#Alba'vida | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

airanke · 7 years ago

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Love Came Down at Winter’s Veil

Holiday prompt #3! Sent in by @nadiaofazeroth!

👪 ….visiting/spending time with family!

Characters: Amita Dakini, Alba’vida (focus), Vo’ljin, Flidais Nevanthi, Pakhet Tohopka, Lor’themar Theron, Rokhan, Vanira, Jalga, Bujune Dakini.

Once I had this image in my mind, I had to get it out of my system. Not sure if this is how this conversation will go in Amita’s canon story (Lascivious Ophidian), but if anything, it’s been a good experiment to write! It was also a fun experiment in writing Amita interacting with her good friends, Flidais and Pakhet. Of course, it was also a lot of fun to include more interactions between the leaders and how I Headcanon them. The title is also a modification of the Christmas Carol title, “Love Came Down at Christmas”. Hope you enjoy it! -- oh, and yes. Amita’s Zandali name makes an appearance.

Amita scowled at her door. She scowled at Jalga. Scowled at Bujune.

“I won’ be goin’.”

“Muuka!” Bujune exclaimed, his brows narrowing back, “it just be a small party--”

“No.”

The boy faltered. His ears drooped, and Jalga set a hand on his shoulder. Amita had crossed her arms over her chest, every inch of her body rigid. The rogue leaned down to whisper something to the young boy.

Amita set her jaw as Bujune turned, hanging his head. Jalga watched him go, then turned to face the druid. Agitation swelled in her chest when Jalga mimicked her posture.

“You don’ be knowin’ how it’s gonna’ go,” he said flatly, holding her gaze. Amita balled one of her hands into a fist.

“I don’ care. I’m not goin’, not if she’s gonna’ be dere.”

“She be wantin’ a relationship wit’ ya, Amita, an’ despite wat Bujune be sayin’ it won’ be a small parteh,” Jalga argued, “it’ll be a pretteh big parteh.”

Amita turned on her heel, stalking to another part of her room. Jalga stayed where he was.

“I don’ care.”

“Amita, don’ be like dis.”

The druid whirled on the rogue, jabbing a finger at the door, “she left me!”

How she regretted the words when she saw Jalga’s eyes flash.

“Like how you be leavin’ Bujune?”

Amita clenched her teeth so tightly her jaw began to ache.

“Shouldn’ ya at least be happeh dat ya muuka wants you?”

Amita’s roar shook the entire building. Sharp teeth and gaping maw were centimeters from Jalga’s face.

Jalga was visibly shaken, amethyst eyes wide. Amita shifted back into her troll form, the lashing hydra tail the last to go, though she was still snarling in Jalga’s face.

“Don’ you dare imply dat I nevah wanted Bujune, Jalga Darkspear,” she balled her hands into tight fists, feeling the familiar sting of tears in her eyes, “you don’t know what I went through. I had ta choose between freedom an’ imprisonment, AND!” she slammed her fist against Jalga’s chest when he made to interrupt, “I alreadeh be talkin’ ta Bujune ‘bout dis! ‘Bout why I left him!”

“An’ you don’ be lettin’ Alba tell you why she be disappearin’!” Jalga spat, staring her down, “mebbe you should be givin’ ya muuka de same chance dat Bujune be givin’ you!”

Loa she hated this. All she could do was release an ear-splitting screech, then storm out of the room. Hot, furious tears burned as they cut angry lines down her cheeks. She rubbed at her face, frustrated, not even realizing she had run right past her mother.

The older woman had every intention to go after her daughter, but seconds after she got to her feet, she felt Rath’s grip.

“Don’t, Alba’vida.”

She frowned deeply, neck craning to try and see her daughter despite knowing the druid was already gone, “bu’ dat be her yelling. She be upset--”

“I know. That’s why you shouldn’t go,” Rath sighed, looking off to the side, “I can only imagine what she was upset about.”

“I’ll be going,” Alba’vida stated, pulling her arm out of Rath’s grasp. The orc’s eyes tightened.

“Please-”

“She be my fen’di, Rath - my daughter. I don’ want her ta tink she be right, dat I nevah cared fah her, dat I jus’ be leaving her ta live on her own.”

Alba’vida didn’t wait any longer for Rath’s input on the matter . She left the bar, hesitating for only a moment to call her raptor to her side. She whispered to the beast, stroking along her eye ridges. The raptor churred, then stuck her nose in the air. A few sniffs later, and she was bounding off.

The old huntress had already leapt onto her pet’s back, letting the raptor carry her.

It didn’t take Alba’vida too long to find her daughter.

“Amita?” she called softly after hopping off her pet’s back. The cobra reared up immediately, flaring her hood. It brought a great deal of pain to Alba’vida’s heart, to see her daughter be so hostile toward her.

But I can’t blame her, can I?

“Wat be wrong, fen’di?” Alba asked, hard-pressed to give up. Amita flicked her tongue, eyes narrowing. She remained in her cobra form. Alba’vida pressed her lips together, and tried again;

“Why you be crying?”

Watching her daughter shift back into a troll was a sight to behold. The older troll felt her chest swell with pride, even as Amita fixed her with a harsh gaze.

“Don’ mattah,” Amita said, her voice as sharp as her eyes. She hugged herself, and Alba accepted that Amita wasn’t going to tell her anything.

