#micah terwin

[danddandd]

‘Above the Waves, Before the War’ Part 2

(Part 1, here)

“Quit pulling at your collar. You look like you’ve got the fits.” Micah reluctantly dropped his hand from the snug collar and clasped it in his other hand in his lap, his blue eyes fixing Alwin Ryberg with a weary gaze. It was no match for the withering look Ryberg returned over his miniscule pince-nez. Really, Micah didn’t have a leg to stand on – the robes the vested Magi were made to wear to the graduation ceremonies of the Kirin Tor were by far more uncomfortable. Layered and more ornate than the robes of the graduates, Ryberg’s collar was high and arched enough to brush his ears. To say nothing of the ostentatious shoulders.

Still, the robe’s snug collar was one of the few manifestations of discomfort for the past three years in Dalaran that Micah could actually fuss with. Everything else had been circumstance and situation over which he had little power. In the first year of training, much of Micah’s work with Mr. Ryberg had been on The Ingénue. It was with his feet bare and the rolling deck beneath him that Micah made his first magical triumph under the tutelage of Mr. Ryberg – to this day he could close his eyes and see the small puff of icy frost he conjured in the hot southern seas off the coast of Stranglethorn; Ryberg wilting in his academic suit, Micah comfortable in his loose pantaloons and his tanned skin.

Even studying the dry arcane theory that seemed to pour endlessly from Ryberg’s library had been more pleasant on The Ingénue. It was one of Micah’s favorite pass-times to get a chunk of bread from the galley, clamber up to the rigging, and spend the afternoon listening to the creak of the sails and the boat, the whistle of the wind, and the sound of the surf as he read. Lyta would join him, too, and she would be so kind as to help him finish any crumbs of bread he shared. He missed Lyta.

“It’s itchy. And it’s stupid. Why are we going to this graduation, anyways?” Micah immediately regretted his words; here he was turning twenty-one in a month, and he was complaining like a child. By the look Ryberg gave Micah over his pince-nez, his tutor was equally displeased. Micah’s gaze dropped to his twining hands.

“Do you want me to elaborate on the answers I’ve already given you, Mr. Terwin?”

“No,” Micah intoned sullenly. While his training had gone excellently at sea, Ryberg had to eventually capitulate to the standards held by the Kirin Tor. Even if Micah had learned to dance circles around university magi, his talent wouldn’t hold weight without the backing of a “proper” education. “Proper” education, it turned out, had a lot to do with appearances and politics, which made Micah’s skin crawl worse than the wool around his neck. Appearing at the graduation was a must, as well.

“I don’t care if they don’t think of me as a real mage; I’m going to be working here, on The Ingénue! Why does it matter?”

“Micah,” Captain Hurston intoned, his voice taking on extra weight from the rarity with which he used Micah’s first name, “It’s important to me. I want you to have options, and a future. The Ingénue might not always be here. You’re young. She’s old. Hell, I’m old. Go; do your best,” he grinned broadly, laugh-lines spreading on his rugged features, “and knock those land-lubber university stiffs dead.”

As the carriage continued to bounce and jounce along the cobbles of Dalaran to the commencement hall, Micah touched a hand to his sternum where a bosun’s call hung on a leather thong about his neck. It had been Hurston’s when he had been a First Mate on a battleship in the Kul Tiras navy during the Second War. As Ryberg and Micah had prepared for the portal from The Ingénue to the mainland, Hurston had pressed it to Micah’s palm. Make me proud, he had said, and Micah had to fight back the urge to hug him there in front of the crew and Ryberg. Over the last three years stuck in the university, the tiny whistle had been a lifeline for Micah. Feeling the gentle curve of the gun and the weight of the buoy made him feel not so far from the sea and The Ingénue.

“There’s another reason we’re going to the commencement,” Ryberg said, lifting his gaze from where Micah’s hand was resting. He looked out the carriage windows, nonchalantly noting the vendors on the passing street, “…he’ll be there.”

“Captain Hurston?” Micah sat forward, blue eyes wide. “He can make it? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think you’d find it at all that important,” Ryberg drawlingly teased, with musical, exaggerated dismissal in his tone, a smirk wryly blooming on his features.

The best part was not having to peel the potatoes. He still did, however; where before helping Ferrows in the galley was a unique form of torture, Micah now appreciated the simple act of doing some physical labor in between his continued studies and the minor exertions of the arcane that kept The Ingénue running ship-shape.  Not having to peel potatoes, though? That was nice.

