#Necrovember2021

[bewarethelivingwra]

03 - Trust - Malacai

Trust – Malacai Browning (1650)

He arrived by bat, allowed only when they rode together to take over the reins from his love, Gianara, to whom the great red-winged creature belonged. She had given the bat the very creative name of “Red the Second,” after her horse she had had in life. Even as silly as it was, it made him smile. She relaxed against him as he steered them towards Alterac, an odd destination for them, and he had to resist resting his chin atop her head, since he was the one navigating.

Spotting the house as it was described in his mother's letter, he guided Red the Second down to a clear space to hover, hoping she'd be able to find something substantial enough to roost on once they disembarked and got settled. When close enough to the ground, Malacai hopped off with impressive grace for one both Forsaken and tall, and reached up to help Gia down as she shook her head.

“You act as if this isn't my bat and I fly it everywhere I can,” she teased, but let him hold her about the waist and guide her down. He chuckled, kissing her on the forehead.

“Don't take this treat from me,” he teased in turn, looking over as he saw her wave. His mother stood with what he believed had to be the owner of this place, a human male even taller than he was with that...obvious paladin air about him, especially from the hammer he held the pommel off, like a quiet threat. He soured briefly, and Gia squeezed his hand.

“Don't start,” she said. “I've met him before and he's nice,” she added, rushing over to embrace his mother, their first time meeting, as well as the human. Malacai, as if suddenly imbued with his station, straightened, tossing back dark red hair, and walking confidently over, deep red leather duster open and bellowing a bit like a cloak as he walked.

His mother smiled up at him, and the obvious tears that rimmed her lower lids almost broke him, but he reached down to embrace her, getting the full brunt of the lavender that clung to her clothes – a habit his sisters all carried still. He would join her in tears with just that scent, he thought. He straightened to meet the fellow, introduced rather stiffly, as Folcan, who hosted this event, and thanked him. There was an undertone of paranoia from him, just as Mal was certain he radiated the same. Perhaps he had a history with the Forsaken just as he had his history with the farmers of this region. He offered his hand to shake, hissing softly at the burn of the Light that seemed to radiate off of this man like heat from a well-stoked stove. His mother winced as well, realizing what had happened, but seemingly not wanting to call attention to it, considering Mal had not. He shook out his hand as Gia took his mother to go get the camping gear they had brought with them, making sure to steer clear of this mysterious shop the human, Folcan, mentioned. With the sting still dissipating in his hand, he had a hunch that was the major reason for such a hefty warning to steer clear.

Left to make conversation, Malacai had a thought. “I have an urge, like every time I come here, to go closer to Southshore. Do you feel up for it? You wouldn't even have to hop on the bat from the looks.” Malacai gave an odd glance toward the metallic wings that neither had called attention to. At first, he balked, before Mal assured him they weren't going near the ruined city proper, but just outside. He was just as sour over the desecration of the small, port town where he had met his love, and then both died fatefully just outside.

Convinced, they took to the air, Mal on a rather disgruntled Red, Folcan on his own, which was impressive. He had only seen one person with wings before, a Demon Hunter acquaintance he knew in Silvermoon.

He scanned the ground, looking for the familiar clearing of faded green grass, chuckling that it hadn't rebounded from his father's magic in all this time. It had been more than a decade. He guided Red down, hovering just outside of the dilapidated campsite that had been his resting place before raising, as well as Gia's and his sister's. Folcan landed steadily near him, apparently adept with the wings. From the expression on his face, and his gaze going toward the sunken graves that lay empty, he understood what had happened here quickly, addressing it as such as Malacai nodded. Still remaining was the circle of stones left from their campfire, the tattered remains of Gia's tent, and a couple of overturned logs used for seating. Mal made his way over, sitting down, staring into the fire circle as if it was lit and roaring.

“It's a lengthy, rather sad story,” he said. “With how tight a leash our father kept on us, due to...our magic and the tenuous nature of our place among those in Stormwind, I sometimes took off on small trips. I was in Southshore when I was twenty, nearby when Gianara was setting up this camp. I stopped to help her, took her for a meal, discovered her...secrets.” He swallowed then, useless as it was, toeing the dirt near the fire with one long-booted foot. “I promised to return, to write my family that I was taking her home to marry, to make her tragedy into a family...and I was followed back here by a few farmers from the area. They killed her in front of me, then I was next once they wore me down.” He swallowed hard again, Folcan offering his sympathies and Malacai nodded in recognition.

