#Lyyn Ilgrey

[lordaeronslost]

Wrinkles

“Da, did Mathair write to Quel’thalas about this?”

Sam Auroran looked up from the scattered papers on the desk, brows knitting as he regarded his younger daughter.  Karinlyyn stood a few feet away, an unfolded letter in her hand, the envelope tucked between her fingers bearing the seal of the Argent Crusade.  If she had been in a dress instead of the gray leathers, it would have been like looking at both of his daughters at once.  “No,” he said slowly.  “Your mother hasn’t written to anyone there since—hell.  I think since your cousin’s wife had their last child.”

She nodded slowly, frowning at the letter in her hands, violet eyes skipping over the page again as she read it a second time, then again.

Sam drew himself up straighter.  “Why?”

“Do you know if the Crusade reached out to anyone that might have served with them?”

He didn’t like the strange note in her voice.  The elder Auroran rounded the table, moving toward where his daughter stood just shy of a patch of sunlight that streamed through the windows at their townhouse in Dalaran—their primary home these days, with Lordaeron long lost and Theramore gone.  “Lyyn.”

Her gaze flicked up from the letter, regarding her father with a quiet, probing gaze.  “Do you?”

“Everyone I’ve spoken to—everyone that you and Anthus have spoken to for that matter—have been fairly firm about keeping it quiet and refusing to send  another contingent for fear of panic.  Three units in a matter of weeks without warning?  There hasn’t been anything quite like that since the war.”

She didn’t ask which war.  It didn’t matter.  Her gaze drifted back to the page.  “If no one is supposed to know and no one reached out from the Crusade, then why are there being inquiries made by someone else?”

“Who?”

She relinquished the letter to him, starting to pace as he scanned the missive, getting the gist.  His mouth soured, stomach twisting.

“Do you know these names?” He asked.

“Yes,” she said, leaning against the windowsill and staring out at the courtyard below where her husband did his best to keep their nieces and nephews distracted from everything going on.  Her daughter’s laughter echoed off the walls, cheering on her eldest cousin as he squared off against his uncle with practice swords.

Sam waited, but she didn’t seem inclined to elaborate.  He exhaled.  “Lyyn.”

“You know them, too,” she said.

“Not quite the way you do, I imagine,” he said quietly.  “You serve with them?”

“That is a complicated question, Da.”

The ghost of a smile curved his lips for a second before it was gone.  “I meant in the Crusade.”

“It was the Dawn, then,” she said.  “Grimstryke and Brightborn, yes.  Cieltus I knew by reputation.  It was at Light’s Hope, mostly.”

“Strike forces?”

She shook her head.  “Usually not but every so often they’d deploy a combat medic with us.”

Sam nodded slowly.  “But that doesn’t solve our mystery, does it?”

“If Mathair had written—”

“But she didn’t, like I said, not since his wife had their son.  Grimstryke must have found out another way.”

Sam sank down into one of the heavy leather reading chairs near the window.  “Then how?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted.  “I know Anny hasn’t written to anyone in Quel’thalas.  I haven’t had contact since the incident here a couple of months ago, but that was before any of this happened.  I hadn’t heard even a whisper since.”

Sam frowned, glancing toward the window.  “Then how would they know to make inquiries?”

“Perhaps it’s nothing,” she murmured.  “Perhaps it’s—hell.  Coincidence.  Grimstryke’s well-placed, it could just be something he caught a rumor about and pressed on.  The other two are associates of his.  It would track.”

“Does it really feel like it’s nothing?”  Sam glanced up at her with an arched brow.

Karinlyyn exhaled a sigh and leaned against the sill.  “No.  No, it doesn’t.”

Sam simply nodded, gaze drifting toward the window.  “Then I’ll leave it to you.”

“Another wrinkle,” his daughter murmured, taking the letter back.

“There always is,” he said, smiling reassuringly, the expression lingering for only a few seconds before it faded.  “We’ll find them.”

“Of course we will,” she said softly, folding up the letter and tucking it into her leathers.  “We don’t have a choice.”

