.

Baelklad clenched his teeth and helplessly pawed at his ears—stupid pointless pointy things, he should've chopped them off decades ago...

“Piss off!”

The knocking stopped for one blessed second and then it started again, even more insistent and painful than before.

He blindly reached for the doorknob and almost tore it off the door in some fleeting hope to fling it at the scum responsible for the merciless auditory attack aimed at his vulnerable, hungover brain.

There was nobody there.

Baelklad swallowed an indignant hiccup and suspiciously looked around. Spare for the stink of ancient sweat, sour and biting hint of half-digested ale, and the odour of cheap perfumes that his neighbour just loved to overuse, there was not a soul on the other side of the door.

Baelklad frowned and stepped back into his room, about to close the door when a painfully familiar voice came from somewhere on his knee level.

“They told me you would be here.”

He looked down.

Tami. Fuck.

He glared at her from under his puffy eyelids. His skin crawled a little when he realized how much different she looked from... fuck, when was the last time he saw her? How many years had passed since then?

The gnome's sunny disposition was gone, replaced by an unnaturally sombre expression. Her pale gaze burned as it mercilessly slid up and down Baelklad's body, meticulously taking note of the details of his downfall. A dark frown that followed was to be expected—he was, admittedly, in a pretty sorry state.

Not that he cared. It was his life and there was not much to it outside of cheap inns, cheap booze and an absolute lack of cheap whores, because his appearance always attracted the type of people that did completely nothing for him. Because fuck him in particular. Or, in this case, not fuck. Whatever. He needed booze more than he needed dick.

“Go away, I'm busy,” he muttered. His ears twitched when they registered how bloody hoarse and squeaky his voice sounded—as if he had chugged down a bucket of razors and washed it down with a neat glass of acid.

Tami frowned and decisively pushed her foot forward, planting it firmly against the door frame. As if that could possibly stop Baelklad. She was a fucking gnome—he could grind her into paste with his bare hands.

...He didn't close the door, because that would hurt her foot and he would sooner rip his own eyes out of his head and shove them up his arse than hurt Tami Twincog.

Baelklad let out a defeated sigh as the pale-haired gnome folded her arms and marched into the room.

“Busy,” Tami echoed dryly. She glared at the interior of Baelklad's temporary home and scrunched up her nose. “Busy with what? Ugh, when was the last time you've done any laundry..?”

Years—decades?—ago he might've felt ashamed by the disgust in Tami's voice, but now Baelklad just shrugged and glanced around the room. Small and cramped, filled with creaky wooden furniture... Dirty mattress, dirty clothes on the ground, sticky bottles on every even remotely horizontal surface.

No sword.

He had no need for it these days. Hell, he couldn't bear even looking at it any more. The sword was a painful memento of a century he had spent amongst his dwarven brothers, so he put it in the vault and never looked back. To wield the blade that Angus had forged for him would feel too much like sacrilege—it deserved far better hands than those of a drunkard. Most of his disputes could very easily be solved with boots and fists. Teeth, sometimes.

Baelklad growled quietly when he noticed that his hands were shaking. He ran his scarred fingers through his hair, wincing slightly when they came back shiny and slippery with grease.

Holy shit, he was disgusting.

Tami's sigh made him turn his bloodshot gaze to the gnome. She was still looking around with a very unamused frown on her face—where the fuck did those wrinkles around her eyes and mouth come from?—either unaware or uncaring of the turmoil her very presence brought him. She was jarring, like a ray of sunshine that had accidentally strayed too far into the dark below. Something out of another life, one that he tried very hard not to remember too well.

“Langren died. Last month.”

Something in Baelklad chest came to a grinding halt.

“Who got him?”

The question was out before his brain caught up to the idea that was just... no. No.

Tami smiled. It was a dry, tired smile.

“Old age,” she said softly.

Baelklad stared at her blankly.

Langren wasn't even that old, he wanted to protest, but that was childish and simply untrue; the dwarf was ancient by the standards of his race.

He was, Baelklad realized numbly, his oldest friend.

Remorse washed over him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Worse than nausea, worse than stale beer, worse than blood. Every year he planned to go visit Langren, just to see how the dwarf was holding up, and every year he ended up calling it off for one reason or another. (Booze. It was because of booze. Every year he called it off because he was too drunk to bloody move.)

How fucking ironic that the moment he heard about the old man's passing, Baelklad suddenly found himself focused and ready to go—fuck, he could up and leave right now.

But it was too late, and he was never going to see his friend ever again.

Fuck.

Tami watched him. A peculiar mix of sympathy and disappointment in her gaze... It was unbearable. It made his skin fucking crawl.

Baelklad wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, in complete silence. Unbidden memories flooded his head and he couldn't deal with them. Not now—he was too sober for that. Fuck, not ever—he was too messed up for that.

“Baelklad,” Tami said an eternity later. “You need to... to stop this thing you're doing, alright?”

He bared his fangs in response. (Way, way, waaaay too sober for that.)

“I don't need to do shit. What the fuck is even your point?”

It came out too sharp, too high-pitched for him. Defensive in a way he couldn't afford to be, because there was nothing left worth defending in him. All that would bring was strife and Baelklad was long beyond strife. Daily intake of booze took care of that.

Hearing about Langren hurt. Baelklad was used to things hurting, but the pain was usually dulled by a comfortable blur of intoxication. Its edges were filed down, degraded into a vague discomfort that he could make himself ignore. Now there was nothing standing between him and the harsh, merciless reality.

It left him reeling, too big and jagged for his shrivelled skin to contain. He instinctively grabbed the first bottle he saw. He had no idea if there was anything to be found on the bottom, but right now he felt ready to suck the last mucky dregs from the floor around a leaking keg.

For a second Tami looked like she was going to punch him. For a second he wondered whether it was really her—this woman with worry etched deep into the lines on her face, she was nothing like the bushy-tailed kid he remembered.

“My point is that you need to get your shit together, Baelklad. It's just the two of us now. I need you to take care of yourself.”