So she did what any mother did best.

“Will you be comin’ to de celebration t’night?”

Amita didn’t look entirely pleased with the change of subject. Her eyes shifted to the left, then the right; her weight too shifted from one leg to the other.

“... I guess.”

Alba’vida took a few cautious steps forward. She had unintentionally pushed Amita into a corner.

“Listen, you don’ hafta’ come if you don’ wan’ to,” she mustered up the best smile she could when Amita raised her gaze, eyes questioning, “I jus’ be curious. You realleh don’ hafta’ come.”

There was a deep pain in her daughter’s eyes - as much as Amita appeared desperate to mask it with anger, it wasn’t a detail that the old huntress missed.

“I don’ know who be telling ya you have ta be coming,” Alba continued, taking another step forward. She was just within arm’s reach. Amita held her silence.

“Bu’, whoeva be telling you dat be wrong. If you don’ wanna’ come, you don’. Dere’s no point coming ta someting if ya not gonna’ enjoy it.”

“No, I um,” Amita shifted uncomfortably again, hugging herself more tightly, “I’ll come. Bujune be wantin’ me ta go anyhow…”

A soft chuckle left Alba’vida - though she still wondered who Bujune was and why his opinion mattered so much to Amita - and she took the risk. She shuffled a few inches closer, and raised her hand to rest her palm against Amita’s cheek. The druid’s green eyes widened, but to Alba’s joy, didn’t pull away.

“I be hearing dat red-head you fancy will be dere.”

Amita flushed, pulling away from her mother’s hand to cup her cheeks in her own hands, “um!! I dunno’ wat you be talkin’ ‘bout…!”

This time, Alba’vida’s laugh was louder, and Amita’s blush only deepened. She swatted at the air in front of her mother, making a series of pitiful whines; a mixture of “no”’s and “shush”’s.

“You haven’ been telling me much about him,” Alba’vida said, unable to resist the opportunity to tease her daughter, “bu’ rumor has it he be tall--”

“Shush!!”

“Dat he be handsome--”

“Shush!!”

“An’ dat he be de Warchief--”

“MUUKA!” Amita shrieked, her face and neck positively red. Alba’vida laughed heartily, then raised her hand again to set it against Amita’s cheek.

“I love you, Amita.”

Amita could only stare. The word was on the tip of her tongue - liar - but as she continued to stare at her mother - you liar - there was no trace of deception in the older woman’s face. Alba’vida’s hand slipped off of Amita’s cheek, and Amita hurriedly shifted into a raptor. She tapped her feet against the ground in agitation, unsure of what to make of her mother’s words.

Amita took a small step closer to the huntress, nudging Alba’s cheek with her scaly nose. Alba, of course, brought both of her hands up to run her nails along Amita’s eye ridges.

The druid let Alba’vida climb on her back, and Amita set off on her way back to Ratchet. She ignored anyone who stared - particularly Jalga - and the moment her mother was off her back, Amita shot off. Half-way home she shifted into a wind serpent, wondering what she had gotten herself into.

I don’t want to go.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, cheeks still flushed, hair in disarray. Again, Amita felt a stinging at her eyes. The druid sunk to her knees on the floor, burying her face in her hands.

What sick joke does she have to be playing on me, telling me she loves me.

Amita wracked her mind for any excuse she could use to not go - but, at the same time, she had told her mother she was going to go. She’d agreed to go, so she had to now, right? Her chest heaved with a sob. Amita didn’t even know if she had anything she could wear. Sure, she had dresses, hundreds of them - but it was going to be one of those parties. One of the ones where she could never make up her mind on what she wanted to wear, and as a result, she always showed up late and underdressed.

A knock at her door made Amita rub furiously at her eyes, what point be there in wasting my time sitting around crying about it? Why am I even crying about?

Wearily she got to her feet, plastering the best smile she could manage over her lips.

“Ye--...”

Brilliant gold eyes met her gaze.

Loa, Amita hadn’t intended to break down into tears again, but Flidais held out her strong arms without hesitation, a sound of concern leaving her.

“Oh, love,” she crooned as Amita leaned into her, “whatever is the matter?”

“Who made my bitch cry huh?!” that voice unmistakably belonged to Pakhet, “I’ll smash their face in!!”

“I- I um,” Amita sniffed against Flidais’ shoulder, “guess you might be havin’ ta smash my face in.”

Pakhet scrunched up her face, planting her hands firmly on her hips, “girl, what’d you get yourself all upset over?”

“Em… dere be dat parteh tonight,” and Amita’s heart sank when Pakhet’s face lit up, “de one in de Valley o’ Spirits.”

“Yeah!! Dais and I were comin’ over to get ready with you!”

Right.

In her blind anger after learning that Alba’vida was going to be there, Amita had forgotten she had already agreed to go to the celebration with her two friends.

“Pakhet.”

The goblin pursed her lips, “yeah?”

“Why don’t you pop over to Ratchet? See how Bujune is doing,” the tauren laughed when Pakhet scrunched up her face further, “you know that boy likes having your fashion advice.”

“Nnnn okay fine,” Pakhet huffed, then made Amita yelp when she delivered a firm slap to the druid’s rear, “I’ll be back in an hour or so!! And then we’ll get our asses over to Orgrimmar, ya know, after I’m done gettin’ all dolled up!”