[lordaeronslost]

A scribbled note to Tauzen Skyforge

Tauzen —

Steer the hell clear of Gulliver Chadwell. He put a knife in me for having pointed ears and the balls to do my job.

Report’s in to HQ already. Be careful.

— Ghost.

@zan-of-spades

[lordaeronslost]

A parcel addressed to Cord and Azestra - 15 November

A parcel arrives wrapped in brown paper, marked with the seal of the Argent Crusade.  A note is tucked into the string tied around the box, sealed in simple gray wax.  The letter itself is on good, if non-descript, parchment and written in dark ink.

 Dear Ace and Cord,

I hope this finds you in a better state than I have been these past few weeks.  I’d meant to send this sooner, but circumstances intervened more than I would have liked.  Let’s just say that I had a run-in with a worgen warden of a POW camp and his neck will likely stretch in the next few weeks thanks to some solid observations and recordings coupled with unimpeachable testimony of two members of the Argent Crusade, whose only crime was being the wrong race traveling between two postings at the wrong time.

I’m sure at least some of the contents of the package will be fairly self-explanatory.  Obviously, the toy is for your daughter.  Kiss her for me, could you?  The vials in the black pouch are precious—be careful with them and for the love of light and shadow, DO NOT drink them.  Some months back, before the Battle of Undercity, my contingent ran afoul of a caravan headed for Undercity carrying a potent version of blight.  The vials contain a serum designed to help mitigate the effects of the stuff—we’re still working on something better, but I thought that I should pass this along to you.  I imagine that you—or whoever you see fit to pass this along to—should be able to back-engineer it in case it should ever be needed for defensive purposes.

Be safe, the both of you—or as safe as either of you ever are.

 Ghost.

 Within the box is a plush stuffed fox toy, a small black pouch with three vials containing a viscous blue liquid in them, two masks made of light-leeching black silk, a small box of makeup, a tin of tea, and a pair of thin daggers with edges so sharp they seem to glow blue, traceries of runes worked along their lengths.

@zan-of-spades, @darlingknave

[lordaeronslost]

A letter to Cord Embersong - 27 July

This letter is written on good parchment in sepia ink.  The seal is in plain gray wax without a signet.

 Darling,

I hope you’re safe and that you’re not mixed up in the bullshit on Kalimdor.  Hopefully you’re well away from that mess—I can hope, anyway. I can also hope that you’re not mixed up in anything going on in Lordaeron, or in the northern Eastern Kingdoms in general.

Be careful.  Be safe.  I keep hearing things and I don’t like them—not about you, but in general.

Stay away from Alterac if you can.  Hell, stay away from Undercity.  Bitch is up to her old tricks.

At least, that’s what the reports look like.  Be careful.

 Ghost.

[@darlingknave]

[lordaeronslost]

In the wind

The reports were incontrovertible.

They were scattered across her makeshift desk at a pub outside the city and the pieces were falling into place.  She was dressed in her smoke-colored leathers, and the place was quiet.  Her COMM sat on a corner of the table, silent.  She eyed it for a moment, but didn’t pick it up.

No.  Not yet.

In the center of it all was a note from Shadowpaw.

Ghost –

Bran’s headed for Silverpine and the Glades.  Might need to shadow him.  Thinks he has a bead on DelUrlar.

Scarlets afoot.  Be bloody careful.  Check in if you can.

- Shadowgrace.

Lyyn stared at the note for another moment.  The reports of crisped undead and strange lights fit.  It all fit.

It made her sick to her stomach.

There was work to do here. There was work to do there.

It was as it always was.

The Servitors.  SI:7.  The Retribution.  The Alliance, everyone else, all of it.

Goddess, is this why Jude is so grumpy all the bloody time?

She scrubbed a hand over her face.  Her cup of coffee was almost empty.

I should go.  I should see what I can find out.  If they’re right, this could be trouble.

Trouble was her stock in trade, though usually trying to prevent it from getting out of hand was harder than causing it in the first place. This would be about containment.

That was something she’d been doing a lot lately, she realized with a sigh.

She leaned forward, eyes skipping over the reports again.  What choice was there?