Okay, so he really didn't like this new Tami. He wished she had never found him.

“All I'm—HEY!”

Funny how that old trick worked every time. A gnome's only weakness—being picked up by the collar.

“Sorry, kid,” Baelklad muttered, “but I'm not in the mood for a pep talk.”

She dropped her on the floor outside and immediately slammed the door before she could turn around and barrel right back in. A second before the lock clicked, Tami started kicking and yelling.

Baelklad leaned against the door and tried not to puke.

Now he really needed a drink.

[lamesorrow]

Control

Time: A century (and several decades) ago.

-

Despite the refreshing chill of late morning air Tharien finds himself sweating buckets under the ornate cloth of his new robe. His wand feels unnatural in his clumsy hand, damp fingers slipping on the smooth wooden handle.

Worst of all, he can feel all his classmates watching him with ravenous curiosity. They are all only eleven years old, still young enough not to fully concern themselves with proper etiquette. While older elves humour him with indulgent words and hollow encouragements, his fellow students respond with gleeful cruelty. They want to see him fail.

Tharien is not surprised. For years now they've been hearing about his unprecedented arcane potential. A Grand Magister in the making, his first teacher used to say. Destined for greatness, his mother used to whisper between gentle caresses.

It must be so satisfying to see him taken down a peg or two.

A whisper and a muffled giggle. Tharien tightens his fingers on the wand. He wants to be somewhere else. He wants to be out of his sticky robes. He wants his new teacher to stop playing with the grimoire and start the lesson. He wants this lecture to be over with.

The Light apparently feels inclined to answer at least one of his prayers. Arcanist Emberwood clears his throat and closes the book with a resounding thud.

“Well then,” he says cordially, “I suppose we might not be quite ready for aimed spells after all. Today we will try something simple again—a little refresher, if you will. Open your copies of Manaweaving Theory for Young Mages on page thirty-eight...”

Something cold and burning fills Tharien's veins. They are not quite ready because of him. The entire class is being held back because of him, and they know. He wants to argue, pretend that it’s not all his fault, yet in the end he doesn't say anything because the absence of Alhania Blazebringer feels so acute it makes him wonder if that's what phantom pain feels like. He put her in the academy's infirmary because he couldn't stop his magic from lashing out during a simple exercise.

Tharien tries very high not to sigh. Tries even harder not to cry—that would be the end of him if his father heard about it. (Tharien is a good son, he will not disappoint his father. Never again.)

He obediently opens his battered book and flips through the pages until he finds himself looking at the exercise section of Chapter Three: How To Tame Your Mana.

Someone snorts softly and Tharien feels his ears burn. He clenches his teeth and tries to ignore a prickling shiver that runs down his spine.

“We will not be working in groups today,” Emberwood says, apparently blissfully unaware that one of his students is about to suffer a mental breakdown. (Never again.) “Consider it an exercise in personal growth. Patience and caution are essential traits of every successful mage. Young Lady Silverwind, Young Lady Summerflight and Young Lord Sunbringer are allowed to skip the beginner section and go straight to page forty-two.”

Patience and caution, Tharien thinks angrily and pulls the book closer.

He can do it. He can.

*

“Ah.”

Tharien doesn't need to look up to know that Arcanist Emberwood is standing right behind him, so he doesn't. He keeps his eyes fixed on the tip of his wand instead.

He carefully traces the lines of the simple arcane rune. It's difficult not to be aware of the fact that all his classmates are already done with the exercise and are now staring at him with malicious curiosity, so Tharien pretends that he's sitting all alone in his mother's spacious library. Just him and the book, maybe his mother's familiar curled up in his lap, maybe a glass of cold milk on the desk. A bowl of strawberries. It's easier to focus when he thinks of strawberries instead of smirks.

His fingers are shaking slightly as he dutifully draws arcane lines over the page.

The point of the exercise is to teach children how to properly channel their magic—it's one of the basics, the foundations, the very building blocks of arcane theory. The diagram is enchanted to respond to mana that gets poured into it so that students can see a visual representation of their mistakes—the parts where they unleashed too much magic or the ones where its flow was disturbed.

Tharien's entire rune is a huge mess.

He slowly traces the largest circle, trying to focus on controlling the flow of mana. No matter what he does, though, he can't get it right—the page is covered in arcane residue from where the magic focused on the tip of the wand suddenly bubbled up for no good reason. Sometimes his mana stops flowing completely, leaving dull gaps in the diagram. Here and there it leaves glowing splotches that look like spilled ink. He should be able to do it. Everyone else can do it.

“Young Lord Flameheart... I strongly suggest you start taking your studies more seriously. There is only so far your inherent affinity will carry you.”

It's the gentle disapproval in Arcanist Emberwood's voice that makes something inside Tharien balloon up, and the next thing he knows a sudden burst of magic rips the training wand apart, sending wood splinters flying. A massive splash of glowing residue spreads over the enchanted page. After a second of stunned silence somebody in the backgrounds lets out a sharp laugh. Two, three seconds and another voice joins the chorus. As the Arcanist struggles to get the class back under control, Tharien's book gains a few more smears—red this time, from trembling fingers cut on sharp splinters.

He is eleven years old and he really, really, really wishes he were somewhere else, someone else.

[lamesorrow]

Staying Busy

Time: After the Brigade's first mission in Gilneas.

-

The key, Sharon thought, was to keep herself busy. The urge to lock herself up in her quarters with nothing but a bottle of wine for company, while still tempting as hell, was a little easier to resist when she was convinced that she still had something important to do. Something that simply couldn't wait. Something that had to be done, right now. Proper priorities meant she had no time to entertain the idea of solitude.

While the theory was sound, the unfortunate truth was that all the “important things to do” she's been coming up with were outright bullshit. The Blackfall was her beloved ship and she treated all her duties with diligence and enthusiasm, so all the potential tasks—even the annoying and time-consuming ones, which would've been perfect right now—were long finished.