He plunked down the little peeler-knife on the rough cook-table, and saluted Ferrows with a grin as he slipped for the door. “Hey!” the fat cook barked, his voice wheezy and phlegmatic from too much smoke and shouting, “What are ya, daft? Yer not done, yet!”

Micah leaned against the door jamb with a challenging grin on his lips – he remembered a time when he could shoot from the kitchen like a cannonball. Now, he had to be careful to duck his blonde head to avoid scuffing his forehead on the frame, “What’s left to do, old man? Need help stirring the stew?” His voice lilted, touched with humor that lit up his features.

Ferrows pointed with his dripping wooden spoon at the barrel on one of the prep counters, “Ice, m’boy, or the crew’ll string ya up!” Micah laughed; ever since he’d figured out how to frost a bit of melon juice into a reasonable approximation of a sorbet, the crew had all but demanded it at every lunchtime since. He shocked the turn-crank barrel with a burst of cold, and gave it a few churns until it made the familiar hiss of smooth, frosty dessert.

“Aaaaand, there we are! Do tell our lordships that afternoon tea will be a subtle northern blend, and that the accompanying pastries will be an amusing mix of dark chocolate and fresh vanilla bean!” Micah ducked from the kitchen, and could hear Ferrows burbling like a dying boar, which meant he was laughing.

The Ingénue was smoothly gliding over the sapphire waters around the cape of Stranglethorn. She was running light and sitting high in the water, which meant the crew was more relaxed than normal; after all, it would be rare for pirates to try for a ship that wasn’t laden with loot. Micah glanced up the mainmast to where Karim, the ship’s sharp-eyed lookout from Tanaris, was perched in the crow’s nest. He was the personification of focus, peering out to the horizon and to the nearby islands where a ship might attempt an ambush. Karim was the sort not to be relaxed by relative safety. After all, an empty ship is still valuable to a raider.

Micah ambled to the bow, his favorite place to watch the water slide by and to feel the wind buffet his body. With the Stranglethorn heat, he’d gone shirtless except for the bosun’s pipe he kept perpetually about his neck. When he had returned to the ship after the graduation, the crew liked to poke fun at him for how much of his tan he’d lost while packed away in the towers of Dalaran. “White as a page, y’are!” and “Micah, boy, yer blindin’ me!” and “Don’ be so scared, Micah!” He tried not to let on how much it bothered him; losing his tan was like losing his identity in the cavernous studies of Dalaran. These days, he caught as much sun as he could, as if afraid his golden tone might just fly away if he didn’t tend to it.

Here at the bow, he could get an excellent feeling of the winds around the ship, as well. With a little concentration, he could coax the breezes to be a bit more favorable, and shave hours and sometimes whole days off the travel-time from port to port. He shut his eyes, his lips moving in the arcane phrases, his fingers urging small adjustments in the magic of the wind.

Without opening his eyes he grinned to himself, feeling the boat lurch forward with new-found speed as the sails filled near to bursting. He could hear Lyta give a perturbed cry up above. Curious if the helmsman noticed, Micah turned to flash a boastful smile and was surprised to find the Captain, himself, at the wheel. Hurston raised a hand in a wave. It was a reserved, simple gesture, but the white of his grin was visible even across the length of the ship to Micah. The only admission to the Stranglethorn heat was the few buttons the Captain had left open at his collar, but otherwise he was in his captain’s uniform, cutting a sharp silhouette against the endless blue that loomed behind him. Micah turned back to the bow to hide his thrilled smile; praise from Captain Hurston came like rare drops of rain in the desert, and just that one wave was enough to set Micah’s stomach fluttering.

He leaned over the rail to share his goofy smile with Lady Ingénue on the prow. When he was younger, he’d have inane conversations with the elegantly carved figurine, whispering her secrets and asking for advice that would slowly come forth in their one-sided discussions.

“Lovely day, Lady, isn’t it? Mm-hmm! Ahead of schedule for sure! Well, no – it wouldn’t do for me to take all the credit. The sails are trimmed perfectly and our helmsman has a keen sense of the currents! Who? Oh, well, it’s our Captain Hurston at the moment.” Micah glanced back over his shoulder to the Captain once more, unable to completely mute his smile.

