#was not intentional. did not realise until i started casting fireballs

[vigilskeep]

making a hawke with red-brown hair and a beard, sad eyes, a general scruffy mage vibe, and a penchant for fire magic, i guess all so that anders can have serious competition in the caleb widogast coded department

[thetimelesscycle]

Tales of Arcadia Wizards Fanfiction: Hope Dies Last - Chapter 9

The Guardians of Arcadia grapple with the loss of yet another Master Wizard.

Zoe and Claire hatch a new plan.

A/N: I return!

A week later than I had planned, but I digress.

Turns out I spent my holiday actually working on some of my original pieces, which means this little project got set aside in favour of works that have been neglected for far longer. I intend to try and keep working on those stories going forward, so updates for this fic may not be quite as regular.

We'll still get there in the end, though. ;-)

Enjoy, TTC

Chapter 9

For Want of a Wizard

Like all wizards, Claire had been born with her abilities. They had always been a part of her; A silent power thrumming beneath the surface without her ever having been aware of it. It was strange to think that, were it not for Jim becoming the Trollhunter and pulling her into the wonderful world of trolls and magic, she might never have realised what she was capable of. She had pulled off her fair share of miracles since then, and it hadn’t even been a full year since the first time she’d used the Shadow Staff. Part of that was definitely luck — she’d been given a headstart thanks to Morgana’s attempt to steal her body, and the Shadow Staff itself had seemed to guide her in its own way long before that — but the rest had all been instinctual. Magic just felt right in the same way that being on stage had always come naturally to her, though it wasn’t until she met Douxie and the hedge wizards of HexTech that she realised how rare that kind of intuitive casting was.

All of them were her seniors in age and experience to varying degrees, though Zoe and Douxie easily outstripped their peers on both counts. She’d been given the impression when she asked that there was an unhappy reason so few wizards of their generation were still wandering the world today. She hadn’t asked again, more than capable of filling in the blanks even without a front row seat to history, and not wanting to waste what precious little of Douxie’s time she was able to claim for herself.

It was a calculated risk, making the trip between Arcadia and the Master Wizard’s new hideout, even infrequently and via the Shadow Realm. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been given much of a choice. The Arcane Order was still at large and Claire needed training beyond that which a hedge wizard could provide; Even a centuries old, very skilled hedge wizard. Douxie might not have been able to use Shadow Magic himself, but he’d learned the majority of his own skill the same way she had — through a sometimes painful process of trial and error — and was more than capable of steering her away from what might cause trouble. He was also an adept translator of the book she had taken from Morgana’s rooms, and she went to him for explanations even after he and Zoe had each set time aside to help her learn to read the tome’s contents herself. She found it easier to follow his directions than try and comprehend the words on the page, and with time set firmly against them the sooner she could learn to do more than open portals and create illusions the better.

Technically speaking, she had done more than that when she had fought to save Jim, but it had all been wild, desperate, and exhausting. She needed to learn how to do those things deliberately, and without pouring more of her energy into each spell than she could safely get away with. It was frustratingly difficult sometimes, even with Douxie’s relentless encouragement and stout belief that she was capable of anything she put her mind to. He’d laughed when she’d admitted as much, freely pointing out she’d picked up a whole lot considering she hadn’t yet had her magic for a fraction of the time Morgana had. She’d wanted to argue, not because she didn’t think he was being honest, but because for a moment her mind had completely tripped over the short passage of time that had passed since this whole adventure started. 

They had accomplished so much in such a short amount of time. The Eternal Night. Gunmar. Morgana. The search for the new Heartstone. The return of the Arcane Order. Jim and Toby had been at it only a few months longer than she had, yet, somehow, between them they had been involved in saving the world no less than three times. Surely, surely those adventures could not have taken place over a single year. But they had, and Douxie’s gentle amusement at her impatience had reminded her that her chosen teacher had spent nine centuries learning his craft and had still only just earned his staff.

That had put things into perspective.

So had watching Arcadia burn.