The mage scrambled onto her wolf - darkly colored, purple accented - and rode off on her way to Ratchet. For all she was aware of her surroundings, Pakhet could be painfully oblivious for a mage.

Amita let Flidais hustle her back into the house, and without prompting the paladin begin pulling out various make-up products and war paints that Amita kept on hand. She made to protest, because if anyone was going to listen to her it would be Flidais - to Amita’s dismay, the tauren sat her down on the plush stool in front of Amita’s vanity. Flidais had already covered the desk with the various pots and products.

“You don’t want to come to the party, do you?”

Amita’s mouth dropped open. She blinked her eyes when Flidais started rubbing at her cheeks with a soft, dry cloth. Amita clamped her mouth shut, lips in a thin line, and Flidais gave her a gentle smile.

“... no,” Amita finally admitted, releasing the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She pointed at one of the paint pots, “it be Winter’s Veil so… mebbe de gold?”

Flidais nodded in approval, picking up the pot of white, “sure, but I think I might be best for me to start with white. Why don’t you want to come to the party anymore?”

Amita was silent, and Flidais started tracing her slim fingers over Amita’s face, lips moving as she plotted out whatever design she was going to use to decorate Amita’s face. The tauren herself already had her white marks in place, reminiscent of bones, but with red here and there, and most notably a “necklace” of white specks, red flowers, and spiky green leaves around her neck. Amita recognized the flowers as rain poppies - not exactly a Winter’s Veil flower, but a red flower that made sense to use for the holiday.

“Better than mistletoe,” Flidais mused, enticing a giggle out of Amita, “last thing I need is a group of clever bucks coming around and asking for free kisses because of mistletoe I had painted on my neck.”

The druid had to smile at that, “well… you be havin’ a good point.”

“I’ll give you some delicate snowflakes,” Flidais announced, fingers dancing over the various brushes to her right. She finally picked out a small one, “and of course, some floral flourishes, golden freckles… and I’ll definitely fill in some flourishes with red to make petals.”

Amita nodded, then sighed, “my muuka will be dere.”

“Ahh…” Flidais frowned. The brush in her hand was poised to dip into the white.

“Is that the only reason, or…?”

“... no…” Amita blinked her eyes rapidly, “Jalga, he um…”

She found herself looking around, worried that Pakhet would make a sudden reappearance. Flidais set a finger against Amita’s cheek and turned the troll’s face back to her.

“Pakhet isn’t here, Amita. She’ll be another hour at least,” the paladin’s expression was unreadable, and Amita was forced to remain looking at her as Flidais began to paint the delicate designs she had in mind for Amita’s make-up.

“He be sayin’ sometin’... pretteh cruel ta me,” Amita breathed deeply, biting her cheek to resist the urge to cry.

“Don’t worry love, I’m starting on your forehead.”

Amita swallowed, “he be sayin’... dat I should be givin’ her a chance, like June be giving me. Dat at least my muuka be wantin’ me.”

Flidais jerked her hand away from Amita’s face.

Her hand was shaking with anger.

“He had no right to say that to you,” Flidais growled, her teeth clenched tightly together, “your situation and Bujune’s situation aren’t even close to being the same. Yes, you left your son, but you left him with his father, and a tribe. Your mother left you alone, with just a raptor to keep you company.”

“Dat’s true but…” Amita hurriedly wiped at her eyes, “I don’ know, Dais. Do you--”

“No,” Flidais held a finger up to Amita’s lips, her normally gentle eyes narrowed in anger, “you and Bujune already spoke about this. You know he isn’t mad at you. You know he doesn’t blame you. You know he understands. You didn’t avoid that conversation, but your mother hasn’t made any obvious indications that it’s a conversation she wants to have with you.”

“Dat might be because I don’ give her de chance ta even start a convahsation…” Amita muttered, turning her head to the left after some prodding from Flidais. The tauren hummed, her brush strokes steady now that her anger had faded.

“Amita… you have to understand, you’re still really hurting from your mother abandoning you. No one else seems to realize that even if your mother is ready for the conversation, you are not, and you’re the one who has to be ready - tilt your head back a little for me?”

An unsteady breath left the druid, and she tilted her head back, “you be havin’ a point. Bu’ I don’ know if I can be waitin’ until I be ready. I might be waitin’ fo’evah…”

“Then maybe this party will be a blessing in disguise.”

Amita stared blankly at the ceiling.

“Maybe you’ll get the chance to learn why your mother left you alone, if you come to the party.”

The druid mulled over her options while Flidais finished her work. She was adding some golden rhinestones to Amita’s cheekbones when Pakhet finally returned - loudly, of course, boasting about how handsome Bujune looked once the mage was done with him.

Soon enough the three women were getting into their dresses - though Amita sat on her vanity stool, nothing on save for her jewellery and some black lace underwear. She sighed - then jumped when Pakhet attempted to hold a cherry red dress in front of her face.

“Oh girl you gotta’ wear this one!!” the goblin chirped, peering around the dress at her friend, wide grin spread over her face, “plus it has this great dip in the middle so everybody will see all those deets that Dais put into your chest there!”

Amita had to suppress a laugh at how excited Pakhet was, and - growing impatient - Pakhat began waving the dress around in the air.

“Listen!! We like fifty minutes maybe, an hour tops! Get your pretty ass into this dress!!!”