“In hindsight, I likely stood out a great deal,” he admitted with a soft chuckle. “Our father protected us. and still my sister and I decked ourselves out in the most blatant colors,” he said, gesturing to his red leather long coat, the deep red, well-tailored shirt beneath. “They saw one of...my kind...speaking to one of theirs, and assumed her issue was because of me, so we both needed to go.” Nodding toward the sunken graves, he added, “My older sister and I have always been rather connected, even if we bicker. She had a vision, not realizing it had come to pass, and raced here only to bury us, and then to be buried herself.”

Folcan commiserated, even, surprisingly, dropping a comforting hand on Mal's shoulder, the magic not felt through the layers of clothing he wore. He heard Folcan's family had fled the area as well, knowing what was to come, just about the time Mal had been killed. He knew later the plague had just begun around the time they had died, before his father had been fully versed in it from those around him. When Mal spoke of Undercity, utilizing that term instead of Capital City, as it was the place he had hoped to find a cure and restart his life with Gianara, Folcan bristled again. They bonded briefly over the fact that Mal had been considered a citizen there by way of his father, just as he had been a citizen of Stormwind on his mother's side.

“Undercity,” Folcan said, his tone odd, as if the word wasn't quite poison in his mouth, but tasted bitter, sour, nonetheless. “I lost my wife there in the second fall. She saved a lot of people, but at the cost of her own life. She didn't rise, but she did fall there, slain by Forsaken troops commanded by...her.” Even in a more dulled state, which wasn't as dulled as many in these sorts of situations, Mal could feel the man's grief radiate, having experienced much the same in various ways, between seeing his old home turned into what it was, lying in ruin, to seeing Gia's throat slit in front of him.

“I was thrown through a portal to avoid all of that by a Forsaken I was training under in the Apothecarium. You would never think a five-foot-tall mage could shove someone my size, but she did it. She did it to spare me seeing all of that again, since Capital City was our second home, our father's home. We lost it twice ourselves.” He glanced to where the fire would be. “Luckily, only Gia's apprentice passed there of folks we know, but for Giara, that was her final family lifeline.” He could see the man's expression shift, his care for that girl seeming to overwhelm his features, as he staunchly declared his deep care and concern for her, his expression brightening as he spoke of her, her adopted mother, and Mal's own mother in the process. He could feel a weight lifting from his chest, as if he could suddenly breathe once more, free and clear and not stiffly and perfunctorily. He chuckled in turn, admitted his mother, and to an extent his younger sister closest to her, could charm most anyone. He paused a moment, considering, then rose a bit stiffly to his full height, still dwarfed by this unusual human, and said words quietly in demonic, hoping they'd not be overheard, causing a bit of a small, almost indiscernible rift through with the stealthed demon he often wandered with when alone disappeared. He noted the human sensed something, but not all of it. Part of him wanted to call attention to it, but he didn't want to break the fragile trust that was building here, though he knew, once they arrived back and he dismounted the bat. Gia would see it immediately, that Malacai was here, among the very type of person who distrusted him most, trusting him enough to let down his guard.

[bewarethelivingwra]

01 - Awakening - Jiselle (2844)

Awakening – Jiselle

The bundle on the back of her sister's horse, as undead as she was, was unsettling, but it helped to further add more to the reasons for joining them. Paege Ravenswood-Gladwynn, Jiselle's eldest sister, turned to her after gently securing the sheet-wrapped bundle that was Jiselle's adopted sister – and what had been her adopted mother's last living child – Paege's bright blue eyes practically burning into Jiselle's emerald green ones.

“Let us know as soon as you can,” she said, looking about to make sure no one was watching her speak to Jiselle's cloaked form, lest they look too closely and see what she was, and take her choice from her. Jiselle nodded, black curls bouncing beneath the hood. She watched Paege mount her horse and take off northwest, leaving Jiselle with the company Paege had wanted her to speak to.

He was tall, this Forsaken mage named Landry, dressed in deep blue that contrasted against long, blue hair that was neatly trimmed just beneath his shoulders. His face was weathered, but she could see a handsomeness there that had to have carried over from life. He was also tall, almost impossibly so to her, even though Jiselle was considered average. He looked about then took her hand, leading her away from the farmlands and the fray that continued as the “mass recruitment” went on. Jiselle tried not to think about it too deeply.