She was not a stranger to battle anymore. Even if she didn’t count the various, small skirmishes she’d taken part in there had been the Eternal Night and the Battle of Killahead Bridge to introduce her to the horrors of this millennia long war. Young though she might be, she knew what it was to stare death in the face. To stand on a pitched battlefield knowing you were outnumbered and outmatched and choosing to fight anyway. But even Gunmar had only wanted to conquer the human world — the Arcane Order wanted to burn it all to the ground — and it was there, standing in the midst of the calamity they had caused, that she most keenly felt her lack of experience.

Even without the soulless husk of Arthur to support them, the Arcane Order had them outmatched. They weren’t invincible — Deya had landed a hit on Bellroc at Killahead, and apparently caused some serious damage — but they had replaced their lost pawns with an army formed of what seemed to be every magical creature they could hold beneath their sway. She didn’t even recognise all of those swarming the streets, despite the hours she had spent pouring over Blinky’s bestiaries. There were shadow mephets, nyarlagroths, goblins, and hellheetis alongside countless others. She thought she saw a gruesome briefly out of the corner of her eye, and the stars above were blotted out by the winged outline of at least three stalklings.

It was madness, utter and complete, made all the worse by the innocent bystanders caught in the midst of it all. The three of them had been given the unenviable task of rescuing as many people from the heart of the battlefield as they could. Claire’s shadow portals were the only reliable way to transport people safely in and out, with neither the airship nor the Hextech wizards able to risk getting close to the Arcane Order themselves. That was Douxie’s role, and Claire hadn’t been able to argue when he declined her offer for assistance. Her skills were needed elsewhere, and she’d already tested her strength against the Orders and been found wanting. Douxie had promised he would manage. He’d smiled and gripped her shoulder and she’d let him walk away like a fool.

“Claire?”

The sky was spinning above her, half obscured by smoke as her mind wandered in aimless recollections, dredging up recriminations for a mistake she did not yet realise she had made.

“Claire! Wake up!”

The smoke burned the back of her throat as she unwittingly inhaled it. There was a ringing in her ears, loud and distracting and muffling Jim’s voice as he shook her urgently.

“Are you alright? Claire?”

“I’m fine,” she said, or thought she said. Her own voice sounded like a whisper, her hearing still as distorted as her vision. She coughed, her bruised sides protesting the motion, her lungs screaming for fresh air. “I’m fine. What—”

If Jim answered her she didn’t catch his reply, but he did help her off her back into a sitting position. His face was blackened with soot and streaked with blood from a dozen small cuts. No doubt she looked just as battered. Judging by the rubble surrounding them, half a building had come down with Bellroc’s last fireball. Still dizzy, she leaned against Jim a moment, trying to get her bearings, trying to gather her wits because now was not the time to lose focus.

The ringing in her ears was fading, replaced by what sounded like screams. Not sounded like, she realised, was. The smoke had parted behind them, so that when she and Jim whirled to face the source of that dreadful sound they were both given a clear view of the battlefield once more. Of her teacher — her friend —on his knees at the Arcane Order’s mercy.

“No!”

‘Magic is emotion’, Douxie had told her, something she had always known but never fully understood. Not until she was forced to embrace her fear or be rendered helpless once again. It wasn’t fear she was feeling when she staggered upright, bleeding and still choking on smoke; It was absolute, white-hot fury, and her magic reacted accordingly. The shadows took on a will of their own as soon as they left her hand, the energy torn from her fingers to join the violent maelstrom their battle had created. What she had meant to be an escape route turned instead into a whirlpool of darkness that dragged anyone and anything in the vicinity into its heart.

It should have calmed once they reached the other side, like diving beneath the surface of a pool in the middle of a storm. Unfortunately, she had unwittingly brought the Arcane Order along for the ride, and found herself emerging into chaos. Magic roared around her; Raw, unbridled, and dangerous. She couldn’t see anything, the clashing forces spinning her in circles and blinding her to both friend and foe. She could hear screams, voices she recognised, and a slow, swelling chant that settled sinisterly at the back of her mind, reeking of ill intent.

It was terrifying, but so was everything else they had faced today, and she wasn’t about to be the reason they didn’t make it out of this alive.