Still, Sharon knew from experience that she needed something—anything—to stop herself from withdrawing into silence and isolation.

It happened to her once, right after she left Stormsong Valley with Tharien and Nereus. They rewarded her cooperation with a safe place to hide and enough time to heal. The thing is, Sharon had never really done any healing back then—she just holed herself up in her new room and let herself go numb. Eventually the only words that ever left her mouth were I don't want to talk about it and I want to be alone.

The situation lasted for several months. (Probably. At one point the everyday monotony started sort of merging together into a grey, endless time-slurry.) For the longest time nobody seemed to notice, probably because the Scourgeslayers were solitary and careless creatures with a very poor grip on concepts such as empathy or healthy coping mechanisms.

Meanwhile Sharon was an eighteen-year-old girl who had barely survived a destruction of her city, saw her friends and teachers turn into eldritch abominations, and almost died fighting her own order.

Being left to her own devices was very good for Sharon's comfort, but at the same time very bad for Sharon's everything else. Tharien, who himself was brutal by nature, only belatedly realized that human girls probably shouldn't act like feral badgers, and by then Sharon was almost a lost cause with nothing but scorn and aggression to her name.

The one good outcome of it all was that now, some three years later, the twenty-one-year-old Sharon knew exactly what not to do.

Do NOT get drunk.

Do NOT hide in your room.

Do NOT avoid people.

Do NOT think about the face on that mutant—

Well. Shit.

She forced the drawer open, winced at the loud clatter, and started arranging the cooking utensils on the counter. They were brand new—one of the few brand new things on the Blackfall—but Sharon figured it wouldn't hurt to check them for rust anyway.

The cutlery passed the inspection with flying colours, and so did the plates and mugs. The undersides of tables and chairs kept her occupied for a blissful while as she scrubbed them squeaky clean. Since she already had a scrubber in hand, moving on to cleaning the shelves and counters seemed like a reasonable idea.

If she kept her hands moving, she wouldn't see them shake.

[lamesorrow]

Thirty

Time: End of the 2nd War.

-

A rusty shovel bit deep into the ruddy ground, gravel and pebbles scratching noisily against weathered metal.

Strong muscles rippled under sunburned skin as the elf commonly known as Baelklad kept digging. Red dust clung to his legs and stained the dirty bandage wrapped around his chest. He didn't seem to mind, focused as he was on his task. The last portion of ashy dirt landed on the ground and the elf slowly straightened out his back, trying not to pull on the stitches too much.

He turned around and idly stared at the long row of identical mounds of red dirt. Twenty nine. The hole he was standing in was about to become the last one. He was almost done.

Baelklad crawled out of the hole, hissing quietly when his stitched flank protested with a sharp jab of pain. He sat on the edge and gave himself a minute or so to catch his breath. He was a very strong and resilient man, and yet he could feel himself rapidly approaching the hard limit of what his body could give. Light-headed, in pain and so exhausted he could barely see straight, all he wanted was to crawl into a cold mountain lake and fall asleep. Not think about anything for a while. Hell, not think about anything ever. Just... forget.

But first, his duty. He clumsily scrambled back to his feet. One more. Just one more.

His hands, made for violence, were almost unnaturally gentle as he slid them under his shroud-wrapped burden and carefully picked it up, stubbornly ignoring the painful pull of the stitches.

Baelklad let out a muffled groan. Ruddy gravel crunched unpleasantly. Something in the berserker's back crunched too. A spike of pain pierced his ankle and knee when he awkwardly slid down the hole, riding on top of a miniature avalanche.

The soil was mercifully cool as he gently placed his burden down. Remaining on his knees, Baelklad attentively adjusted the shroud. Like a mother fussing over some milkdrinker, a familiar voice in his head laughed. It made Baelklad's mouth twitch, torn between a smile and a sob.

“To the soothing embrace of the earth I return my brother, Balgenn Blackchain. Spirits of the ancestors, accept him as your own for he was a brave warrior, a good blacksmith and a cherished companion. Holy Light, guide his way for he walked the path of honour.”

His voice was so hoarse he could barely recognize it as his own. The noise that left his throat was more like the guttural snarling of the orcs than—

Baelklad scowled and pressed his dirty hand to the equally dirty shroud.

“You’ve done well, you bloody bastard.”

They have all done well, all thirty of them.

And now they were gone.

All thirty of them.

[lamesorrow]

The Fourth War: Shadow

Time: 8.2.5.

-

Well, that was anti-climatic.

Shadow pulled the cork out of the wine bottle and took a few sloppy gulps, ignoring a stray red drop that trailed down her chin. It broke Sylaris' character, but she figured she could cut herself some slack right now. She was annoyed enough with the fact that the sweet taste did nothing to ease the bitterness that seemed like a permanent fixture on the elf's tongue.

Shit, that was really anti-climatic.

She was not a woman of refined or complex tastes. Death and tragedy were more than enough to entertain her, and she had fully expected Orgrimmar to deliver on that front. After all it was such a promising setup; manipulated and scared idiots on one side, scorned and heartbroken idiots on the other. How could something like this not end with glorious slaughter?

As much as she enjoyed the idea of a sea of corpses, both human and orcish, being left in the war's wake, Shadow was fully prepared to do whatever she could to ensure that her side won the battle. Decked out head-to-toe in “borrowed” Sunreaver gear, she looked just like any other elven operative. She could move around freely and act without any consequences, cutting throats and stabbing backs.

And she had so many backs to stab! An entire list of them. No, really; Sariel gave her a list.

It made Shadow feel so incredibly fucking domestic. Only this time she was the Shadow while Sariel was the Mother. Or the Father, more like. Damn, was it time to find some dirty orphan for herself to foster? Only problem was that Shadow didn't like kids...

She walked past a row of spears, then slowly walked backwards and looked up.

Each pike was adorned with a severed head. Gruesome decorations left behind by the still-warm carcass of the regime and seemingly forgotten while the supporters of said regime were now frantically trying to convince everyone willing to listen that they never liked Sylvanas in the first place.