His gait was swift, as would be anyone's who was both so tall and tireless, and Jiselle jogged to keep up, certain he'd more likely lose his arm before he'd pull off hers. She hoped none who were...recruiting...from the remaining human farms that were scattered about Alterac looked to see this Forsaken dragging another figure along behind him, but it seemed they were focused, uninterested in what was going on with the few that meandered about off-project. They went through the woods, Jiselle clinging with her free hand to the cloak that covered her, twisting this way and that to avoid brambles and branches that didn't affect her chaperone.

“I grew up south of here,” she finally said, likely too soft to be heard, just trying to make conversation out of the silence. She was certain he didn't hear her, until they arrived at a clearing and paused, breaking out of the treeline to confront...a burned down ruin. Jiselle looked at it with confusion, risking pushing back her hood and shaking out her hair before looking up.

“And I grew up here,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft for the imposing figure he cut. She blinked up at him, having the sneaking suspicion he had been a parent in his former life. Her father wasn't as gentle sounding, not in the least, but her adopted one, as briefly as she knew of him, was. Jiselle looked at the ruin.

“Sorry about the house,” she said, gauging from the chimney that remained that this was what they looked at. He chuckled dryly.

“Don't be. We did that, to cement the end of it all,” he said. He took a deep breath, leading her closer, but much more slowly than their frantic trek through the woods. She followed behind, wondering just how much more she'd hear. She saw the overgrown remains of vegetable plots, a clothesline that had snapped and hung rotting from two different poles, canted at angles in the ground. The only thing that stood was the chimney and an outhouse, which she had to stifle a giggle at, it looked so out of place in such a somber, neglected scene.

He moved toward what was likely an outdoor firepit, if the circle of rocks that remained was any indication, and sat on a felled log that made for a seat. She joined him, sitting on another, noting two remained empty. A family of four. Tiny compared to hers of six, both times over. He rested his arms on his knees, slim, gloved hands dangling between them. The silence stretched on and she began to wonder why Paege sent her with him. He didn't have the air of a necromancer, but frankly, Jiselle had learned the last few weeks her gauge of character could be skewed easily. He glanced over at her, golden eyes blinking. Finally, he chuckled.

“No necromancer,” he said, and she nearly jumped. Had she spoken that out loud? How rude was it to just assume every undead she came across was able to create more in such a way. He shook his head, tapping his temple with a gloved finger. “Mage trick. It's strong by proximity. Though, to be honest, you have a windowpane face like your sister Gianara.”

Jiselle relaxed, laughing. “I hope you're not insulted. It wasn't my intention.”

“Of course not,” he said, looking over the firepit, long unused. “Paege wanted me to speak to you because I am one who chose this,” he said, gesturing to himself before resting his arms as before. “For good reason, I think. Just as you have.”

“You...chose to die and be raised?” Jiselle asked, one black brow arching in curiosity. Paege did have a method to her madness, it would seem. He nodded.

“I have a twin sister,” he said, chuckling after. “You...would be amused to see her. She's smaller than even you are,” he added. His gaze turned southwest with a small nod, as if he could see through the trees, over what looked like an overgrown dirt road, to the destination far off. “We were brought up to be trained in Dalaran, but not accepted, due to our father's reputation,” he said. Jiselle warmed up to him quickly hearing this, knowing her own father's issues. She just nodded, trying not to look too excited at the idea of bonding over terrible parenting. “My sister and I ended up moving there from there, staying with a...friend of ours,” he said. She smiled a bit, wondering what that particular story was, but she knew better than to interrupt. “When Dalaran fell, she was the first to go, and be raised. The useful, the more intact after the attack, were. Being twins, I felt her death acutely even from within the city, and I threw myself into the fray suicidally, in an attempt to stay close to her, to protect her in this life as I had in the previous,” he said, looking over at her.

“I see why Paege wanted me to speak to you, then.”