Giving up on righting herself, ignoring the chips of ice slicing through bare skin and the flames nipping at the edges of her hair, she let the whirlwind carry her where it would, pouring all of her focus, all of her energy, into locating her friends. She wasn’t Nari, she couldn’t simply sense the soul of any living thing, but she could picture the one’s she cared about clearly in her mind, imagine the shadows wrapping about them all in a protective blanket, and yank them to safety.

The landing was rough. They emerged from too high and crashed against the floor in a tangle of limbs and weapons. Claire had the breath knocked out of her when Krel landed on her back, a stream of what she was fairly certain were Akaridion curse words falling from his lips as they disentangled. She paid no attention, crawling on hands and knees towards the two among them who weren’t moving. Archie was closer, and she paused beside the small dragon, fingers seeking and finding the shard of ice that had felled him. She could feel the dark magic that infused it, an enchantment too complex for her to try and dispel on her own. She tugged the shard free instead, her fear easing a little when it did not resist, and watched with bated breath as the frost that had spread from its impact slowly began to melt. Archie’s wing twitched as the invisible layer crumbled away, and she nearly choked on her relief, hastily shoving the familiar into Jim’s arms as she turned to Douxie.

“Teach?”

He’d fallen face down without making any attempt to catch himself. She could still hear the screams Bellroc had been ringing out of him when they’d done... whatever it was they’d done. With a shaking hand, she reached to turn him over. There was no resistance; He rolled limply onto his back, skin pallid and face still, blood streaking the side of his face from a nasty gash on his temple. His chest had been branded with a strange rune that looked like it had been burnt directly into his skin, still bright in places, like hot embers in a dying fire.

She placed her fingers at his throat, searching for some sign of life as she pleaded under her breath, “Come on, Doux. Don’t do this again.”     

There was no pulse that she could find. She tried to convince herself not to panic. This had happened before and he’d been fine, despite the fact the fall alone should have killed him. She just had to trust he could do it again. A minute ticked by, and then another, agonisingly slow and all too fast at the same time.

“He’s breathing, right?” Toby was behind her, Jim on her other side, still carefully cradling Archie. “Tell me he’s breathing.”

“I don’t…” she moved her hand to his chest, careful of the brand as she felt for the rise and fall that would indicate life. “I don’t think he is.”

“I could not hold him.” It was a fragile whisper, and Claire looked up to find Nari crouched on Douxie’s other side, staring at her own hands as if they had betrayed her. “I could not... I was not strong enough.”

“What did they do?”

Nari startled, lowering her hands as she lifted her eyes to meet Claire’s frantic gaze. “They have destroyed his soul. I tried to stop the spell, to hold him together, but I could not... I could not...”

“No.” She shook her head, denial rising. “No. There has to be a way to fix this. I can—”

“Guys!” The exasperated shout came from the other end of the dark cavern. Claire looked up to see Steve running towards them, Blinky a stride behind. “What is taking so long? We gotta move!”

The gyres. Of course. Their escape route. Their means of ferrying an entire town of people out of danger as quickly as possible. It had been her job to get everyone here safely, and she had failed.

“Great Gronka Morka!” Blinky had reached them, shoving his way through the circle they had unwittingly formed. “What happened?”

“No time for that,” Jim interrupted, moving Archie’s weight to one arm so he could reach down and pull Claire to her feet. “Steve’s right. We’ve got to move before the Order realises where we’ve gone.”

“But—!”

“We’ll figure something out,” he promised, stepping aside to let AAARRRGGHH!!! collect their fallen friend. “Just not here. Come on.”

Stumbling, she let herself be pulled along. The battle had exhausted them all, she could see it in the faces of those running alongside her, but they couldn’t stop yet. Douxie had been clear on that. They needed to get out and away, or the Order would just keep on coming. If they could. She didn’t know if Skrael or Bellroc could control the Shadow Realm now that Morgana was gone. No doubt they were powerful enough to find a way even if the magic was not in their repertoire, but leaving them trapped within its boundaries might buy a little more time.

Jim was leaning on her almost as much as she was leaning on him when they reached the gyre, his stamina not what it had once been as a half troll. Their sorry group piled on one after the other as Blinky wrestled with the controls. AAARRRGGHH!!! braced himself in the corner as they took off, cradling Douxie’s limp form gently to his chest. Claire found herself watching him as she swayed back and forth with the gyre’s sharp turns, still waiting on a miracle that wasn’t coming. Nari huddled at the large troll’s feet, her arms wrapped around herself as silent tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked devastated; Claire hadn’t yet moved past numb.