Amita snatched the item away from the mage, then let out a soft shriek and sprinted to her bathing area; Pakhat had delivered a solid smack to her rear yet again.

“Gods,” the gobin exclaimed as Amita carefully stepped into the dress - after all, she didn’t want to ruin all of Flidais’ hard work, nor did she want to get gold glitter all over the fabric. It was spread over her chest, cheeks, and ears.

“Amita has the firmest ass.”

“I’m not entirely surprised,” Flidais said, then yelped herself, “PAKHET!”

“You don’t understand!! She’s a druid!! She should have a soft, supple ass! Her ass is firmer than yours and you’re a paladin!”

“By the Light you shouldn’t just go around slapping peoples’ butts!”

“Hey now big girl, I only slap the butts of people I know. There’s a difference!”

Amita could feel her face beginning to heat. She might as well be the same cherry red as her dress. She stomped out of her bathing room, dress on, ears tipped down.

“I don’ be havin’ a firm ass!”

Pakhat spun on her, eyes sparkling, “do so!”

“Do not!”

“I slapped that ass, I would know!”

“You be slappin’ any ass it prolly gonna’ feel firm!”

“I suppose we’ll have to consult Vol’jin on the matter,” Flidais chirped. When Amita whirled to glare at her, face growing hotter by the second, the tauren was busy inspecting her nails. She looked up after a moment, batting her eyes innocently.

“What? I think of all people, the Warchief would know whether or not you have a firm butt.”

“One day, Flidais,” Pakhet muttered, kicking one of her feet, “I’m gonna’ get you to say ‘ass’.”

The paladin smiled, rising from her seat, “one day, my dear?”

“One day.”

“Well! If we’re ready… we might as well head off.”

Amita hurried back over to her vanity, “ah, jus’, gimme a minute ta git my jewellery on.”

“Oh! Well, if you’re going to do that…” Flidais grabbed the pots of paint again and sat down on the floor, pushing the unslit part of Amita’s short dress up, “let me fancy up this thigh!”

“Girl needs to put some bling on this thigh,” Pakhet announced, poking Amita’s right thigh, “I mean, gotta’ draw attention to this fine leg and this slit!”

“Good ting I have jus’ de item fah dat,” Amita murmured, holding a set of jewellery for the goblin. Pakhet snatched it and began to fit it on Amita’s leg. The druid smiled broadly when Pakhet howled with laughter.

“Perfect!! Best set of jewellery for a Winter’s Veil party!! I mean, a damn Winter’s Veil tree? This is amazing, Amita!”

“Thought you might be likin’ it~”

Orgrimmar was filled with people. Vol’jin had hardly managed to escape to the Valley of Spirits. Everything was over decorated, and he had to shield his eyes when he walked into the valley because of all the flashing lights.

Apparently the goblins had one hell of an enjoyable time setting up who knows how many lights all over the huts.

“Warchief!”

The voice unmistakably belonged to Legati, and Vol’jin offered the old rogue a smile, “Legati.”

“Glad you be makin’ it, mon,” Legati chirped, clapping Vol’jin on the shoulder a few times, “finally we git you away from dat desk o’ ya’s.”

“Shaddap,” Vol’jin muttered, crossing his arms over his chest. Legati chuckled, and was about to continue the conversation when a disgruntled wail flew over the crowd.

“Voooooooooooooooool’jiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin---”

“Okay, you know wat, I tink I’m gonna’ leave,” Vol’jin started back-pedaling, but Legati grabbed him firmly by the bicep, his grip too strong for Vol’jin to simply break away from.

“Oooh no,” the rogue said, shaking a finger at Vol’jin, even as the crowd parted to let a wobbling blood elven warrior sashay his way over, his singular eye focused on the warchief, “we not lettin’ ya git away. Like I be sayin’, aftah we finally git ya off ya ass an’ outta’ de Hold? You be stayin’.”

Lor’themar’s face smacked right into Vol’jin’s gut. The latter grunted, then both trolls - and anyone else nearby - stared down at the elf’s head. For a moment, there was silence.

“... FINALLY!!” Lor’themar jerked his head back, eye wide and completely oblivious to the snorts of laughter around him. Vol’jin inhaled deeply after recovering from the suddenness of the elf’s exclamation. The last thing he had wanted to do was deal with Lor’themar - and for the Loa’s sake, how was the man already drunk?

“You… are out of the Hold,” the warrior hiccuped, and jabbed a finger into Vol’jin’s chest, “wear dark colors. More often. You look very good.”

“Tanks, Regent Lord.”

“Delicious.”

“Mmhm.”

“Very handsome.”

“O’ course, o’ course,” Vol’jin muttered, not paying attention to the elf at all - he’d grown used to Lor’themar’s antics by now, and he could make out Lor’themar’s form swaying back and forth in front of him. Legati wouldn’t stop chuckling.

“You be needing some watah,” Vol’jin said, looking down at Lor’themar. The man held up a hand, one finger extended, shaking his head and then shaking his hand.

“No… no… no I don’t… what I need,” his eye focused on Vol’jin again, gaze blazing with determination, “is a very, very tall drink of water.”

The Warchief frowned deeply--

And Lor’themar turned to Legati.

“You look like a tall drink of water-- don’T YOU RUN AWAY FROM ME!! GET BACK HERE!”