“Mr. Terwin!” Captain Hurston’s deep voice was clarion clear across the length of the ship, “More of that, if you please!”

Micah nodded his acknowledgment of the request, and turned forward once more. “Well, Lady, back to work,” he breathed. Micah wet his lips, reigning in his nerves, “Oh, indeed; I’ll see you this afternoon. Good day!”

He was stalling, he knew, with his nonsense conversation. Micah knew the Captain’s key to success was to always press his crew just a little, to encourage more than the best from them. With Micah it would be no different. He just hoped he had the capability to match the high expectations; he had already exerted himself in just conjuring this mild, but constant breeze.

He shut his eyes against his doubts, took a deep breath, his fists clenched at his sides. In a sudden motion he swung his arms forward, his eyes shooting open, his lips rapidly moving around the arcane syllables as they rushed from his throat. He could feel the energy building within him, as water builds behind a dam. The wind did not yet change; he had to control the flow, and let it forth into the world with discipline and poise – or the dam would break.

The culmination of the spell came, and Micah held his tongue. If he completed it, the energy would be spent in a static effect that would serve its purpose and dissipate. He wanted more, knowing Hurston’s eyes were on him. He began to channel, holding the reigns of the energies he conjured and directed them to his ends manually. With delicate movements of his long fingers, he could feel the mana coursing through his body, down his arms and out – into the wind itself.

The boat surged. As if driven by one of those infernal goblin machines, the The Ingénue trebled its speed through the water. Distantly through his focus, Micah could hear Captain Hurston’s voice issuing staccato orders to the crew, whipping them into a frenzy of activity to trim the sails to catch the most benefit from Micah’s magic.

The water behind the dam – the energy Micah was guiding – was slowly ebbing. The control became easier, and Micah worked the flow of the arcane to sustain the effect as long as he could. He let the spell slip from his fingers and into the air where it joined the flow of the wind, coaxing it to press insistently into The Ingénue’s sails. He felt both empty and spent, but also elated and light. When he leaned forward again on the railing, he grinned down at Lady Ingénue, and listened. The wind was rushing steadily, blowing his long, wavy hair forward, the waters were hissing and rushing by, and in the back of the ship Captain Hurston continued to call out commands. With a grin that grew from his core, Micah noted the tone of song and laughter in the Captain’s proud voice.

“Well,” Captain Hurston daubed his mouth with the linen napkin, “With that sort of speed we’ll be well enough ahead of schedule to surprise Mr. Ryberg’s associate in Dalaran!”

Micah both tried to ask about this associate, wipe his mouth, chew, and swallow at the same time. For the display of arcane finesse earlier that day, Captain Hurston had invited Micah to share dinnertime with him. Micah managed to repay this honor by fumbling over every extra piece of silverware, glass, and dish of food that was set before him. Despite being apart from the Kul Tiras navy, the Captain ran The Ingénue as a proper vessel of Kul Tiras, with all the manners and standards one could expect. This included dinners with those damnable little forks Micah never knew what to do with. He managed to clear his throat of the bit of sauce he had inhaled with blessedly few coughs. “Mr. Ryberg’s associate?”

“Mmhm. A bit of business for us, and a chance to stretch the Lady Ingénue’s legs. Mr. Ryberg’s contact needs a delivery from a research group that’s stationed in Northrend; some arcane experiment, I’m sure – maybe you’ll understand it better than I.” Hurston’s thick brow arched and a smile curled the corner of his lips, “So get your sun while you can, Mr. Terwin. After we stop in Southshore, we’ll be speeding clear to Northrend as fast as you can get the wind to take us!”

[danddandd]

‘Above the Waves, Before the War’ Pt 1

Note: A bit of character fiction from my WoW RP days. A coming-of-age story for a Kul Tiras youth. Enjoy!

“What in the fel are you doing?! Micah! Get down here and back to work or I’ll have your hide!”

Micah could hear Ferrows bellowing away, his voice as tarred and rough as the wrinkled, sun-blasted skin he wore. Micah Terwin ignored him. With the seaspray in his nostrils, the wind whipping about his blonde hair, and the dizzying sway of the ship along the roiling ocean, there was nothing else in the world that was more important.