The station was crowded when they arrived, filled to overflowing with frightened Arcadians and equally unsettled trolls. These people had faced the Eternal Night and Alien invasion, only to be left shell shocked by an ancient order of wizards marching in without warning to burn their town to the ground. She could hear Dictatious shouting somewhere amidst the crowd, trying to ferry people to where they were meant to be as if he could actually see what was going on. Her parents were somewhere in that mess, as was her brother. Douxie had been adamant they get their families to safety before joining the fight. He’d sworn he could handle the Order for as long as they needed.

He’d lied.

The guilt was an old companion, a heavy weight bearing down on her shoulders as she disembarked. They drew attention. Human or troll, people knew Jim, and AAARRRGGHH!!! was much too large to pass unnoticed. Even if very few of those present knew who Douxie really was, they seemed to recognise that something terrible had happened. The crowd parted without prompting to let them pass, battered bodies shuffling out of the way and then watching them hasten by with curious eyes.

All except one.

“Zoe...”

Claire trailed off before she had even begun, the words dying on her tongue. The hedge wizard had clearly raced to reach them, her chest still heaving from the dead sprint she had just stumbled out of, dust in her hair and rips in her shirt that had not been there the last time they had spoken. There was a wild look in her eyes that had nothing to do with her battle-worn state, and Claire stepped aside, tugging Jim with her, as Zoe staggered forward. Static energy crackled behind her as she walked right up to AAARRRGGHH!!! and his precious burden, the large troll crouching lower to allow her near.

Without missing a beat, she leant across Douxie’s prone form to grab a hold of his singed shirt. “Hisirdoux Casperan, you are not going to pull this nonsense on me again!”

The answer was, predictably, silence. Zoe waited a beat longer, then her eyes flashed down to the burning rune. “What is this?”

“The Arcane Order…” Nari answered meekly. “Bellroc turned his soul to ashes.”

Zoe went a shade paler, her voice sharpening to a verbal razor. “His soul?”

“I tried to stop them.” There was an apology and regret both in those words. “I failed. I am sorry.”

“No.” Zoe’s hand turned into a fist, Douxie shirt still clutched within her fingers. “No, that’s not good enough. I haven’t spent centuries helping Archie keep this idiot alive for it to end like this. You were a part of the Order, you must know a way to fix this. They brought Morgana back. Twice.”

“Morgana’s soul was still intact,” Nari explained, shrinking a little more with each word. “Even if I could still sense his spirit on this plane, I cannot complete the ritual alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Claire interrupted, earning the attention of both her fellow spellcasters. “You have us, Nari, there must be something we can do.” The tiny sorceress looked up at her helplessly, her lips parted without words, and Claire felt her own determination wavering. “Please.”

“Come.” Laying a supportive hand on hers and Jim’s shoulders, Blinky started them moving again. “We should find somewhere quieter to discuss this.”

Suddenly hyper aware of all the eyes on them, Claire let herself be led, finding and grasping Jim’s hand tightly in her own. They left the crowded chamber, passing by the glowing doorway where the new Heartstone rested; A triumph she had all but forgotten in the wake of all that had followed. Holding aside a thick curtain of fabric, Blinky ushered them all within the comparative privacy of his new library, then hastened to clear room on the table for AAARRRGGHH!!! to set their fallen comrade down.

The large troll did so with care, folding Douxie’s hands across his stomach. It reminded Claire entirely too much of Merlin’s tomb, and she tore her gaze away to watch Jim settle Archie into place beside his wizard. The familiar was still under the influence of whatever dark magic had been locked within that icy shard, though the paralysis seemed to have eased somewhat, his eyes no longer staring blankly into the distance. He still wasn’t conscious, and Claire thought that was probably a mercy right now.

“What the hell happened out there?” Zoe was still choosing anger over any of the other emotions she might be feeling, standing rigid with her arms folded as she searched the faces of those gathered in the room.