Vol’jin had to laugh into his fist as Legati sprinted away and Lor’themar gave adamant chase. A sigh to his left made Vol’jin turn to look past his shoulder; Vanira had come to stand beside him.

“Who be takin’ care o’ dat warriah, eh?”

Vol’jin shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest, “my guess would be eithah Rommath, or Brightwing.”

“You don’ usually call him Regent Lord.”

“One be learning dat it sometimes be bettah ta call ‘im by his title,” Vol’jin explained, “though I don’ be close ta Lor’themar on any account, if he be callin’ me ‘Vol’jin’ den I best be callin’ ‘im ‘Lor’themar��.”

“Right, right,” Vanira nodded, “dat be polite, at least. Dere be more people here den I expected.”

“Mm,” Vol’jin scanned the crowd again. Lor’themar was still chasing Legati, though the rogue had leapt onto a nearby hut and sat jeering from the roof, while Lor’themar seemed determined to get to him. Baine was busy chatting to Thrall, and Vol’jin could barely make out Sylvanas’ form lurking in the shadows. He stared at her for a moment, until her red gaze settled on him as well. With a nod of acknowledgement, Vol’jin looked away.

It may have been a feat to get him out of the Hold, but to drag Sylvanas away from the Undercity to a Winter’s Veil party must have been an incredible feat for whomever had accomplished it. From what he could tell, she was wearing a flowy black dress with off the shoulder sleeves - it suited her.

Bright cherry red distracted him soon enough.

He’d seen Amita in red before, yes, but this red was more pink, and Vol’jin could only stare. He was unaware that Lor’themar was making his way back over, and that Baine and Thrall had spotted him and were making their way through the crowd as well. He’d even forgotten that Vanira was standing at his side, a knowing smile crossing her lips.

Amita’s jewellery glinted in the colorful lights. There was a golden glow on her skin. It was like everyone around her faded into a blur of faces and colors, and Amita was the only one Vol’jin’s molten eyes could focus on.

Then a green and yellow dot started making its way toward him.

Oh no.

Vol’jin would have backed up into the shadows and made a quick escape, but Rokhan had chosen that moment to sneak up on the Warchief and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“‘Ey mon-- you be okay, ya look like ya seen a ghost--”

“WARCHIEF!!”

Loa, the voice this goblin had on her.

Oooh no.

Pakhet’s exclamation had garnered the attention of many in the area, including Amita and the tauren that was standing at her side. In fact, when the tauren noticed what was going on, she immediately began to walk hastily toward Vol’jin as well, her bright eyes fixated on the goblin that had now taken a solid stance in front of him. Pakhet’s expression belied that she had a serious question to ask:

“Firm or soft?”

The question caught him off-guard, and he stumbled over his words, “wat-- I… wat?”

Pakhet’s eyes bulged and she inhaled deeply through her nose before screaming, “AMITA’S ASS, FIRM OR SOFT!?”

Vol’jin wanted to sink into the shadows. Death itself could come and wrap it's cold hands around his neck and he would be perfectly fine with that. Beads of sweat collected on his forehead.

The goblin mage was clearly expecting an answer. She was also completely oblivious to the attention she had attracted. Flidais had dropped to her knees and was praying to something, perhaps the Earthmother - for what, Vol’jin wasn’t sure, but he was well aware that thousands of eyes were now fixed on him. Vol’jin stared straight ahead, ignoring Lor’themar’s gaping face, ignoring Rokhan’s barely contained laughter, ignoring Baine’s wide eyes and Thrall’s look of surprise. He dug his claws into his biceps.

“Well??”

“Dis don’ be seeming like it be imperative,” Vol’jin said steadily, looking down at Pakhet. He couldn’t see Amita anywhere in his field of vision. He could keep his composure for now, “do you be having a real question fah me?”

Pakhet’s face reddened, and Vol’jin cocked a brow, “no?”

“Actually, Warchief.”

Vol’jin pressed his lips together, not daring to look at Lor’themar’s face.

“I’d be very curious to know the answer to this question as well,” the elf hiccuped, and brought a fist to his mouth for a moment before continuing, “also who, exactly, is this Amita?”

“Yeah! Firm or soft? We need to know!”

Naturally, several other voices had to join in with their own statements of curiosity. Rokhan leaned against Vol’jin, his elbow on the other troll’s shoulder now. Vol’jin could feel his face reddening under his war paint.

“Yeeeeeeah Vol’jin, why don’ you be tellin’ us all ‘bout dat ass?”

The teasing in Rokhan’s voice was unmistakable, and Vol’jin cursed the older shadow hunter repeatedly in his mind. Of course Rokhan would jump at the chance to tease him about Amita.

“You… I…” Vol’jin grappled with the words to say, and felt his face grow hotter when it became apparent that Sylvanas had been attracted to the commotion as well. She was standing at Lor’themar’s side, one slim brow raised.

Saving face was going to be difficult at this point, and Vol’jin found himself grateful that Amita had gone and hidden somewhere, at the very least, it be keeping me from looking at her. Not everyone be knowing who she is - and that be meaning, only those who be knowing her can pester her about it.

“Why be dis important?” he finally said, growing exasperated himself. There were so many answers to his question that all Vol’jin could do was elbow Rokhan as hard as he could in the ribs, if only to prevent the other shadow hunter from collapsing in a fit of laughter. He wheezed after Vol’jin delivered the blow.