Each dip and swell of the ocean was magnified where Micah had gotten himself. The jibboom of the ship was the furthest point forward on the great vessel, and in rougher weather it often speared and dipped beneath the water as the ship was rolled about on the waves. Even in relatively calm seas, however, it constantly measured a crazy tempo like a conductor’s baton. A daunting perch, to be sure, but one that could still be conquered by the lean strength of a tanned teenager and his unflappable certitude in his own invulnerability.

“MICAH!? MICAH GET YOUR ARSE BACK TO DECK!”

Micah smirked to himself. If Ferrows were hollering about anything important, he might have listened to him. But as it was he knew that the old fat bastard just needed company for the drudgework of cleaning and peeling the load of potatoes they had picked up from the last port. With a gape-mouthed grin and a whoop, he hooked his knees around the yearling-sized trunk of the jibboom, and dropped into an upside down dangle, his arms spread wide. He thrilled as the spray from the prow doused his bare skin and dewed his hair to sparkling. Arching his back to gaze down at the indigo waters being split by the ship, he could even see Lyta. She was riding the swell of air around the prow, cocking her head this way and that to look up at Micah. The seagull uttered a single “kaw!” Maybe she was confused, or maybe she thought him mad. Micah laughed and waved at the ivory bird, dizzy with sensation and abandon.

“Mister Terwin…!”

Captain William Huston didn’t have to raise his voice often. He had a rich, bass tone that carried over the wail and creak of the rigging, the snap of sails, and the exuberance of wayward cabin boys with equal ease. He had called Micah’s name with such a leaden, disappointed tone that the teen didn’t need to see the Captain to envision the disapproving look that would be painting his features. In Micah’s small world, the Captain was a man to never displease, and his baleful tone sent the teen into a panic to return to the prow.

It only took one slip at the wrong time, and Micah plummeted from the jibboom, plunking into the ocean like a copper in a fountain.

While this time of year brought warm breezes over the ocean north of Menethil, the waters taken south from the northern coasts by the constant twisting of the Maelstrom were icy cold. These same waters were now dripping down Micah’s body, pooling at his bare feet where he stood, quaking with cold, in the Captain’s quarters. He was madly trying to regain his composure, but his brief stint beneath the waves before the crew had hauled him from the drink allowed the cold to set in to his bones. The only warmth he felt was from the dull ache of a bruise forming on his shoulder where The Ingénue’s hull had roughly kissed him.

The Captain was coolly applying ink to some paperwork at his expertly appointed duskwood writing desk, not paying any heed to the reprobate that was quaking and dripping a pace from him. Without looking up from the documents, his sonorous voice intoned, “Not the best idea, Mr. Terwin.”

“No, sir,” Micah kept his teeth from chattering, and despite the chill in his body a flush was touching his cheeks for the sheer embarrassment of being so coolly talked to by his Captain.

“Remind me; it’s next week, is it not? The fourteenth, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how old will you be, then, Mr. Terwin?” The Captain touched the nib of his pen to his tongue in a precise movement, and continued writing with his blunt, stocky fingers, all the while his steely eyes on his documents.

“Seventeen, sir,” Micah broke his stock-straight (shivering aside) stance of attention to glance towards Captain Hurston. Already his morning’s shave had relented to the dark stubble that covered his jaw, and Micah could see the crow’s feet of wrinkles creasing by his eyes when he squinted towards the paperwork. This line of questioning had Micah curious, and he looked at the man as if to read his intent in his slight, middle-aged wrinkles or the dreft of his short-trimmed hair.

“Seventeen,” Hurston repeated, finally sitting back in his chair, regarding Micah with an even, impassive gaze, “And how many years have you served The Ingénue?” He set the feathered quill back in its well, and rested his heavy hands on his knees.

“Three, sir.”

“And what are your plans, Mr. Terwin? With your experiences here you could find yourself a promising career in the Kul Tiras Navy. Perhaps learn a trade.”

Micah’s eyes widened, and he had to swallow the lump that clenched at his throat before he spoke, “Are you d-dismissing me, sir?” His shivering stopped for shock, and he blinked rapidly, refusing tears of panic that only subsided when Hurston smiled. He truly had a wonderful smile, made all the more precious by the rarity with which it appeared. It made the seasoned Captain appear five years younger, his laugh lines radiating a warmth that Micah felt was solely for him.

“No, no; not at all. I’m thinking of your future, Mr. Terwin. Do you remember the gentleman, Mr. Alwin Ryberg? I introduced you briefly when we stopped last month in Menethil Harbor.”