“You have a unique opportunity,” he said. “To choose. Do you return to Stormwind, bearer of further bad news, to whatever awaits you there, or...do you join your family. Most of it,” he said. Jiselle swallowed, her turn to stare at the missing fire, wishing it alight for something to get lost in. She couldn't bear to tell Dahlia she no longer had any children breathing, except her. She would feel worthless. Her life would be pretty much forfeit for wanting to make everything up to her. And then there was Cary. She bristled. He hadn't even waited for her to be gone a full week it seemed before he was back in the Lamb, easily falling into whatever spell Demi wove about him. She shook her head to clear it.

Could she give up all living entailed? She had spent so long feeling like an outsider, no matter how hard Dahlia worked to keep her from feeling so. Could she spend...well, forever, reconnected with her sisters? She looked at Landry.

“Will it...hurt?” she asked. He laughed.

“For you, no,” he said, turning towards her. “I think I know of the most...painless way to go about things.” And as he explained it, she nodded, following his plan to the letter. He took her hand, teleporting her to a gloomier setting than even the burned-down home. The sky seemed to be set at permanent dusk, but with an odd, greenish hue that was further unsettling. The trees near them were at least living, but evergreen, which Jiselle believed must be incredibly hard to kill if they survived this climate. The grass beneath them was sparse, giving way to rocky soil beneath. He held up a finger and excused himself a moment, teleporting out just as fast as he had teleported them in, leaving her staring around at her surroundings, rubbing her arms against the chill beneath her cloak. It was terrifyingly quiet, leaving her to expect something to jump out at any moment, and there it would be, decision made. Landry returned rather quickly, dropping a bundle onto the ground she recognized as a tent, and another bag.

“Best I can really do around here,” he said, moving quickly to set up the tent. She jumped in to help, but he waved her off, chatting as he worked. “We are in a place just north of an area called Deathknell. It would be the place your sister, Gianara, was raised when she was...found,” he said, unable to find less distasteful words. Jiselle shuddered. “I don't intend to kill you myself for raising, but have it be a more...quiet...situation,” he said, looking up at her after he pounded in the final tent stake and rose. A passable shelter. “I find that sort of thing unsavory anyway,” he said, looking over at her. “I would rather you go in quiet, without pain, without knowing its coming,” he said. “The less chaotic the death, often the calmer the raising, and you strike me as the calm sort in most situations,” he added, that winning smile returning. She returned it.

“You'd be right,” she said, looking down as he went for the bag, handing it to her.

“A few days' provisions,” he said. “I'll return after a few to see if you are still here, make sure you're all right if so.”

“If I'm still here,” she said, looking at the tent and shaking her head. She glanced up. “Not going to tell me how?” He shook his head in turn.

“No. You already know it will be coming, but I don't want you panicking over every little thing,” he said. “Whatever the end, it'll be pleasant enough.” He went then to gather rocks and sticks, bringing them back. “Don't keep a fire going at all times. We aren't terribly far from Deathknell, and while our people don't tend to have the best sense of smell, a campfire carries and is distinctive. Not to mention the smoke.” She nodded, taking a seat on the grass near the fire as he got it started. Not with flint and tinder, but a simple spell. She widened her eyes.

“That's handy,” she said, and he laughed.

“Very,” He leaned down to pat her shoulder amicably enough. “I will see you in a few days. Just stay near here, no wandering, or you'll meet your end in a worse way.”

Jiselle never wished for books more in her life, left to think too much on her decision, trying to keep from changing her mind as she filled the endless hours with too many thoughts of both of her old lives, and then sleep, where she got to dream of them as well. She woke the next morning to the opening of her tent flap. Jiselle gasped, pulling her legs up close to herself as she scooted toward the back of the tent, only to get a better look at who peered in and have her usual curiosity take over. How she'd lived this long without a proper full reaction to fear, or instinct to defend herself, she had no idea.

“You are the one I sensed,” she heard in a gentle, oddly thick voice, originating from a kind, fuzzy face. She had seen races before that were unusual, surrounded by gnomes and Draenei and Worgen as she was in Stormwind, but this was different. Her golden brown eyes were kind, almost matching the ruddier shade of her fur that mixed with white in an interesting pattern on her face.

“Who are you?” she asked, blinking back at her, and the oddly bear-like person laughed, backing up.

“A friendly face who was...intrigued to sense friendly magic nearby,” she said, holding the flap open. Jiselle dug out her cloak to throw over what she wore to bed the night before, barely able to ward off the perpetual dusk chill of the area, and crawled out to join her. She got the fire going once more, taking something out of a basket that took a moment for Jiselle to recognize in her sleepy haze – a teapot.