“LISTEN!” Pakhet snapped, “I just need to know, okay!? I think it’s firm, Flidais thinks it’s soft, and we-- ACK!”

“I am so sorry, Warchief,” Flidais said, her smile clearly forced. Her hand was clapped firmly over Pakhet’s mouth, and with ease the paladin had Pakhet wrapped securely under her arm. Mage or not, there was no way the goblin was getting out of Flidais’ hold.

“Don’... worry ‘bout it,” Vol’jin managed, though his eyes flicked toward movement. Loa, how many people were going to come over to see what this was all about? His ears flicked at the many whispering voices he heard, and at this point he was beginning to believe it would have been better for him to paint his face red with how hot it felt.

More questions were lobbed in Vol’jin’s direction: who was this person, was he in a relationship, why had no one else heard about it, why did he always have to be so secretive, was it really work he was doing in the Hold or was he spending all his time there for another reason?

In exasperation, Vol’jin threw both arms up in the air, “I can’ be believing dat dis is happening! I won’ be answerin’ any o’ dese questions!”

A series of “aww”’s and “why not”’s rose from the crowd, though movement once again caught Vol’jin’s eye.

The crowd seemed to part and make way. This woman - as he could see now - had her auburn eyes fixed on him. Golden beads stood out brilliantly against her dark roots, and she had what appeared to be fiery hair swept up into a bun. Vol’jin could only stare in confusion, because something about her was so familiar. Her gait, her facial features, even her choice of dress - long, sleeveless, the skirt made up of bunched fabric that swayed as she walked toward him with a confidence that clearly intimidated those that stepped aside so she could proceed unhindered.

Vol’jin could tell that she was a huntress the moment she stopped in front of him. She had the gaze of a predator, and right now, he was her prey.

“I be rathah curious ta know, Warchief, de ansah to de goblin’s question.”

Even her voice be familiar.

Despite all the familiarity, Vol’jin’s inability to put his finger on who she reminded him of caused him to become all the more agitated, and all the more flustered. With a groan, he demanded, “and why would you be wanting ta know de answer ta dat question?”

She smiled - but it was not friendly. There was something maternal about it. Her eyes had the ferocity of a mother raptor preparing to strike in defence of her young.

“I be her muuka.”

Silence had never fallen over an area so quickly. Those that remained undistracted by the commotion were blissfully unaware, continuing on with the party. The music was a distant hum.

Never had there been a day where Vol’jin had felt his face grow pale and clammy while simultaneously being hot and assuredly red.

Amita’s mother.

This was news, even to him, but it be explaining why she be so familiar to me.

“Uh… I uh…” he felt obligated to give an answer, and after a few more seconds of uncomfortable hesitation, Vol’jin swallowed, “soft...”

The huntress at least, appeared pleased to know the answer.

As did the crowd, if their roars of approval were anything to go by. They sure got rambunctious quick.

Vol’jin rubbed his hand over the lower half of his face, and was soon jostled by Lor’themar, who seemed far too excited about this news than one should be.

“Well, well, well! Looks like the Warchief is getting himself some nice ass!!” he hooted, garnering quite a response from the crowd that had gathered.

“By de Loa not in front of her mothah do you be havin’ no decency!?” Vanira snapped, yanking Lor’themar away from Vol’jin. Rokhan grabbed Vol’jin by both shoulders, apology written over his face when he turned the younger shadow hunter to face him. Amita’s mother had already disappeared.

“Soooo, how be tings uh down in Stranglethorn?”

At the very least, several others offered their own distracting questions, clearly feeling some sort of sympathy for their Warchief. Vol’jin allowed himself to be distracted by answering those questions instead, and his ignoring of the others still pestering him about who this Amita woman was discouraged them enough to make the crowd dwindle in number.

“SOFT?!”

Flidais groaned, covering her face with a hand.

“Her ass is not soft!!”

“Listen!” Flidais whispered harshly, baring her teeth at Pakhet, “I cannot believe you just asked him that - no, shouted it at him! In the middle of a party full of people!”

“You suggested--”

“Yes I suggested but I didn’t mean right at the next moment that you see him!!” the paladin interrupted. She groaned again, “Light, Pakhet, why don’t you have any self-control?! I actually had to ask the Earthmother for guidance because I was this close to punting you!”

Pakhet blinked at Flidais as the tauren held her fingers - a mere millimeter from touching - right in front of the goblin’s nose.

“... okay. That’s um. That’s pretty close to actually punting me.”

“Yes. And then of all the people who had to catch wind of this entire spectacle while it was happening, it had to be Alba’vida.”

Pakhet finally looked down at the ground in some form of guilt, “well… yeah. Fine. That was dumb of me. Really dumb.”

With a sigh, Flidais brought a mug of beer to her lips, “never mind… let’s just try to keep a low profile for now.”

“Ugh… fine… okay…” Pakhet picked at the grains in the wood table, then looked around. She hopped off her seat after a moment, stretching her arms above her head and adjusting the top of her bright yellow mini dress, “I’m gonna’ go find Amita--”

“No. You are not.”

Pakhet stared up at Flidais. This was the only time that the paladin was going to let herself be pleased that the fierce tone in her voice gave even Pakhet reason to pause.