Micah nodded; he’d only seen Ryberg briefly; a spindly, hawk-nosed, beanpole of a man in neat clothes. At the time, Captain Hurston had only introduced Micah because the youth happened to be nearby, helping the crew load and unload provisions. Then the two had departed for the night, presumably to discuss business.

“Mr. Ryberg is a business associate of mine, based in Dalaran. He and I go back to my days with the Kul Tiras Navy and the Second War. He’s a good man, and an excellent magi,” Hurston inclined his head to the side, taking in Micah with those storm-grey, intense eyes. “…and he’s willing to take an apprentice.”

Micah blinked, his eyelashes still dewed with seawater, “Me?”

“Mr. Terwin, you and I both know what Mr. Ferrows and Mr. Lind already know; that you haven’t a lick of talent for carpentry or cooking,” Hurston grinned, “And so your options for training for a future career at sea are somewhat… limited.” Micah flushed, but couldn’t say a word against the truth the Captain spoke.

“A ship’s mage, however, is always in demand. And I have received correspondence from Mr. Ryberg since our last meeting that indicates he finds some promise in you.” The Captain shrugged his broad shoulders, loosening the collar of his uniform with one hand while tap-tapping the document in question with the other. “As a favor to me, he would be willing to take you on. What do you say?”

Micah’s stomach knotted with the daunting possibility of change; he had grown comfortable with this ship, the crew, and especially his Captain. “Will… will I have to leave? To study?”

“At times, but Mr. Ryberg informs me that much of your training can be done on The Ingénue,” He smiled once more, watching Micah’s own excitement boil over into an ear-to-ear grin. “I’ll write him in the positive, then. Now; Mr. Ferrows is expecting you for an extra shift of assistance. I assured him that work in the galley would help expedite the drying of your clothes.”

(Part 2 here)

[danddandd]

Above the Waves, Before the War: Index

Below are all the chapters to my piece about Micah Terwin, my Kul Tiran mage fella. It’s set just at the beginning of the Third War so uh... it doesn’t go super well for the dude.

There’s themes of magic-learning, seafaring, and the Scourge. Enjoy!

It’s also my contribution to Pridecraft 2018 because Micah has such an unrequited crush on his hunky ship’s captain.

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Final Part

[danddandd]

‘Above the Waves, Before the War’ Final Part

(Part one, here)

Micah could feel that the ship was no longer listlessly swaying along the waves. The side-to-side yaw of the vessel had been replaced with a great aft-to-stern leaping, shooting towards whatever destination it was aimed.

Micah drew in a ragged breath, “Where are we going?”

Hurston’s chest hitched and fought against the suffocating phlegm, his eyes blood-shot and wide with panic as he fought for breath. Micah had only ever known the Captain’s composure and poise; and now here he was, in an animal, gulping panic. “No, no nonono…. Please… please…!” He tried to roll him, but it did no good. The broad man was thrashing with the last of his strength, now, his pallor growing from pale to livid purple. Big hands grasped with infantile weakness at Micah’s sweat-soaked tunic before the man slumped, still, his eyes rolling back to their whites. The man’s racing heart persisted for untold moments after his breath stopped; suffocation was an unkind end. Micah only hoped Hurston couldn’t feel those last moments.

“…no,” Micah whispered to the groaning wood of the cabin. He trembled, unable to look away from those unseeing eyes. Was this another dream? Another mind-horror to plague his sleeping thoughts? His teeth clenched as he fought back sobs, tears clouding his vision, his breath coming in sniffling hitches and starts. Through Micah’s watery gaze Hurston’s still form might have been sleeping, the details of death hidden away.

Micah fell to his Captain, clinging to his chest, his tears soaking into Hurston’s shirt along with his sobs. His world was collapsing; with Hurston dead, he had no direction, no guide. Would anything matter without Captain Hurston there to approve and offer his smile? Grey light slowly graced the windows of the cabin by the time Micah had exhausted himself with grief.

That was when the Captain promptly sat up.

The movement was so sure and swift that Micah was knocked from the small bed as he gasped with surprise and hope.

“Captain?” His heart caught in his throat. Hurston did not move.

“…Captain?” A cough wracked Micah’s body, and he slowly moved to sit up, staring with wild eyes at William Hurston, Captain of The Ingénue.