“Oh Light, I've not had tea in weeks,” Jiselle said, sitting cross-legged by the fire and thrusting her hands out toward the flames. The bear-person laughed, doing what looked like complicated alchemy in the teapot before adding water and rigging it over the flames to boil.

“Your people have tea in their big stone cities?” she asked, sitting beside, but not very close, to Jiselle, likely sensing her nerves. Jiselle nodded.

“My adopted mother likes it better than coffee, and I think it rubbed off on me,” she admitted, looking over at the ornate ceramic pot that she worried would explode, so close to the flame.

“Tea is...very traditional for my people,” she said. Jiselle had a million questions, but they were answered well before she got to them, the woman, who called herself a Pandaren, explaining she was in the area looking for people here who would work well training alongside her kind.

“How do you decide that?” she asked, and the Pandaren woman reached over, taking one of Jiselle's hands, and looking at the back. She had some markings to her knuckles still, from her last bouts. It was as if she didn't even need to speak it. Jiselle looked over at her.

“The book...” she said quietly, closing her eyes then and taking a deep breath, the green energy she used so infrequently, that she had learned how to channel from the book, snaking over her arm to where their hands joined, then up toward the Pandaren woman's elbow.

“Book...hm,” she said, the look of shock plain on her face when Jiselle opened her eyes. She nodded. Taking her hand back, the Pandaren woman pulled the teapot from the fire, pouring two of the smallest, oddly-shaped cups full. No handles. Jiselle was grateful for that, honestly, the tiny cup warming her chilled hands. Was she to die of cold then be raised? she wondered.

The Pandaren woman spoke on and on as Jiselle savored her tea, oddly floral scented yet not as strong in taste, mild and warming and...relaxing. As if she would have a better chance at sleep now than she had with her fitful sleep overnight. She found herself hearing the woman's words in echo, then more like she was underwater, calling to her. Her breathing felt shallow, slow, but for some odd reason, she didn't panic, just glanced over at the Pandaren woman with confusion. Was she having some sort of a vision? Had she not awakened yet? Maybe she needed more sleep. She rose, intending to thank her for her company and crawl back into bed, and hit the grassy-rocky ground with a rather impressive thud, out cold before she even knew.

* * *

It didn't feel like grass anymore, just solid stone. Yet...she wasn't cold. Blinking her eyes open, Jiselle looked up at a stone structure above her and, thinking it couldn't be anything else, believed perhaps her getting drunk and fighting in the underground bouts had caught up to her and she was in the Stockade for some reason. She rubbed her eyes, realizing even that felt off, oddly-detached, and looked at her hands.

“I need more sun,” she mused, her voice also a bit off. Her dark brows knit together and she sat up stiffly, looking over to see not what she assumed would be iron gating and perhaps the view into another cell or something, but...a feminine figure, sitting cross-legged, dressed in leathers. Her elbows rested on her knees, her pale, uncovered hands laced together in front of her mouth as she stared ceaselessly with big, golden eyes. Almost round.

Jiselle rubbed her face again, and tried to focus, only hearing the sound of laughter when she was really small, back home with her blood family, struggling mightily to keep up with the only sister who would race her whenever she asked. She never even got close enough to grab a fistful of long, bannering black hair that trailed behind her. It came into focus then. She had seen Paege. Now she was seeing...

“Gia!” she practically screamed, her shy, older sister startling from her position. Gianara recovered quickly, smiling and crossing the room to embrace her. Jiselle noted she didn't feel the chill, looking about the room as she clung to her sister, the two of them alike once more, three of the four reunited by Jiselle's decision.

Gia ducked her head against Jiselle's shoulder as she squeezed her, her voice soft as she said, “Welcome home.”

[bewarethelivingwra]

02 - Hunger - Divinia (2021)

Hunger – Divinia Browning

Silvermoon was a nice enough city, really, even if the brightness burned her eyes, and she still felt the urge to look down and away on occasion when she got particularly hard stares from random Sin'dorei.

The toughest part, however, was the scent of food.

Divinia had been the one of her siblings who would eat pretty much anything placed before her. She was her mother's taste tester for any sort of new recipe, and would devour the most ridiculous sized stack of her father's pancakes when the mood struck him to make them. She'd sneak a cookie from the jar on the way out the door in the morning, and sometimes tiptoe down at night for one when she couldn't sleep. It was a miracle she died thin.