“If you go looking for her, you’re going to bring a lot of unwanted attention her way. Not everyone knows who she is, or what she looks like, but most of the people who saw you stomp your way over to the Warchief are going to recognize you,” Flidais inhaled deeply before continuing in an angry whisper, “did you forget that Amita has been doing everything in her power to keep the fact that she knows Vol’jin on a personal and highly intimate level as low-key as possible?”

Pakhet paled. She immediately jumped back onto her seat and stared at her lap, twiddling her thumbs.

I just hope Amita can keep herself out of the limelight. No way she’s introducing herself to anyone tonight, Flidais stared solemnly into her drink, and I hope she can still enjoy herself. I really wanted her to be able to smooth things over with her mother, but now she has to deal with Pakhet opening her big mouth and all the repercussions that could come from that. And that her mother knows her butt is soft, according to the Warchief. What a great start to the evening we’ve had.

Amita only slithered out from under a far, far table when she was positive it was safe for her to leave. Her face no longer felt hot to the touch, and the crowd that had gathered around Vol’jin after Pakhet’s exclamation had dispersed. She prayed to any Loa willing to listen that the majority of them would completely forget what had been asked, and not be looking for me. I can’t believe she be doing that, right then!

She was grateful that she had immediately turned into a cobra, melted into the shadows, and slunk under the emptiest table she could find. The one Amita had come out from under lacked any decoration, and before making her reappearance, she was sure to remain stealthed and in her cobra form until she could drop herself right in the middle of a group of red clothed men and women. Loa, part of her wanted to cry. Pakhet knew that she wanted to keep the fact that she even knew Vol’jin personally on the low.

At least I be able to shift quickly. At least nobody really be getting a glimpse of me after Pakhet yelled.

She enjoyed dancing for a while. Kept herself just out of reach of anyone who tried to pull her in close - and also because she felt his gaze. Caught glimpses of him every time she spun, because the dark outfit he wore made his bright red hair stick out like a frost nipped nose.

Amita escaped to the bars eventually, getting herself a drink. It was a simple wine, probably from Silvermoon, and not her favorite - but it would do. It was sweet, went down smoothly, and didn’t go right to her head. She could sip it.

Her eyes swept over the many bodies present. Flidais and Pakhet were a fair distance away. Pakhet was looking mopey, hanging her head and staring at her feet, Dais probably be giving her a talking to… I know she be meaning no harm but… the firmness of my ass really don’t be important.

Flidais, on the other hand, seemed to be cheerful. She eventually caught Amita staring, and sent a fleeting wave in her direction; Amita waved back, though it made her heart sink to see Pakhet perk up, only to watch the goblin droop her head again, shoulders lifting in a sigh.

A large green hand appearing in her peripheral vision distracted Amita’s attention from her friends. The orc was quite a looker, and she let her eyes flick over him before returning to his face. His eyes were a striking blue, and he was looking at her in curiosity.

“Hey. Are you Amita?”

She could have sworn that everything in her body stopped working: brain, heart, lungs, everything.

“Oh no mon, you be mistaken,” Amita smiled, waving a hand dismissively, “I be Zulfi’drepani. Don’ know who dis Amita is you be speakin’ of.”

I don’t give it out like that.

The orc seemed disappointed.

Not even Vol’jin knows that name.

“Oh… well! Are you here alone?”

And before Amita could even respond, a familiar hand came to rest on her shoulder.

“I be sorreh, but she be spoken fah dis evening.”

Shocked, Amita looked up at Alba’vida - then again, why was Amita surprised? Her mother was a huntress, an expert tracker. Pinpointing where her daughter was had become second nature to the older woman in the short span of two weeks, even if nearly two months had passed since Alba’vida’s return into Amita’s life.

The orc frowned, “oh? By who?”

Alba’s grip on Amita’s shoulder tightened ever so much.

“By her mothah.”

With that, Alba snatched one of Amita’s hands and dragged her into the crowd of dancers. Amita was at a loss. How was she supposed to feel about this, being held in a proper closed position by her own mother.

“So, you be seeming rathah popular.”

Amita frowned, and looked off to the side. She followed her mother’s steps regardless, “well… I guess you could be sayin’ dat.”

Silence, save for Alba humming. The music was too loud, and too slow.

“... I didn’ know you could tango,” Amita muttered, switching to Zandali because it was easier. Alba’vida laughed.

“I be learning a few things in my old age. Traditional human and elven dances be some of them.”

“You travelled.”

“I be a huntress, of course I travelled.”

Silence again.

“He looks quite handsome tonight.”

Amita blushed fiercely, her eyes immediately flicking in the direction she had last seen Vol’jin. He was standing off to the side with Baine, Thrall, and - oddly - Sylvanas. The Banshee Queen was handing him a glass.

“I um, I s-suppose,” she stammered after tearing her eyes away from him. Alba smiled fondly.

“Apparently he be thinking you be soft.”

Amita frowned, her blush deepening, “I was hoping I wouldn’t be learning the outcome of that conversation… don’t you be laughing!”

“I be curious about the man that be catching my daughter’s eye,” Alba’s gaze softened as her laughter died, and she pulled Amita closer, her palm flat between Amita’s shoulder blades. Amita was rigid for a moment, eyes pinched inward. Alba’s expression grew saddened.