“Captain Hurston?” Micah’s smooth brow knit in confusion. He blinked rapidly; was he imagining this? “…Will?”

Hurston suddenly swug his legs over the edge of the bed, his eyes fixed forward with a seven-mile stare. Some quality in such a decisive, sudden movement made Micah flinch there on the floor, looking up with bewilderment. Hurston stood, his eyes still unfocused and glassy.

Micah studied his Captain’s face, looking at the slack jaw touched with spittle at the corners, the grey tone of his flesh that matched the cloudy morning sky beyond the windows.

“…Captain?” Micah’s voice was small.

“Rehhhhhhgghh….” The thing that had been the Captain groaned and looked down at Micah on the floor as if finally noticing him. His lips pulled back from his teeth in an animalistic, crazed grimace, his strong hands shooting forth stiffly from his body, and he lurched forward.

Panic gripped Micah’s heart, and he scrabbled backwards as Hurston lunged at him, barely sliding his slender wrist from Hurston’s cold, stony grip as he somehow got his feet beneath him and ran for the door. Hurston’s feet were plodding heavily after Micah as he bust from the captain’s cabin onto the deck.

…and into hell.

Micah almost took a step back into Hurston’s claw-like grasp as he was met with the broken and macabre sight of the former crew of The Ingénue. While some may have died of the strange illness, some most certainly met violent ends. The moment of standing, stunned, almost cost him dearly. As Hurston’s hand clapped onto his shoulder, the young mage summoned the strength to shunt himself forward in space, the hastily-cast spell winding him.

He may have put distance between himself and Hurston, but the crewmen on deck all turned and regarded him with dead, hungry eyes.

“Ah ha! Mister Terwin!” Noth’s voice came floating merrily from the railing of the forecastle deck, his white hair whipping like gossamer in the brisk wind. “Just in time! We’ll be needing your services to speed the boat! We have places to be, Mr. Terwin! Kul Tiras must be brought into the fold!” Next to his black-robed form stood Ferrows, his fat stomach burst like a rotten melon, his innards hanging to his knees.

Micah blinked again as the circle of dead crewmen closed around him, and he found himself even more inconveniently positioned midships. Kul Tiras? That’s where they were heading? With this… sickness?

With a shout, Micah threw a burst of frost and ice around him, sending the nearest of the dead crew stumbling and sliding on the deck. Despite the hacking cough that wracked his body after summoning up his magic, Micah managed to dodge between the grasping hands of the crew – chilled as he recognized the face of each as he passed them. He dove below deck, the stench of sickness and blood rising to meet him with the dark. “Where are you going, Mr. Terwin?!” Noth laughed, “Come now, we can’t be waiting all day!”

None of the below-decks lamps had been lit, leaving Micah to navigate by the dim light that filtered in through the porthole windows on The Ingénue’s sides. He nearly ran full-tilt into the massive cauldron. Of the original nine beastly things, this one remained. Micah’s head swam as he thought of the horrors they must be unleashing in Silverpine and Tirisfal. And here this one sat, patiently waiting to be brought to Kul Tiras. He had to stop The Ingénue. And perhaps there was time, still, to warn Lordaeron.

The sound of heavy, drunken footfalls spurred the mage to action once more. He dashed towards the hatch that went further belowdecks, his eyes straining to see in the dim light. Here the bilgewater sloshed with the boat’s speed along the waves, and Micah could see the dark, fuzzy bodies of rats floating motionless on the oily-slick water. Some of them bore strange growths and lumps – they, too, had not been spared the foul magic seeping from the cauldrons.

Where was the weak spot? Micah sloshed through the bilge, readying his magic when the darkness was suddenly banished. Noth appeared in a blink of an eye, his hands wreathed in coruscating purple radiance. “There you are!” he grinned with manic intensity, “Shirking your duties as ship’s mage to sulk like a rat in the bilge? Hardly professional, Mr. Terwin!”

Micah clenched his hands, frost sparking and leaping into the air around them. With a shout he pushed the energy towards Noth, sending a needle-like javelin of ice towards the albino. Noth raised his hand, smugly evoking a shield against the attack – but the attack wasn’t meant for him.

The lance of frost bit through the hull of The Ingénue where Elston and his crew had patched the breach, destroying their hard work and making a welcome door for the salty ocean water. Noth shouted in incoherent rage as the gout of ocean nearly knocked him from his feet. “I’m sorry,” Micah whispered to The Ingénue, and rapidly began the incantation for a teleport.