Shadow squinted at the faces of dead rebels. Three orcs, a troll, two elves... And a tauren whose head was apparently too big and heavy to fit on a pike, so they put ropes around the horns and left it hanging from the roof like some macabre Winter's Veil decoration.

Shadow briefly considered stealing it and putting it above the fireplace. In the end what stopped her was the fact that she didn't have a fireplace.

Did Father have a fireplace? He was adamant about not being like Mother, so maybe he would appreciate some rustic décor?

...Eh, not like the head would fit in her pocket anyway.

Shadow sipped on the booze and focused on one of the elves. She hummed in approval and put an appropriate mark next to a certain name on her mental checklist. It seems like this time the loyalists had done her work for her.

Shadow dropped the empty bottle on the ground, kicked it towards the line of pikes—her personal offering for the dead—and strolled down the street, fully determined to take full advantage of the excellent situation she had found herself in. Pure chaos engulfing the city was an assassin's wet dream. Emotions were running high, people were not thinking... If they saw a grunt's corpse in the corner they were going to assume that some scorned rebel had disgracefully decided to take justice into their own hands, not that said grunt happened to find himself on an infamous assassin's hit list.

She idly wondered if she was going to find Zycorax somewhere—either alive or on a pike. Or maybe in chains—Shadow saw quite a few of those, usually on stubborn loyalists who apparently had the balls to stick to their beliefs even after the tide has turned. It was actually surprising how few of them she saw around, and—hilariously enough—the worst offenders seemed not to be amongst them.

Ah, gotta love all that cowardly vermin! Fanatically loyal to their queen and more than eager to rule Orgrimmar with an iron—and bloodied—fist in her name, and then suddenly very happy to crawl in the dirt, hoping for forgiveness from the very same people they had oppressed for months. Many of those freshly-reformed villains were seething with barely controlled rage, and yet they forced their protesting backs to bend anyway. It was beautiful to behold.

That, more than anything, had reassured Shadow that her choice was right. Maybe she didn't quite get all the bloodshed she was hoping for out of this whole deal, but all those grovelling former loyalists were such a tasty morsel for a creature that fed on strife.

Fun!

[lamesorrow]

Newborn, Sort Of

Time: The Illidari at the Black Temple.

-

He's always been good at climbing—especially when it involved slipping in and out of the various bedrooms of Quel'Thalas—but with this new, strange magic coursing through his veins he found himself scaling the ruined fortifications of Karabor with almost unnatural ease. When he found a large gap in the wall he simply let his wings unfurl, glided gracefully through the air and landed very ungracefully on the other side, sprawled and clinging to the wall like a flying squirrel flattened against a tree bark.

Close enough, he thought with a grin, firmly grabbed a chipped brick to pull himself up and continued his journey upwards.

Soon he found a patch of relatively flat wall to sit on, located very close to the tip of the spire and at the same time completely invisible from the ground level. Judging from the crumbs, a discarded blindfold and a stray bottle of wine—empty, he checked—some of the other Illidari had discovered the place as well.

Once upon a time Sahein Firesoul wouldn't be caught dead in a grimy, dirty place like this, but today he just smirked, weighted the empty bottle in his hand and chucked it into the air. He cackled quietly to himself and leaned forward, letting his new sight expand. He started to count.

When he got to 'six' he heard a painful yelp followed closely by a furious roar when, many floors down, an unsuspecting fel orc was hit in the head by a flying bottle and took his frustration out on his equally unsuspecting comrades.

Still snickering under his breath, Sahein sprawled on the ground, propped his feet up on a crumbling brick and let himself relax. He idly watched the sky, dark and torn apart by volatile magic. Somewhere down below him, the noise of a fight slowly started to die down as furious roars were replaced by pained grunts of orcs dragging their sorry hides to whatever stinky corners they crawled into to lick their wounds.

They all might've been creatures of fel—demons, trash, filth—but Sahein still couldn't help but feel infinitely better than these graceless, lumbering oafs. He smirked to himself, reassured in the knowledge that he was vastly superior and nothing like these walking piles of meat that were good for nothing but a grinder. After all, they were but filthy, fel-crazed orcs. Little more than demons. And Sahein was a demon hunter.

No, not just that—he was an enforcer now.

Right... speaking of enforcing...

Sahein's long ears twitched and he was on his feet in an instant, hopping on top of the ruined spire. His newly acquired instincts were flawless—he could sense the disturbance in the air, and from his perch high above the temple grounds his sight fell over the area like a shroud, filling all the nooks and crannies. The unmistakable sensation of a demon going wild was vibrating in his bones, filling him with anticipation and an odd sense of hunger.

He hopped off the spire, completely undisturbed by the height that only years ago would've made his head spin. He spread his wings and elegantly glided through the air, not even bothering to reach for his axes. He could hear screams and snarls coming from the infirmary where the newbies were being treated.

He landed on the ground and strolled towards the entrance. He wasn't in a hurry. Newbies were not dangerous to anyone but themselves—or maybe the Broken—and the majority of them was going to die anyway. Of course deep down he considered the fact atrocious and horrible, but after going through the initiation himself... well, he was now confident that for those unfit to become demon hunters, an early death was a mercy.

The current troublemaker was not dead, though. Sahein scrunched up his nose when he noticed a howling redhead cowered in bloodied bandages. The initiate was straddling a Broken healer, trying to slash the poor mutant's throat open with his newly acquired claws. He was so crazed he didn't even notice the enforcer's approach.

Sahein grabbed the man by the throat.

“You. Get the hell outta here,” he grunted at the healer and unceremoniously threw the aspiring demon hunter across the corridor.

The elf bounced right off the wall and screamed in primal fury, trying to reach for Sahein with his transformed hands. Avoiding the claws was easy—it was obvious that the man couldn't use his spectral sight at all and somehow depended entirely on the other senses, dulled and confused as they were.