“I missed so much of your life…”

Amita faltered in her steps. Truth be told, she would rather talk about boys.

“He be my friend before he be anything else,” she found herself saying, “he be determined to bring me into the tribe after he be finding me the first time.”

There was a hopeful glint in Alba’s old eyes, “was he?”

“Yes. Maybe it be because I saved him and Zalazane once. He finally be gettin’ his wish when the coming of age ceremony be happenin’. We um… kept playin’ a game of chase, I suppose. He be tryin’ to catch me, and I be tryin’ to stay out of his reach. He didn’t… catch me, exactly, but in the end I just… be stayin’.”

The music changed. It was softer now, and Alba’vida pulled Amita into an embrace. Once again, Amita was rigid - but unlike before, she didn’t relax. Alba’s grip loosened.

“Ah! That boy that always be with you. He was dressed up nicely.”

That be my son, “ah, yeah, Pakhet likes to be dressin’ him up for parties.”

“He be having your eyes.”

Because he be my son, Amita laughed weakly, “do he?”

Alba’vida was quiet for a moment.

“Amita?”

“Yes…?”

“Do he be yours?”

Amita stared at their feet. They were no longer moving in time to the music, and with more and more pairs filling the area, Amita was beginning to feel trapped.

She answered her mother anyway, “yes.”

“Is he--”

“No,” Amita interrupted, her voice firm, “he be part Zandalari.”

“Oh,” Alba’vida tried to pull Amita closer again, but the druid stubbornly kept her distance. Her fingers were nearly digging into her mother’s shoulders.

Did you know I be leaving him like you left me? I guess I don’t be different from you at all, Amita bit the inside of her cheek. She needed to know the truth, because what if Alba’vida hadn’t left her at all?

“It be looking like you be raising him well,” Alba said with a smile, blissfully unaware because Amita had no intention of telling her that the boy had been left - with a tribe and his father, yes, but Amita had still left him.

“Ah… I guess… we had to be havin’ a… conversation,” Amita admitted, her grip on her mother’s shoulders tightening, then loosening. Alba’vida made a sound of consolement under her breath, but left it at that.

The dance seemed to drag on for hours. Only a few seconds had passed, and Amita’s mind was a flurry of thoughts and a fog of worry. She had to ask, but she didn’t want to, but she had to bring it up, but it wasn’t something she cared to know, but she needed an answer.

Her hands slipped off Alba’vida’s shoulders and Amita loosely grasped her mother’s sides instead. She inclined her head to Alba’s collarbone, and her voice was a broken whisper when she spoke;

“If you be telling me you love me, then why did you leave me?”

Alba’vida stopped moving, and Amita squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she could, “you be saying I be worth it - but why did you leave me alone?”

The huntress wrapped her arms securely around Amita’s shoulders and back. Her cheek pressed against Amita’s head.

“I didn’t leave you because I be wanting to.”

Amita leaned heavily against her mother, her body finally relaxing.

“I be up before you. It be kind of unusual! You used to always be awake before your muuka, but I be wanting to make use of the time. I be going to get breakfast.”

The one thing Amita never thought she would ever feel was her mother’s tears seeping into her scalp.

“The naga be coming across me. I don’t be thinking. The only thing I cared about was making sure they be as far away from you as possible. At first I be thinking I could be getting away and get back to you, but they be determined to catch me. I be telling Jashik to run as far away as he could be running, and then be coming back to you,” Alba’vida’s grip intensified, “I be proving useful to the naga, that be the only reason they don’t be sacrificing me, and I didn’t be escaping until Sen’jin be brought in. Loa, Amita, he be fighting so gallantly after being so docile. Many of us be escaping because he be buying us time.

“But it be too late. When I be going looking for you, you already be gone, and when I be coming to Kalimdor with Master Gadrin, I must have just missed you.”

Amita found herself wrapping her arms around her mother more fully; they swayed to the music.

“... Jashik be taking good care of me, muuka. He be making sure I always be having food. He be teaching me how to hunt, and fight. He even be the first animal I be saving with my magic,” Amita inhaled deeply to fend off her own tears, “he be protecting me until he couldn’t. Did you be finding his grave?”

“Yes. You be decorating it well.”

“Vol’jin and Vanira be helping. But I be making sure those flowers will never be dying.”

Alba’vida laughed wetly, “I suppose I should be giving him my thanks, and her. And you.”

The huntress pressed a kiss to Amita’s forehead, “thank you.”

Amita nodded her head, and finally, finally felt the weight that had settled so heavily on her heart lift.

After several more songs, Alba’vida shifted, “should we be going to find your son?”

Amita shook her head against Alba’s shoulder, “ah, no… if it be okay… I would like to be staying like this, for a little longer…”

Alba’vida hummed. Mother and daughter remained swaying to the music until Bujune came to them himself and wriggled his way between them.

(( It means “baby witch scythe”. Jashik means “Protector; Defender; Guardian”. I realize that WITH Jashik, Amita wasn’t technically alone (in fact Gonk was always there too), but she considers herself to have been left alone, because Jashik was a raptor, not another troll ; w ;

Also, I literally could NOT find a better image than the one I’ve modified there for this post. I was looking so hard for a picture of a girl with her head against her mother’s chest or smth, but I couldn’t find anything appropriate. The image is from a still from the movie Frida (I think that’s what it’s called). ))

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