“We were too slow.” Jim spoke, and Claire tried not to flinch. She had been too slow. If she had been able to evacuate the town faster, Douxie wouldn’t have been trapped facing the Order alone. They’d been overrun, yes, by mephits and stalklings and all manner of dark creatures, but that was no excuse. She should have found a way. “Skrael hit Archie, and then...”

He trailed off. Scowling, Zoe moved to check the familiar herself, Nari clambering up to perch atop the table beside Douxie’s head as she did so. The small sorceress reached out as though intending to touch him, only to snatch her hand back at the last second with a guilty flinch. “This is my fault.”

“It’s nobody’s fault.” There were tears pricking at the corner of her eyes; She refused to let them fall. “The Arcane Order did this, and we are going to make sure they don’t get away with it.”

She didn’t care how. Enough was enough. She wasn’t going to lose anyone else to these monsters. Never, ever again.

“He can’t be dead.” She hadn’t realised Steve had followed them until he started speaking. “Don’t wizards like, turn to ash or something when they die?”

“That would require his soul departing to the next realm.” Blinky, one of only three in the room with the authority to comment, offered his knowledge. “Without that, I fear our wizard friend may remain like this forever.”

“What? Really?” Steve blinked, giving their fallen friend a sidelong look. “That’s… that’s just creepy.”

“One of the many mysteries of magic,” Blinky shrugged, turning to Jim. “I must go and make sure everyone is getting settled in alright. You’ll call, if you need anything?”

“Of course.” Jim nodded. “Can you let mom know we’re here?”

“Right away, Master Jim.” Blinky bustled out, AAARRRGGHH!!! shuffling behind him, and the room was plunged back into a heavy silence.

“What about Archie?” Claire couldn’t stand it, and spoke in spite of her shaking voice, “Is he going to be okay?”

“I don’t know what this enchantment is,” Zoe admitted, running her hands over the familiar with a gentle care that was at odds with the fury still radiating off her. “Curses aren’t exactly my specialty, but one of the others might be able to help.”

“I will go ask.” As eager as any of them to have something to do, Krel bolted from the room.

“And Douxie?” Toby pressed. “Is there some sort of wizard guidebook on soul reconstruction too? Some sort of relic we need to find? Some spooky, dark lair we’ve gotta sneak inside? Oh, oh! Maybe Gatto has something that would help?”

“Nari?” Claire kept her eyes on the forest guardian, the only one among them who had any true understanding of the magic that had been used here. “How do we fix this?”

“I know of no magic capable of restoring a soul once it has been destroyed.” Nari shook her head, her own gaze fixated on the unmoving wizard in their midst. “There are spells, rituals that might help if a fragment had survived, but I cannot sense any part of Douxie still with us.”

“You couldn’t sense Jim either,” Claire reminded her. “But he was still there, in the Shadow Realm.”

“Then that’s where we’ll start.” Zoe made a decision, stepping away from the table to stand closer to Claire. “We are not letting it end like this.”

“You can’t go alone.” Not about to be left out, Jim added, “The Order might still be there.”

“You stuck the Arcane Order in the Shadow Realm?” Zoe gave her a look that was equal parts bemused and impressed. “Douxie really has been training you, hasn’t he? You’ll have to ask him about that nyarlagroth he stuck in Limbo one day.”

“I will,” she promised, holding that fragile thread of hope for all it was worth. “As soon as we get him back.”

[shadowsblades]

write me what happened when she found out varian died 👀

UNSOLICITED ASKS↳ @goldwrynn 

          What happened was that Valeera swam all the way to the Broken Shore to kick the ashes of his ass. How did she know which ashes used to be his ass? Doesn’t matter —— Varian is just one giant ass. But what should have happened…

          Her daggers slice through the demon’s unprotected stomach, the second slash not milliseconds behind the first, blades already coated in ichor never permitted reprieve to dry splattering hot blood across the rocky terrain and upon the already matted fur of the hefty bear fighting nearby. If Broll notices the added gore, he gives no sign, locked in combat with a felguard of his own, glimpsed in Valeera’s periphery barely long enough to verify that he moves —— and breathes —— still. Derision against the slowed speed of his attacks, lording of the number of her own kills over his —— any quip she might have goaded him with ( and had goaded him with earlier, to growled rejoinder that much more entertaining for its incomprehensibility, for his inability to chide her in turn ) goes unexpressed. If her exultation over fighting alongside him and Varian once more lingers unspoiled by the severity of the battle they wage, she no longer possesses the energy to communicate it.