There were all sorts of lovely things she saw the elves that inhabited this city barely finish, and she would wish, just for a brief while, to have that ability back. To take their place at the table and finish off whatever was left, savoring it until the ability dissipated. Living in Bryn's home, where she cooked for herself and her grandchildren, Divinia would sit in her usual space in the sitting room and watch, remembering when she was younger, almost as young as them, sitting at her mother's table much the same as they did and for a brief moment, the melancholy would hit.

She even had friends who prided themselves on their cooking, and there was frankly nothing she could do to really enjoy it, just smile, and nod, and try to remember.

It was no wonder her downfall had been a cupcake, she thought sourly.

She rose from her position on the floor, tearing her eyes away from the little ones at the table. Landry, her benefactor from being Forsaken at such a young age, came over to sit with her, comforting her even though she refused to tell him what was bothering her that day. It all just seemed to come down onto her like a pile of wet blankets, weighing her usually cheerful thoughts.

“I think you need a good outing,” he said, which usually meant he would teleport her someplace, let her see something new and interesting in the world, but even that wasn't going to do the trick. It was just a feeling she had to muddle through until it passed. She shook her head. Landry gave her a dry kiss atop her head and rose, leaving her to stare out the window at people who passed by, most empty handed, but some with bakery boxes. Another cake event. She sighed.

She didn't know how much time passed, watching people walk along outside of Bryn's apartment, but it was growing a bit darker, and the little ones were about to be tucked into bed. Landry and Bryn's grandson, Cirwyn, tried valiantly to cheer her up, presenting her with what he had colored among the papers and supplies that were often strewn about the sitting room floor. She offered him a smile that barely reached her eyes and took it, looking over a decent likeness of him and her, and his younger sister, at least from the coloration and shapes.

Then, like a whirlwind, loud enough to draw Bryn's ire, as she was trying to settle the younger two into bed, Divinia's brother Malacai arrived, likely sent by Landry. If he couldn't cheer her up himself, Landry would find just the right reinforcement. Tall, with neat, deep red hair just past his shoulders, and impeccably dressed in dark red and black, her brother crossed the room to her with a winning, dimpled smile and squatted down in front of her. She was amused, thinking how different the two of them looked. Passing on the street, no one would believe them related, living or undead.

“You...need to get out of this apartment,” he stated firmly. “And I am just the guide you need.” Divinia shook her head, sucking in her cheeks. “Oh, you act like there is a choice,” he teased, rising and taking her hands to pull her gently to her feet. Even though she had said no, she rose easily, letting out an exasperated laugh. It was near impossible for her to be unhappy around Malacai, just as he was often broody with everyone else but her. He kept one of her hands in his, leading her to the door. “Stealing your priestess for a few hours!” he called out jokingly, then lead her out the door.

She walked with him along the streets, trying valiantly as she often did to keep her head down, even as he kept his head high. Being as tall as he was, nearly a foot and a half taller than Divinia herself, she knew he'd attract attention. It didn't help that he gently swung their connected arms as they walked, making it harder for her to watch her feet as she walked. She chuckled, shaking her head.

“You don't fight fair,” she teased. He grinned down at her, dimples flashing mischieviously.

“I shouldn't. I am your older brother, after all,” he said as they wandered the much-too-bright city. He fit in fairly well, with his love of reds and his deep, auburn hair. She felt she stood out too much, clothed in cerulean blue that matched the color her eyes were in life, her golden hair swept back from her face. She paused when he wended his way toward the entrance of Murder Row. Divinia shook her head.

“I was told not to go in there,” she said. He drew his dark red brows together, looking at her as if that was an affront to his duties as older brother.

“Who told you?”

“Landry.” He scoffed, waving that off with his free hand.

“Well, you're with me, and this is the quickest way to the fountain,” he said, tugging her gently forward. “You did bring a few coins, I would assume?” She nodded, patting the hip of her skirt, where she always kept a few coins in a pocket.

“Landry would never let me out without some sort of coin on me,” she said, following him into the darker area of the city. Divinia went then from wanting to look down to clinging to her brother's arm, looking about a bit fretfully. He squeezed her hand gently, and she just barely felt it.