A chair creaked near the fireplace and she looked up.  Other trouble.

“Coffee?” she asked, her tone dry.

Just keep all the balls in the air, Lyyn.  You can do that.  Always have. Always will.

[Mentions: @graceintheshadows; @servitorsoflothar; @darlingknave ]

[lordaeronslost]

What Once Was Broken

Lyyn stood at the back of the crowded meeting room, blending in with the other aides and staff officers as time dwindled down toward the beginning of another round of Command meetings, ones that seemed to go on endlessly from dawn until dusk and sometimes deep into the night.  The appearance of Argus in the skies over Azeroth had done nothing if not whipped the Alliance military into a greater frenzy, one unlike any she could ever remember seeing—even the Cataclysm hadn’t been this bad.  The spy hid in plain sight, dressed in the uniform of a unit of Theramore Irregulars, purportedly an aide to Colonel Nathan Terrace—which she had been in the past, albeit as an agent of her father, now years ago.

“I need quiet in this chamber,” the voice of one of aides-de-camp from Command called from the front of the chamber.  “Quiet in the chamber.  Please find your seats so we can begin.”

The cacophony of voices died down to a quiet murmur, then down to nothing but the sound of scraping chairs and shuffling papers as the assembled found their way to their appointed places—the officers commanding battalions and better at the table, others in the gallery above, and then the aides like her clustered around the walls, notepads and recording implements ready.  It was after their brief mid-morning break and would be hours before they broke for lunch if this followed the usual path of the last few days. Lyyn had managed to gather a bit of information from the meetings—but nowhere near what she’d hoped.

They barely know more than us.  Thank the goddess that Quin’s got my sister’s ear and is getting what the Kirin Tor know out of her.  Her jaw set. If the Alliance and the Kirin Tor didn’t end up on the same page—

Leaving aside the Horde entirely.  This is a fight for all of us, not just one side or the other. We all die together regardless of who hates whom.

There hadn’t been word from Whisper in months and it worried her.

“Sergeant Tulliver, if you please?”

Lyyn blinked, glancing toward the side of the room and the set of small double doors guarded by the sergeant-at-arms who’d been addressed.  The young man gave a short nod and reached for the doors.

“Yes, sir.”

The door swung open and in strode the last person Lyyn expected to see in the chamber.

Jude swept in as regal as a queen, dressed in the dark blue robes of a Kirin Tor battle mage and the darker still tabard of the old Argent Dawn, its silver and gold sun device stark against the blue-black weave of the fabric.  Her decorations for valor and bravery—among other things—were fastened to her pauldrons in the Kirin Tor style.  Her hood was up—also in the Kirin Tor style—though Lyyn could see her sister’s eyes flash dangerously as she strode toward the front of the room.  A few of the officers at the table stiffened, as if surprised—or afraid of what the mage’s presence represented.

She stopped at the foot of the dais where the highest ranking marshals and generals of the Alliance were seated—those that weren’t in the field with their commands—and lifted her chin even as she lowered her hood, flame-red hair spilling over her shoulders. “Present as requested, gentlemen.”

One of the marshals leaned forward, his gaze penetrating, focused.  “Judean Auroran, Viscountess Greymantle.  Unit commander, Argent Crusade.  Kirin Tor battle mage battalion leader.  Former Chancellor of the Retribution of Arathor, a unit of Alliance irregulars commissioned during the leadership of Magni Bronzebeard in the years after the Third War, decommissioned two weeks after the fall of Theramore.  Involved in the campaigns in Outland, Northrend, and against Deathwing.  Present at the defense—and evacuation—of Theramore.”

Jude regarded him with a long, cold look.  “Yes,” she said simply.

“There is a proposal that has been brought forth within High Command that your unit be recommissioned that you be awarded the rank of full Commander and all the rights and privileges involved.  You will retain autonomy over the decisions for your unit and undertake missions and assignments as you see fit but will have all the authority, rights, and responsibilities of a unit of Alliance irregulars.”

Lyyn pressed her spine against the wall, her stomach dropping.

She wouldn’t—would she?

Jude was silent for a few long moments.  “I see. And when was High Command intending to inform me of this proposal?”