          They have been fighting before the Tomb for what feels like days, demon after demon dispatched without an end to their ranks in sight. Lengthy assault on the Broken Shore behind them already, the rogue’s body aches with the abuse of it, painted generously with the grisly evidence of her… contributions to the skirmish thus far, her endurance owed more to the priests desperately sustaining their ranks with blessings and healing than the skill she brings to the battle ( though Valeera would contest she brings plenty of that ).

          For every demon they cut down more materialise, reinforcements for the Burning Legion marching onto the battlefield in a seemingly inexhaustible supply. There is nothing to do but fight on. They will be victorious. They have to be.

          The air itself is scorching and sulphuric, dry heat fuelled by the felfireballs cast into their midst and the fissures of molten fel splitting the stony ground, the torridity enclosed by the thick, churning clouds above, undiminished here as it had been by the ocean air on the craggy shore. Grotesque bats shriek as they swoop overhead and blades clang all around, the almost-rhythmic clamour of metal-on-metal and the recurring flashes of green in the sundered sky above so familiar to have faded into the background of Valeera’s consciousness. Her awareness is necessarily narrowed to encompass only those enemies and allies nearest —— and dearest —— to her: the demon before her, staggering back against her latest blow, blundering forward now with a monstrous double-bladed axe larger than her body and therefore sluggish enough to dodge; Broll just there, raking his claws over his foe; Varian behind her, shouting to Greymane as he cleaves through the Burning Legion’s elite guard with Shalamayne… 

            Liadrin, somewhere up on the embankment with her Blood Knights and the rest of the Horde’s forces.

          The blare of a horn brays across the tableau, a pealing echo resounding from above —— the Horde signalling something the demon looming over Valeera forestalls immediate appraisal of, but which she prays portends something that might turn the tide in their favour. Under the sweep of the felguard’s weapon, she stabs her blades into its exposed side to the hilts, carving deep, vertical gouges through flesh and muscle that ooze blood until the thing finally topples to its knees for her to kick to the ground, as dead as a demon can be on Azeroth.

          No new adversaries step forward to take its place, but before she can spare a glance to find what has changed in their surroundings——

          “I knew we couldn’t trust her!” Genn roars, enraged snarl seizing Valeera’s attention. He stands by Varian, the area around them miraculously —— but likely only fleetingly —— bereft of living demons, both of their faces turned up to the ridge overlooking the Tomb, where the Horde…

          Cold fear compresses her chest.

          The dark figures of the archers that had been covering them are gone, and no sounds of warfare beckon from that direction.

          The Horde is gone. The horn had been a call for a retreat…

          As if they had been waiting for harrowing comprehension of their abandonment and the doom it augurs to sweep across the Alliance forces, a fresh swarm of felbats wail, soaring across the plateau like a hail of arrows —— arrows which no longer harry them as they dive towards the Alliance, raking claws over their formation. Valeera whirls to face them, lunging aside as one sweeps down towards her, its long, twisted arms grasping for a victim. She twists onto her back as she falls, throwing out a long knife slid down from within her gauntlet to pierce the thick hide covering the thing’s belly —— to no avail other than to avoid her the fate of a nearby soldier too slow to do the same, ripped to pieces that become ghastly projectiles.

          Valeera is on her feet again before her body registers impact with the ground, ducking as fireballs explode overhead, scattering the felbats.

          Skyfire has arrived, but too late. The field is chaos now, more demons than ever marching implacably from the direction of the Tomb, pushing back where Varian had resolved to push forward.

          Any hope that they might triumph here despite the odds, that they might defeat the Burning Legion before it can penetrate further into Azeroth, evaporates.

          They will be slaughtered in moments unless they emulate the Horde —— a possibility now with the gunship descending towards them.

          Valeera glances towards Varian just as he comes to the bitter realisation, “Get everyone to the gunship.”