Sahein sidestepped the attack and slammed his fist into the other man's sternum. He grinned viciously when he heard the unmistakeable sound of ribs snapping one by one under the force of the blow.

The newbie fell to his knees, but the enforcer was not going to give him a chance to get up again. Sahein gracefully stepped around the initiate and sent him sprawling over the ground with one well-aimed kick to the elf's arse.

“I know everything is pretty damn scary right now, but you really gotta chill out,” he quipped and unceremoniously sat down on the fallen initiate.

The newbie let out a muffled groan, half-furious and half-pained when air was squeezed out of his lungs. Sahein mercifully shifted his weight to avoid putting too much pressure on the man's broken ribcage. He crossed his arms and waited.

At first the initiate tried to struggle—he planted one clawed hand on the floor and tried to push the enforcer off, but his efforts turned out to be futile. He was weak—not just compared to a full-fledged demon hunter, but in general. The transformation was not going easy on the poor bastard.

The enforcer winced. For a few months right after his ascension his personality had changed quite dramatically; he became sharper, more brutal, more remorseless. Was it fel? Was it the demon? Or maybe it was the intoxicating sense of power? And yet the more he settled into this new routine, the more he felt himself going back to how he used to be, once upon a time.

It felt like he was trying to balance between two versions of himself. One Sahein gleefully threw a bottle at an orc just to see it fight. The other Sahein...

He looked down, cautiously reached out, and gently buried his fingers in the initiate's hair.

The newbie snarled and strained against the enforcer's weight. He could feel tired muscles of the initiate's shoulders tense up, in preparation for—what? Punishment? Pain?

“Calm down, you big dumbass,” Sahein muttered and scratched the elf behind the ear.

In retrospect he wondered if the unexpected gesture was what had snapped the man out of it. The initiate flinched, but two awkward scratches later his muscles slowly started to relax. He turned his head, trying to crane his neck and look at his oppressor; fruitlessly, of course.

“What—?” the elf growled, and then his face hit the floor when the last of his strength had finally left him.

“Hi,” Sahein said. He moved his hand and rubbed the back of the initiate's neck, satisfied with the fact that the elf twitched but otherwise didn't protest. “You went a little nuts. Don't worry, it happens,” he explained. Then, when the other elf let out a pained groan, he slowly amended: “And I kind of broke your ribs. Sorry about that. If it's any consolation, the alternative was to kill you.”

Sahein, shifted his weight, prompting a strained grunt out of the redhead.

Damn, he really was a natural at this enforcing business, wasn't he?

[lamesorrow]

A Very Bad Survival Guide

Time: The fall of Quel'Thalas.

-

Sahein's initial oh fuck of pure disbelief had quickly turned into a frantic litany of fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck before ultimately becoming an endless stream of incoherent mental gibberish as panic had finally set in.

He slammed the window shut and froze motionless, breathless and wide-eyed, suspended in darkness.

The blinds did nothing to block out the sounds—the screams. Coming from the gates, coming from  the streets, coming from...

...downstairs?

Sahein held his breath. His long ears twitched nervously when they picked up the sound of... scratching, smacking, something dragging itself up the stairs...

His first instinct was to barricade the door somehow, turn the room into an impenetrable fortress, hunker down and wait for them—those creatures—to just leave him alone. But then the stairs creaked under the weight of another heavy footstep and all Sahein could think about was fleeing before that monster got to him too.

He moved quickly, walking on his tiptoes to stay as quiet as possible. The door opened with a barely audible click and for a second Sahein felt just the tiniest glimmer of hope, but the moment he slipped out of the room he heard a blood-curdling scream coming from the stairs.

He had only a second to register two blue dots in the corner of his eye and then pure panic propelled him forward. He slammed into the bedroom door and let out a high-pitched mewl when his sweaty hand slipped on the handle. He tried again and managed to get into his bedroom and kick the door closed right before something heavy struck them from the other side with the strength of a battering ram. The timing of it all made a panicked giggle escape his throat. It quickly turned into a desperate sob when he sprinted across the room, reaching the opposing wall in only three long strides.

The cacophony of pain and death struck him the moment he opened the balcony door, nearly stunning him for a moment. The street that spanned in front of him was full of fleeing elves and monsters that mercilessly hunted them down, as if the only thing fuelling them was the uncontrollable urge to kill, maim, consume, destroy.

Not like this, Sahein thought desperately and clumsily climbed the banister. Please, not me, not like this...

He's always been good at climbing. It came with the job, really; sometimes the spouse returned early and you had to slip out of the client's bedroom in the dead of the night without making much noise. He had once heard someone say that high-end courtesans would make magnificent spies or burglars, and he found the sentiment difficult to disagree with.

Now these skills could potentially save his life.

He mewled in panic when he heard the sound of hinges being ripped out of the wall. His legs were shaking, but he wasn't thinking about that. All he needed to do was get away from that thing—those things—and survive.

He jumped.

Muscle memory. His foot touched the banister of his neighbour's balcony, like it's done so many times in the past, and Sahein let his body carry him forward. Without losing momentum he took three quick steps, reaching the other end of the banister, and jumped again. Another balcony. Another balcony. Another balcony...

He reached the corner of the building, where a sprawling brass ornament attached itself to the wall. It allowed him to climb down enough to reach the roof of the potion shop. Instincts were screaming at him to get as far away from the pandemonium as he could, but it seemed like no matter where he went the streets were full of monsters and slaughtered elves.

A furious roar coming from somewhere way-too-close made his legs shake, but he didn't look back even when something swished next to his head. An arrow. They had archers. Of course they had archers.

Sahein reached the end of the roof and almost cried in sudden relief when he discovered that the narrow back alley was empty. It carried an echo of violence, but so far the monsters haven't poured into it. It was a golden opportunity; Sahein knew that, with some luck, that alley would take him deeper into the city and closer to the Spire.

Jump. Land. Roll...

As he was scrambling back to his feet, he heard screams coming from the right. Some stupid instinct made him glance in the direction of the noise, and the view made his knees buckle.