“We are informing you of it now,” another of the marshals said.

“That you are,” Jude said, her voice low and deadly.  “In front of half of Command and their staffs, you inform a military leader that maybe, just maybe, you intend to recommission her unit, one that was utterly shattered by a singular tragedy, one whose members are now long retired or reassigned. I imagine that you expect me to reform a unit of the same effectiveness and fighting strength as before, correct?”

“That was our hope,” the second marshal said.

The mage’s eyes flashed. “Perhaps you hope in vain.  It would not be as you imagine it would be.”

“Not all of us are under the same illusion, Viscountess,” the first marshal said quietly.  “You can trust in that.”

“Can I?”

He nodded, once.  “Yes.  Yes, you can.”

“Very well,” Jude said. “But I think you realize that this is not a decision I can make lightly or without full knowledge of what is expected. Please send a copy of the proposal including all addendums by courier to Dalaran as quickly as possible.  I will review the proposal and provide you with my answer.”  She gave them a sharp nod, her shoulders square.  “Good-day, gentlemen.”

With that, she pivoted on her heel and walked out, lifting her hood as she went, leaving the assembly in stunned silence in her wake.

OOC note:

Anyone may feel free to respond or react to this that would have a way of hearing about it.  It’s the beginning of something larger for Jude Auroran, a military commander still wrestling with some demons of her past--and what her future might hold.  Trying to get a little more RP rolling for the Soldier of Seeker, Soldier, Spies and this seemed like a good option.  Available on Tumblr here or in game upon request unless you see me online, then just poke me!

[lordaeronslost]

Playing the messenger

The news--all of it--could wait until later.

She felt oddly numb as she came back into their apartment at the Auroran holdings in Dalaran, trying to sort out all the messages she was supposed to relay.  Lyyn shrugged out of her cloak and hung it by the door, tugging the pins from her hair and letting it slip free of the bun she usually kept it up in--easier to keep it in her hood that way.  The place was quiet, but that didn’t mean anything.  They’d both been asleep when she’d left.  He’d probably have ink all over his face unless he’d awoken sometime after falling asleep at the desk.  She hadn’t had the heart to wake him, though.  The nightmares had been waking them both more often than their daughter had been and she knew that he suffered worse than her--after all, the nightmares were his.

Tell him she’s sorry.  Tell him about M.  Tell him about the lava bath half the unit took.  Tell him about the fucking fel reaver.  Tell him--

Lyyn closed her eyes for a moment and exhaled quietly.

“I’ll tell him whatever the hell I decide to tell him,” she muttered.  “Depends on how this all goes.”  She took a deep breath and raised her voice slightly.  “A’mael?  I’m home.  You awake?”

There was no answer.

With a quiet sigh, she headed for the bedroom, her tread silent as usual.  Passing through the sitting room, there was no sign of either of them except for his guitar and a packet of extra strings on the table.

The door to the bedroom swung open silently on oiled hinges and Lyyn smiled at the sight beyond it.

There they both were, father and infant daughter, fast asleep in the rocking chair near the window.  Anthus’s head was canted to the side, his body relaxed and his flesh and blood hand resting against baby Skybrooke’s back as she lay on his chest, her expression smooth and precious in dreams.  Lyyn lingered near the door for a moment, just staring at them, before she eased deeper into the room.  She crossed to the chair and leaned down to kiss her sleeping baby, then to gently kiss her husband’s temple.

“Sweet dreams, a’mael,” she whispered.

[Mentions: @steelshatter; @mindspanner; @shadewhisper]

[lordaeronslost]

A letter to Cord Embersong - 10 July

This letter is written on a half-sheet of good parchment in sepia ink.  It is sealed with unmarked gray wax.

Darling,

I got your letter—thanks for letting me know you’re all right, or at least as all right as it gets. The warning about Will is well-taken and makes me feel like maybe my distrust of him was somehow justified, even though it may well be after the fact.  I’m sorry about Ace and the baby.  My heart aches for and with you.  If there’s anything I can do, let me know.