“Foul vermin,” Noth spat as he gained his footing, soaked from head to toe and wearing a rictus of a grimace, “You’re not leaving, whelp!” The necromancer clenched his fist and Micah felt his wounded hand crumple and twist into a charred claw, the traitorous magic of the potion abandoning him. The teleportation magic vanished like smoke in a storm, and Micah splashed to his knees in the rising water with the overwhelming pain. Noth was upon him in an instant, grabbing the youth’s hair and plunging his head into the dark, surging water.

“Nuh-!” he tried to gasp for air, but Micah’s plague-ridden lungs made him cough and sputter before he was thrust into the frigid waters, held down by Noth’s enraged grasp. With desperation he flailed to find purchase and push up, his fingers and feet slipping on the wet wood of the hull. His lungs screamed until he could hold them back no longer and with a tremor found himself breathing deep of the salt, the heavy water invading his nose and mouth and filling his chest with a heavy coldness. It burned oh gods it burned! He thrashed like a trout, panic overriding his every thought.

“Micah,” He heard Captain Hurston’s voice over the rush of water in his ears. He could see him, briefly, before the blood pounding behind his eyes caused them to grow dark. His fingers, though they were tingling and aching with pins and needles, could feel the rough warmth of Hurston’s overcoat. He grasped the lapel and drew himself close. Strong arms, as strong as the press of water around Micah’s body, held him close. With his ear against his Captain’s chest, Micah heard a heartbeat, slow and comforting, easing slower like the notes of a music box, so slow…

Micah stood, his blonde hair clinging to his head like limp seaweed, his slacked jaw released saltwater from his pale blue lips. Eyes once the color of the sky in spring were now glassy and dull, a cinder of baleful, necromantic corpse-light beginning to kindle within them.

“There, so pretty now,” The Plaguebringer purred. With tenderness he stroked a hand over the mage’s cheek – before drawing the hand back and savagely striking the dead youth. “Stupid thing!” The necromancer snarled. Already, the water’s level was nearly to his waist. The breach in The Ingénue’s hull was ragged and rushing with the eager sea. Noth struck again and again, each fistfall thudding wetly on dead flesh. Finally he whirled to the side and slammed his fists against the rising surface of the water, howling with rage.

“JUST HOW ARE WE TO GET TO KUL TIRAS, NOW?!” Spittle foamed at the corners of Noth’s lips as he wheeled back upon the dead mage, leaning in so that his still-living gaze met Micah’s staring eyes by a space of inches. He vented his rage in curses until his albino skin was pink with fury, veins pulsing on his forehead. A groan interrupted his frenzy, as one of the boards that made up the hull leaned inward in slow-motion, and finally snapped, allowing more of the ocean to invade. “FAH!” All his hard work, to tumble ignobly into the sea! He slogged up the stairs to the deck where the rest of the macabre crew had returned to uselessly managing the sails on the doomed vessel.

Noth, weighed down by his soaked robes, began to gather magic about his fists, teeth bared in a grimace, “Swim or walk, vermin! I’ll see you in Lordaeron! Glory to the Master!”

The spell took enough time that the Plaguebringer could watch the first of the deceased crew stepping off the deck, splashing to the water.

The spell completed, and Noth vanished.

Micah smoothed a hand – more bone than flesh, now – over the moldered tome he was reading. When he looked up, his own image greeted him from behind the grime and cobwebs that clung to the old mirror seated across the room. His former youth was most apparent in the graceful lines of his brow and cheekbones, despite the sea-green tinge of his skin. Below that, his nose, cheeks, and mouth all bore the kiss of undeath, the softer tissues having tattered, salted and brittle.

The only movement came from his eyes as he studied himself in that quiet moment, seeing the features of the creature he had become, and only hints of the person he was – a person he was no longer entirely familiar with. He thought about this, and wasn’t sure if it troubled him or not.

“I am free,” he stated, his words measured and somber, like a prayer. It was true; where once he had suffered under the oppressive, occluding will of the Lich King, he was now a master of his own destiny.

Micah rose, glancing over a small calendar where he kept his appointments in neat detail. The fourteenth was tomorrow; he had preparations to make for his next assignment.

He was free, and he could think of his future.