A golden-haired girl was running right at him, with her crimson dress billowing behind her like coiling smoke and her pretty face frozen in the kind of horrified expression that Sahein knew he was never going to forget. What moved right behind her was a mountain of rotting flesh—a pile of corpses haphazardly sewn together, somehow forced to move.

And it was moving quickly.

The hook impaled the girl from behind, almost tearing her in half. The right side of her stomach exploded in a fountain of blood, bile and shredded guts. Sahein stood there, completely petrified, only belatedly aware of something hot and wet streaming down his leg. It was like the sight had hypnotized him—he simply couldn't look away from the girl, from the way her arms were still flailing wildly, fingers scratching against the cobblestones. Her scream was unlike anything he's ever heard and it seemed to resonate in his bones, turning his stomach into a heavy slab of ice.

The girl's agony ended abruptly when the the undead abomination moved closer and stepped on her head, making it burst like an overripe fruit. The monster pulled at the chain, ripping the hook out of the girl's still-twitching body, and looked up.

Sahein started to run.

[lamesorrow]

Goodbye

Time: After Alunaria.

-

Sharon's new responsibilities as a temporary leader of the Band came with quite a headache.

Literally.

Dull pain pulsed somewhere behind her eyes as the young Elder (she still couldn't get over how funny it was to say these words together) heavily sank into the padded chair that she had borrowed from the nearby inn. Sharon pinched the bridge of her nose and blindly reached for the Botany Book.

The plan was to sit down with the Book and every single botanical index she could find and rapidly catch up with... well, with everything that she would need to know as the Band's new Elder. Her blooming headache was threatening to nip that effort in a bud, though.

Sharon opened the heavy book and cursed in surprise when a folded letter slipped out from where it was stuck between the pages. It swirled in the air like a fallen leaf, way too elusive for Sharon's clumsy hands, just to gently slide right under the heavy desk that Ethan liked to appropriate as a sitting spot.

Sharon closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

It took her a while to retrieve the letter, partially because the desk was heavy and partially because she had to sit down for a while and wait for the dizziness to pass. In the end Sharon decided to just stay on the ground with her legs crossed and her back propped against the desk. She tiredly rubbed her eyelids and flipped the letter open to give it a read.

When she was done she slowly looked up and blankly stared at the interior of the Greenhouse.

Some part of her expected it to be a joke, but Alunaria was not the kind of person to make fun of gullible human fools.

Those first few seconds after the words have finally sank into Sharon's head brought with them a vibrant sense of loneliness. She stared at the short letter—just four little sentences, vague and impassive.

All this time with the Band she's been on her very best behaviour, meticulously burying the snarky and grumpy child under amity and eagerness—fake it until you make it, Tharien told her on the day she had joined the Band—but now it took all her willpower not to crush the letter in her hand in some kind of childish denial that felt embarrassing even if ultimately she refused to act upon it.

“Why, Alunaria?” Sharon whispered. “And why now?”

The letter didn't offer any answers as she stared at it, her disbelief slowly turning into dread. She shook her head and read the four lines of text once again in some irrational hope that maybe she missed something, some crucial information, some important explanation. But no, that was it: the shortest goodbye she's ever seen, with no secret message hidden between the lines.

Anxiety didn't disappoint; one by one, unwanted thoughts started slipping into Sharon's head. You should've talked to her. You should've tried to understand her. You should've forged a stronger bond. You should've asked her not to go. You should've admitted that you want her to be your friend, someone more like a sister than an acquaintance. You should've told her that you want to rely on her even if you don't necessarily need to.

A part of her—a small part that was still slow to realize that she was trying to leave the antagonistic child behind and mature into a responsible young woman—felt betrayed and scorned.  That part, small but loud, wanted to take all that hurt and fling it right back at Alunaria. That part, ugly and entitled, was convinced that she, Sharon, deserves better than that, better than a short letter which didn't explain anything at all.

Sharon carefully folded the letter and weakly stood up, propping herself against the desk with her free hand. She only belatedly realized that the headache was gone, vanished so thoroughly as if never there in the first place.

Funny, that.

The Elder carefully inspected the Book. She flipped through the pages once again, foolishly hoping to find... something. Anything. She studied the neat rows of Alunaria's handwriting—from last week, from last month—and idly wondered if the elf was as heartbroken writing this letter as Sharon was reading it.

She didn't cry, because after Brennadam very few things could make Sharon Wells cry, but when Kuhuine arrived in the morning she found the young Elder still propped against the desk, as if waiting for something—or someone.

[lamesorrow]

Decisions, Decisions

Time: Many, many decades ago.

-

The idiotic couple that tried to tame her had obviously never dealt with Corner trash. For instance, they never even noticed when Little walked out of the dining hall with a shiny new knife hidden up her sleeve.

Now that knife was going to be Little's ticket to freedom.

“Her” bedroom was located on the first floor, which was annoying but not excessively so. What was important was that the room had a window—a large window with not a single metal bar, locked but otherwise perfect. Little could hardly believe her luck. Truly, the elves who ran the orphanage were stupid beyond words.

The only problem was her room-mate: a red-haired girl even younger than Little. She was shy and didn't speak much—in fact, Little has been stuck at the orphanage for two days now and so far she has never heard the girl utter a single word to anyone except the caretaker woman. Definitely not a promising escape partner, that one.

After supper—during which Little shoved as much food into her mouth as she physically could, because while those short stays at the City's various orphanages always were damaging to her ego, only an idiot would pass on an opportunity to eat free food—the children were herded to their respective bedrooms.

Obedience made her insides twist and turn, but Little did as she was told without a single complaint. It was not her first party, after all. She still remembered how infernally difficult it was the first time the guards had snatched her off the street; back then she had no idea how to behave and as such ended up lashing out like a wild animal, prompting the caretakers to stuff her into a secure room that didn't even have a doorknob. If not for a stroke of good luck, Little would probably still be stuck at that damned orphanage. The thought of her narrowly avoided grim future made her shiver. She was never, ever going to let it happen again.