Stuff’s quiet on my end beyond the usual ruckus that I’m sure you’re aware of.  I’ll stay away from the basin—I’m mostly in the Kingdoms these days anyway, in a uniform, doing that sort of work.  Once and always a ghost, right?  People look and either don’t see or only see what they want to see.

Since you got the last letter, I’m guessing you found a soft place to fall and it has something to do with my cousin—not a bad thing if you ask me.  I can think of far worse people to fall in with.  I’m glad to hear from you, regardless.  Not sure where what’s coming is going to take me from here, but I hope it doesn’t end with our daggers at each others’ throats.  Honor among and all that jazz.

I haven’t told anyone, not everything, and I don’t think I ever will.

Be safe.

 - Ghost.

[@darlingknave]

[lordaeronslost]

Ghost - Boralus

Boralus.

In some ways, it was still achingly familiar, reminding her of the city she’d seen as a child, her hand tucked neatly into her father’s as he led her down the cobbled streets.  She’d been six or eight, far too young to realize that anything untoward might ever happen to such a place.  Now, decades later, she was a grown woman who knew better.

Much had changed in the decades since she’d been here with Sam Auroran, Earl of Ware.  The city looked much the same on the surface, but she knew the truth of it—it was a mask, like the ones she wore to hide her true face. Boralus underneath festered, pus-filled wounds only occasionally glimpsed from the surface, the corruption hidden beneath a thin veneer, like skin hiding infection beneath.

This visit would be brief, but it would only be a matter of time before they become longer—her gut screamed as much.  Someone would decide at some point that she didn’t need to keep an eye on things in the Eastern Kingdoms anymore, that her talents were better used here, in Kul Tiras. Perhaps they would be right.

She didn’t think they would be.

For now, though, she was here, and there was work to do before she returned home.

There was always work to do.

Gathering her dark cloak around her, she vanished down an alleyway, only two steps echoing before the sound, too, vanished completely.

[lordaeronslost]

A letter to Cord Embersong - 15 August

This letter is written on good parchment in sepia ink.  It is sealed with plain gray wax without any sort of signet attached.  It is attached to a box containing a small stuffed elekk and a baby blanket with the name Aemin embroidered on it.

 Darling,

I am very glad to hear of your happy circumstances—I am glad to hear from you at all.  Word from the other side is unsurprisingly scant and reports have been equally unsurprisingly muddled and mixed in the wake of Undercity. My sister always said it’d have to be flayed to bedrock before the living survivors of Lordaeron could ever reclaim it. I guess she was prophetic in that.

I know that the Argent Crusade—if they can spare the bodies—will likely move in sooner rather than later in attempts to cleanse the area.  Time will tell if that’s even possible.

Things are strange now, too strange, and I think you and I both realize it and know it.

There’s talk of moving me to Kul Tiras soon and leaving my circle to someone else—someone with more “street credit” with the Argent Crusade.  I already know who it’ll be if it’s not me running things up here.  You’ve met her and I trust her with everything and she definitely has a lot of truck with the Argent Crusade, since T.F. used to use her to spy on the Viscountess Greymantle back in the day.  We knew, of course.

If the move happens, I’ll let you know before it does.  If it does, you can still get letters to me by the usual routes—they’ll make it safely. Veil good about that.

I really am happy for you. Kiss your little one for me—maybe someday, when this is over, I’ll get to meet her.

Veil said she saw Tauzen during the battle—I think he made it out.  I was well away from the fighting itself, out by the Bulwark.  I’m not there anymore, obviously.  Haven’t seen Will since everything, which is probably a mercy.

Let me know if you need anything.  Be safe, my dear friend, and goddess watch over you.

 - Ghost.

 There are a few doodles in the margins, mostly of Ghost, Tauzen, and Cord at a bar someplace, but one in the corner is of a particular late colleague for whom a child has now been named.

[ @darlingknave ]

[lordaeronslost]

A letter to Cord Embersong - 1 August

The letter is written on good parchment in sepia ink.  There are faint smudges of soot and ash on the page. It is sealed in simple gray wax without any identifying signet.