“We have added protections, as usual,” he whispered, trying not to be loud. She nodded, knowing just what he likely meant. His choices in attire, as well as the lingering tinge of sulfur that clung to his form, tended to give him away. He knew better than to be brazen with his magic, but to always be prepared regardless.

They made it to the fountain and she dashed over ahead of him, leaning over the edge to look at the collection of various colored coins, lost in her thoughts about whose wishes they were and what was wished for. She was so interested, she barely heard her brother laugh from behind her.

And she was completely caught by surprise being grabbed from behind. She barely got out a small squeak before she was turned back around to face her brother, her back held against the chest against...whoever had her. All she could tell was he was tall, as was anyone other than her, it seemed, and the arm of the hand that held a small knife to her throat was purplish in huge. Malacai bellowed, the man holding Divinia raising a hand to stop him.

“I saw you...” he said, his voice raspy, sounding exhausted, drained. Divinia's pale brows came together as she looked at her brother with an almost unnerving calm. “You look like you have plenty of coin. If you want the little one to keep her head, you will toss whatever you have between us and I will go.”

Malacai shook his head. “Are you daft?” he asked, as Divinia carefully reached up to wrap a small hand around her captor's wrist. “Your kind are new here,” he said, his head held high. “Is this how you treat the Horde?” Even with her hearing the faint sound of spellwork, something the Shal'dorei who held her seemed to not notice, Divinia held on, feeling the slight pressure of the knife dig briefly as she did so. Divinia closed her eyes, taking a moment before she saw everything – a city as much made of violets and blues as Silvermoon was gold and red. The incessant feeling of hunger, not just for food, gnawing at her guts. This same knife held up against many a person who dared walk alone in that purple city.

Just as she heard the spell go off and her captor's knife clatter to the ground as he found himself transfixed by the demon that seemed to manifest from thin air, Divinia let out a rather pointless gasp and moved away, looking toward her brother.

“He's...starving...” she said softly. Mal looked at her as if she had sprouted a second head and not a small cut along her neck that didn't weep. She pressed her palm against is, hissing softly from both cast and usage of the Light upon herself.

“Starving?” Malacai said, practically spitting the word. She nodded, not affected by his tone in the least. She looked over at the pale purple, lanky elf that had managed to grab her, all ropey muscle and shoddy clothing.

“Starving,” she repeated, seeing, even as he was transfixed, breathing heavily, that his eyes were welling. Malacai tried to keep his hardened facade. Divinia knew what he had been through with his death, and that anyone touching her would trigger such memories. She watched him soften, then started to approach, digging into her pocket. He moved as if to stop her, but fell short, sighing loudly.

Divinia looked up at him, even taller than her brother was, as his faintly glowing eyes tracked her even while he was stuck. She paused just outside of his reach, her expression resolute.

“If he lets you go, and you leave us be, I can get you some food, maybe a room for the night,” she said softly. “And hopefully that will help a little.”

His chin quivered subtlely, and she wondered if anyone had even said such to him, or just passed him by, much like her people were invisible in certain places, She tilted her head, waiting, finally catching a small nod.

“You are insane,” Malacai said, calling off his demon, who slipped back into the shadows with a giggle. The Shal'dorei let out a long-held breath, resting his hands on his knees for a moment, leaning over. Divinia pulled her hand from her pocket, presenting him with the handful of gold coins she kept on her person for emergencies. From behind a curtain of lanky, snow-white hair, he looked over at her, genuinely shocked she held up that end.

“Take it. Really,” she said. He looked suspiciously up at her brother, his distrust plain on his face. Divinia knew they had been hassled by demons, much like the ones her brother could command, just more powerful, so she wasn't the least bit surprised he was wary of Malacai. He reached over, his thin hand taking the coins she dropped into his palm.

“T...thank you,” he said, his voice still raspy, but this time from emotion as much as exhaustion. She smiled at him winningly. “And...I apologize...for the...” He made a bit of a flourish with his hand, indicating the general area of her neck. She chuckled.

“Couldn't feel it anyway,” she said. “And now I can jokingly say I have a battle scar,” she said. She and Mal bid him good evening, walking back the long way this time, Mal's hand clasping hers just a bit tighter. She kept a small smile on her lips as they did so, grateful she did have this chance to help someone else out with their true hunger, taking her mind off of her own melancholy over never feeling it again herself.