At least that brutal first learning experience had taught her what not to do. This time, when her short legs failed to keep her safe from the city guard's grasping fingers, Little approached her imprisonment with perfect calm. She communicated as clearly as she could, trying to temper her instantly recognizable Corner accent, and didn't bite anyone ever as they tore her clothes off and stuffed her into a tub full of foamy solution that soon became dotted with tiny corpses of dead fleas.

Truth be told, that bath and all the free food were the only thing Little didn't hate about her current situation. Her body didn't itch as much any more and her stomach stopped rumbling. That was nice.

For many that promise of basic hygiene and warm food was enough to keep them shackled. It was the reason why Little's group would randomly grow and shrink all the time. Granted, the ones that appeared and disappeared were usually kids from other districts. Softer, gentler and easier to tame than Corner trash. No wonder for many of them the comfort of an orphanage was more important than freedom.

Little couldn't wrap her head around it, but she tried not to judge. Not for empathy, of course, but for simple selfishness that came naturally to a girl like her. Other people's problems were not her problems. If they were happy then Little had no reason to care. She had her own shit to deal with.

Like winning back her freedom.

Little laid in bed for what she hoped was at least an hour, struggling against the comfort that had her eyelids slowly slide closed. Even a rat as street-hardened as her had a difficulty resisting the warmth and softness that enveloped her body. For one treacherous moment she even considered drifting off and staying at the orphanage for another night, so she pinched her cheek to sober herself up. This comfort was a damn trap, one that would rob her of freedom and independence.

When Redhead's breathing became soft and slow, Little scrunched up her nose and slowly pushed the covers down. She made no sound as she sneaked out of bed and crawled closer to the window. Her long ears were twitching every few seconds, trying to pick up the faintest noises—like the change in Redhead's breathing or soft footsteps outside the room.

Two days at the orphanage had given Little plenty of time to familiarize herself with the outlay of the building and come up with a decent escape route. All she had to do was get the window open.

She silently took off the sleeping gown and squeezed herself back in the clothes she was wearing during the day. A shirt, a skirt, a vest, socks, shoes... The guards had burned Little's own rags when she was stuck in the flea-killing bath, so now she had to improvise. She hated the clothes the orphanage had given her, but there was no way in hell she was going to show up in the Corner wearing a sleeping gown.

The knife was small and dull, but it was more than enough for Little's purposes. The girl slowly approached the window and cast a cautious glance at her room-mate. Luckily, Redhead was still asleep, arms loosely crossed over her chest.

Little suddenly realized that her fingers were itching around the knife. For some reason her head filled with a faint urge to take the blade and...

The girl watched Redhead's throat with eerie fascination.

She realized that she's curious. Curious to see if she could cut through the girl's throat. Curious to see if she could do it without making her scream. Curious to see if she would die. Curious to see how long it would take her to die. And so, so, so damn curious to see how the stupid caretakers would've reacted in the morning if they entered the room just to see the girl slaughtered like a pig...

Little blinked and thoughtfully looked at the knife in her hand. What would it feel like?

She shook her head and looked away. The urge was gone and Little was left to wonder just where the hell it came from in the first place. She was not violent by nature—at least not by the Corner's standards. Many of her friends wouldn't think twice about beating a beggar to death to steal his coins, but Little wasn't like that. Then again, maybe it's because she was so small and weak that she subconsciously knew it wouldn't end well? Maybe this sudden urge was a sign that she was finally growing up, turning into a proper bloodthirsty rat?

Little shook her head again and decided not to think about it for now. Maybe she would contemplate the odd feeling sometime later, when she's safely back in the Corner.

She sat on the windowsill and got to work. Luckily the lock was cheap and primitive. The knife was not an ideal tool, but the very tip of the blade could be pushed between the wood and the edge of a nail that secured the lock to the frame. Little bit down on the inside of her cheek and started patiently working the nail loose.

Every few minutes she had to pause and wait for Redhead to stop grunting or moving, but eventually Little managed to pull the nail out. The other one was much faster to deal with since now the elf could gently manipulate the lock itself to try and get the best angle.

The hinges didn't make a single sound when Little carefully pushed the window open. Last night she had meticulously coated them in oil from a small lamp she had smuggled into the room.

She slipped through the window and slowly closed it behind her, because it wouldn't be good if a gust of wind woke Redhead up. The she sat down on the wide windowsill and grinned.

Freedom! She could practically taste it.

Little held onto the windowsill as she slowly lowered herself to the ground, careful not to make any sound as she finally landed on her feet. She froze for a second, straining her ears to pick up any noise, but the night was silent—or at least as silent as a city night could be. She started slowly walking next to the wall, right under the line of windows. It was much less risky that way, even if it took more time.

All windows were dark—except one. Little chewed on the inside of her cheek and contemplated a large splash of light which poured from the caretakers' room and formed a large window-shaped mark on the grass.

Little hesitated, unsure what the next course of action should be. She could wait for them to go to sleep, but hell knows how long it would take... not to mention that the call of freedom was becoming impossible to ignore. She was out of the building and that alone was enough to make her giddy. She wanted to go and leave it all behind.

Despite the haughtiness of her thoughts, her steps were light and slow. Inch by inch... She found herself right under the caretakers' window. The worst was already behind her. Now all she had to—

She glanced at the light on the grass... and almost choked on a gasp when a shadow suddenly appeared right in the middle of it. Little pushed herself against the wall and bared her tiny fangs when she heard a soft creak and the window right above her swung open.

“I've had enough of this,” a female voice announced tiredly.

Move. Move. Move! Leave, go back, go back, go away...

The shadow didn't budge.

Little opened her mouth wide and tipped her head back. A while ago she had learned that she can breath much more quietly this way: breathing through the nose could always produce a soft whistling noise, not to mention it sometimes didn't provide enough air. Like this, with her mouth wide open, Little could breathe slowly and deeply and she could stay like that for a long time, as long as she didn't accidentally suck in a bug or dust or anything else that could make her cough.