 Darling,

It’s all so clear now except the most important pieces of the puzzle.  Why the hell would she do it?  Where was the tactical gain?

I don’t expect you to know. I do want you to be careful.

Fuck, how could I have been so blind?  It was right there.

...because I was looking at something else.  Because I was concentrating on something else.

My warning stands—and I have to emphasize it even more now.  Stay away from Undercity.

Stay away from Lordaeron.

Keep to the borders.

Be safe.

I can’t lose anyone else.

I won’t.

 Ghost.

[@darlingknave]

[lordaeronslost]

A letter to Cmdr. Etharion Longsight, Servitors of Lothar

Commander Longsight -

I will be as concise as possible in my address to you regarding this matter.  I know that I am not wholly unknown to you, as I have been haunting Aerie Peak for some time as of this writing and you were of course present at my wedding.  I am a spy of some experience and it has been expressed to me in recent weeks that perhaps those skills may be of use to the Servitors in some capacity or another.  Please take this letter as a request for consideration for inclusion in the unit at this time.

It occurs to me that you likely suspect the truth behind the mask I wear; understand that the name I live under is not the name I was born with.  Know, however, that the following is true: I was born the daughter of a merchant spy turned ennobled spy in the service of the last king of Lordaeron, Terenas Menethil, (I suspect that my father still serves the crown as he can) and the lady-wife of said spy.  My lineage runs to both to Lordaeron and the environs of the north, those once held by the quel'dorei, now known as the sin'dorei.  I have blood kin among them to this day.  I am the youngest of three children, the second daughter, and one of two surviving scions of my house, one I do not claim at this time.  I have been, since a tender age, trained to follow in the footsteps of my father as my elder sister was trained to follow in my mother's steps.  In short, I am a shadow, a Ghost--but a useful one, I have been told.  My service has been to the Alliance always, though SI:7 believes that I am thoroughly theirs.  A ruse to a greater or lesser extent, though I imagine that Shaw knows well the truth of it.  In times past, I had served under my sister's command in a unit whose name I suspect you know.

I do hope you will pardon my obliqueness.  I am loathe to set some things to paper, considering my current status, which is to say that my true self, with the name I was born to, is officially dead on the Alliance rolls.

I will speak the truth in person, if you have questions.

Thank you for your consideration, Commander.

Lyyn Ilgrey Steelshatter.

(Mention: @etharion; @steelshatter)

[lordaeronslost]

A Secret Book - 26 August, Year 1 of the reign of Anduin Wrynn

He’s alive and safe and home and with me again and I have never been so relieved in the whole of my life.  At night, we just lay in bed and hold each other and it’s more than enough—I missed him so much. I sleep so much better with him next to me.  I didn’t realize it until he was gone and then came home again.  I knew that sleeping alone sucked, but I didn’t realize how much, and how little rest I was actually getting until I woke up that first morning next to him.

They’ll deploy to the Broken Isles as soon as they’ve had time to rest and resupply.  I don’t know if I’m going to go with them or not.  I know he wants me to—he wants me with him.  He wants me to join them.

What am I going to do?  I have my work here, though I know I have one or two operatives I could assign to handle things.  I’m sure SI:7 would like eyes in the Servitors—if I make that choice.

If I don’t play both sides.

If I don’t tell some of my superiors to kindly go fuck themselves for what they did to Mindspanner.  I went to her in good faith and passed along their request and what did they do?

I’m not into hanging people out to dry like that.

Maybe it would be better—

I don’t know.  I just don’t know.

But what does it matter?  Lyyn Auroran is dead and Lyyn Ilgrey is an illusion, a mask.

No matter what I do, I’m a ghost.

Maybe it’s better that way.

Then again, maybe it’s not.

[lordaeronslost]

Letters to the South Seas - August 18

The letter is written in Thalassian with lapses into Common and a few phrases in the tongue of Dalaran—almost as if the writer is trying to make it difficult for anyone other than the intended recipient to understand. It is sealed with gray wax and a sigil with a rose twining around a dagger.

 My Bard,

The siege is broken and I have to hurry so this and my previous letter can go out with the courier headed south.  He will take a terrible risk, but what must be done must be done.  Arcavius has declared his intention to go along and despite my and Aekatrine’s best efforts, he won’t be dissuaded.  His place, he said, is with Jude in Dalaran and he will find a way to get there come hell or high water.

I imagine both may be in the offing.

I haven’t felt right since you’ve been gone.  Maybe I picked up something Booty Bay, or something from one of the kids—there are a lot more of them running around right now than there was before, with the invasion and the evacuations and all of that, and with me spending so much more time with Aekatrine...

It’s probably nothing.

Aekatrine is trying to talk me out of riding north, to check the dead-drops, to see what’s become of the territories north and west of here.  I keep telling her I have to, that it’s my job, that I’ll only be gone for a day at the most.  She’s perfectly capable of handling the kids for that long.

She doesn’t like it, though. I told her she’s paranoid and she whole-heartedly admitted that I was right—but that didn’t mean that I shouldn’t listen to her.

I wish I could, but I still have a job to do.

The Servitors marched out a few days ago, headed south.  We haven’t heard from them since they left.  A few of them stayed—injuries, all that.  The ones here should recover.

One of the ones with the team heading north from Ironforge is gone, though.  Masana.

I’m sorry, a’mael. Truly, I am.

I hope that her sacrifice will be the only one demanded of them—of all of us.

Come home, my bard.  I love you.

Your Ghost.

@steelshatter

[Mention @etharion for Masana.]

[lordaeronslost]

Letters to the South Seas - 11 August

The letter is written in Thalassian with lapses into Common and a few phrases in the tongue of Dalaran—almost as if the writer is trying to make it difficult for anyone other than the intended recipient to understand. It is sealed with gray wax and a sigil with a rose twining around a dagger.

 My Bard,

I don’t know if I’ll be able to send this, or any letter that will follow, but I need to write the words.  I need to put them to paper so someday they can be read—by us together, I hope, with relief and perhaps even wistful smiles.

I have to hope and pray that it will be so.  If I do otherwise, I think I might break and that wouldn’t benefit anyone.

The Legion is here, in the Hinterlands.  The Keep was nearly overrun last night.  Your swordbrethren, they held the line, but I wonder at what cost.  I can’t bring myself to go down to the infirmary to see—to see who’s lived, who’s died.

I saw an explosion of white light—not like the sun, but like the moon—before they sealed the gates.

They’ve sealed the gates. We’re trapped in here until we can break the siege.

If we can break the siege.

I’m afraid, a’mael.  I’m afraid for myself, for you, for my niece and my nephews, for the Servitors, the Wildhammers, all the refugees...

I knew it would be bad, but I never imagined this.  It’s like Lordaeron all over again, but worse, like hell that we went through when the Scourge came for a second time—except worse.

We pretend that we’ve prepared for this but we’re not.  There’s nothing that could prepare you for this.

I had another nightmare, Anthus.

I dreamed you didn’t come home.

I can’t let that dream be real.

Lyyn.

@steelshatter

[lordaeronslost]

Letters to the South Seas - 8 August

The letter is written in Thalassian with lapses into Common and a few phrases in the tongue of Dalaran—almost as if the writer is trying to make it difficult for anyone other than the intended recipient to understand. It is sealed with gray wax and a sigil with a rose twining around a dagger.

 My Bard,

Yesterday was quiet except for the comm blast sent out to the Servitors, advising them to carry full kit at all times and to always have a first aid kid with them as well.

It’s going to happen soon. I’m not sure how they know—I was with the kids when it happened—but somehow, they know it’s coming soon.

It feels like the deep breath before the storm.

Some of your swordbrethren tried to reassure me that you’d be home soon—Meggi, I think it was, one of the ones on latrine duty.  She said that these next forty-eight days will have passed before I know it and then you’ll be back where you belong.

I wish the days would blend together, but right now the edges are sharp, jagged.  I can see the gaps between too easily.

So I number the days until you’re home and wait for a letter, for word, a fragment of a song I know is yours—anything.

I still miss you.

Be careful, a’mael.

All my love,

Your Ghost.

@steelshatter