“We never go anywhere. We never do anything. It's driving me insane—it's just the children, always the children.”

Little's ears twitched. The female caretaker's voice sounded tired and dejected. Wooden windowsill creaked slightly when the woman propped her hands on it and leaned forward. Shit. Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down...

“It was your idea, Sanya,” a male voice said. It took Little a moment to recognize it as belonging to the male caretaker—he barely spoke and seemed to rarely be present at the orphanage. “You said you need to do something meaningful with your life,” the man continued. His voice was firm but understanding, but the woman still grunted in frustration.

“I know!” she hissed. “I know. I want to enjoy this life. But each passing year—I can feel it draining me. I look at our girls and—it makes me feel so hopeless because I know we will never save all of them. It's hard. It's too hard...”

Shadows shifted. The woman turned around when her companion approached and Little idly watched a dark projection of an embrace.

“I know,” the man said quietly.

Little clenched her eyes shut. Her left leg, awkwardly curled up and yet forced to support most of her weight, was starting to pulse with piercing pain, but the young elf didn't want to risk moving it and causing any noise, not when the caretakers were so close.

She winced when she heard a soft smacking noise. Gross.

After a long minute, during which Little genuinely considered jumping into the room and stabbing those disgusting elves with her knife, the kiss finally ended. “How about,” the man whispered, and his voice was so low it sounded almost like a purr, “we go have a very nice, very relaxing, very long bath together? You said we never do anything any more. I might have some ideas...”

Little rolled her eyes. Then she rolled her eyes again when the woman giggled and initiated another round of disgusting smacking sounds.

She patiently waited for the door to close behind the elves and then spent another long minute in perfect silence before she finally allowed herself a deep sigh of relief. Her leg hurt so much she had to clench her teeth to stop herself from whining as she slowly stretched it out.

That was close. Way too close, Little thought grimly as she carefully pushed herself up to her feet. She idly wondered what the caretakers would've done if they discovered her curled up under their window. Lock her up in the basement, perhaps?

Little rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath. No matter, because she was not going to let herself get caught. Now the caretakers were gone, and they were going to be gone for a while, so Little had plenty of time to...

Her ears twitched and she slowly looked up. The window was still open... and this one had no bars either.

Huh.

Little hesitated. The window felt... inviting. But...

Sure, she was a cutpurse—and a pretty decent cutpurse at that. Smaller than most other rats, but also faster. She rarely left the market without at least a few copper coins in her pocket. She had never stolen anything from a house, though.

...Until now.

Thin fingers grabbed the edge of the window and the young elf clumsily pulled herself up. She was light and strong, but the skirt she was wearing made climbing difficult. Little cursed quietly under her breath and awkwardly crawled over the wide windowsill.

Her shoes clicked softly when she landed on the ground and the elf froze, listening for footsteps. The bathing area was on the opposite side of the building, but... better safe than sorry. When she made sure that the caretakers were not going to burst through the door to catch her, Little slowly walked across the room.

It was small and it would've probably felt somewhat cramped if not for the sparsely placed furniture. Just a wide bed, a cupboard and a vanity table. That last one immediately attracted Little's attention, but she was very disappointed to discover that it contained no jewellery spare for a few thin silver rings. Then again... the orphanage didn't look particularly rich, so perhaps it was no wonder that the caretakers couldn't afford expensive golden jewellery. Truth be told, Little wasn't entirely sure what to do with the rings in the first place. Find a fence, probably. She would have to figure out whether or not Old Copperfang was still in business...

Little gave the other contents of the vanity table an impassive look. She found a bottle of cheap perfume, a small wooden palette of colourful eyeshadows and a few waxy lipsticks. A dense hairbrush didn't interest her much, but the colours...

Little looked up. Her reflection in the mirror smirked at her devilishly from behind a curtain of curly black hair that the caretaker tried to style—futilely—only last night. Little tilted her head to the side and contemplated her face. Small, gaunt, with huge blue eyes... She raised the lipstick.

In a few seconds her reflection was decorated with a pair of red cat ears and whiskers. Little snickered to herself and drew some skulls around the edges of the mirror, then a chicken, then a crude dick... Too bad she didn't know how to write; she would've loved to leave a message to the people who tried to tame her, just to show them how much they had failed.

Then again, Little thought as she once again giggled at the drawings, they say a picture is worth a thousand words...

She opened the box of eyeshadow, and revelled in simple destructive pleasure as chalk started to crack under the pressure of her fingers. There was something incredibly satisfying about rubbing brown dust into the caretaker's pillowcase. Little gleefully went a step further and poured perfume over the sheets, but that turned out to be a poor decision as the suffocating smell quickly engulfed the entire room and made the elf's nose tingle.

Little pinched her nose and crept closer to the cupboard. She heard sometimes people store valuables under their clothes and she was eager to check if—

A sudden cry made the girl freeze in terror. She held her breath for a second and cursed loudly when that single cry immediately turned into an entire symphony of wailing coming from the adjacent room, where the youngest brats stayed in their cribs.

Shit, shit, shit, shit...

She threw herself at the window and crawled across the windowsill. Shit! She planned to be well on her way to the Corner by the time her caretakers returned from their disgusting bath. Why the hell did those little shits have to wake up now?!

Little ran across the courtyard and reached the narrow passage where the bulk of the orphanage met a small utility shed. It was a dead end where the caretakers stored some old barrels and chests. Children were not allowed to play there, but it's not like Little had ever cared for the rules, least of all in a situation like this.

She quickly climbed the barrels and jumped up. Like she expected, it didn't take much effort to climb the roof of the shed. From there all Little had to do was jump down and land in the narrow backstreet, which would lead her away from the damned prison.

She crouched at the edge of the roof and glanced over her shoulder. The caretakers' room was still empty. The brats were still howling.

She won.

Little bared her teeth in a ferocious grin, hopped off the roof and vanished in the shadows.

So long, suckers!