          “I was just getting started,” Valeera complains to him as Genn bellows the order, weak attempt at lightening the severity of his glare inexorably undermined by her laboured breath and the grime congealing even in her hair, transforming the soft, golden tail into stiff stalks of muck she shudders to imagine washing.

          The king glances at her briefly, visage revealing a disgruntlement too intense to ameliorate, “Get Broll.”

          She nods, glowing eyes flashing to her right where she had last seen the druid. There, an imposing line of felguard advances, presaged by a sonorous rumble of marching leaden feet, repelling soldiers who stumble over themselves to disengage. Where is——

          A sleek, leonine shape leaps upon a demon at the forefront bearing down on a human stumbled into a fissure, tackling the hulking form to the earth and snapping at its throat.

          To think he had once chastised her for using her teeth!

          Valeera dashes towards him, hauling the soldier to their feet and shoving them blindly in the direction of the gunship.

          “Broll!” she yells after the cat, “We’re going!”

          He bounds towards her with a bloodied snout, lopes just slow enough for Valeera to vault onto his spotted back. Together, they race towards Skyfire with the last of the remaining troops, veering hazardously to evade weapons swung at them, hair and fur alike stirred by the wind of their wake. The rogue shimmies up the ladder as Broll transforms, beckoning to Varian ( because of course he hasn’t fled yet himself ).

          Things are hardly less tumultuous on deck. The whole gunship shudders with the fire shot from the cannons, the ladder swinging perilously against the hull just as Valeera turns to hoist Broll over the edge, her body anchored with one arm wrapped around the rail as the other reaches down for him, Varian’s broad frame recognisable a few soldiers below.

          Power as loathsome as it is familiar prickles the fine hairs on her arms, suddenly saturating the atmosphere, crackling and flashing menacingly amid the clouds. The Legion, once so intent on keeping them away from the isle, now determined to block their escape.

          The ship lurches to port as a colossal meteor, larger than any conjured so far and wreathed in a conflagration of green flame, plummets past her vision, billowing sultry air and pitching Skyfire even further to port before crashing into the ground below. As the gunship rocks back, soldiers without grip are flung from the vessel into the inferno of smoke, flame and blistering heat mushrooming below. Valeera’s body slams against the rail, only barrier between her and certain demise. Broll, too, barely onto the deck, teeters. Varian——

           Varian…          

          Heart in her throat, Valeera leans over the bannister, squinting down into the nebulous smog. The soldiers that were on the ladder above the king are gone, likely having plunged to their deaths, but the man himself dangles perilously from one arm, careening with the undulating rope, “Varian!”

          If he had boarded earlier…

          Broll’s antlered head appears beside her, his longer arms snagging their friend’s hand as he surges upwards for their aid——

          A dark, gargantuan shape coalesces within the blaze beneath him, and a hand considerably larger than the night elf’s reaches up through the blast to crunch into the starboard deck, shattering wooden boards and squashing metal like a crafter would clay, dragging Skyfire back to starboard just as it begins to pitch away.

          Valeera’s legs fly out from under her, cartwheeling over her head and slapping the hull of the ship on the other side of the rail, only her arm somehow still wrapped around the guard keeping her from tumbling to her death upon the jagged rocks below. Others too topple howling from the gunship, bodies sliding between the rails until the gaps are blocked by sliding debris, clanging off the metal shell of the fel reaver leering at them from below.

          Valeera’s gaze follows them, purposefully ignoring vision of the land far below, down to Varian, still there, still swinging wildly on the ladder, his face turned upon the last obstacle between the Alliance and survival. She catches his eye as he glances up again, aspect disconcertingly resolved?

          Before she can even fathom what he may be planning, before thought of him planning anything solidifies in her mind, he drops, hand deliberately slipped through Broll’s grasp, Shalamayne unsheathed from his back and aimed at the head of the thing that has them as the night elf shouts after him.

          Whatever Varian has planned, Valeera cannot let him go alone.

          She glances up at Broll, who manages only a syllable of her name in protest before she releases the rail.

          Valeera too pulls her daggers as she falls, thrusting them into the clutching arm of the demon. Her weight drags them down, tearing parallel gashes through the metal with an ear-piercing grating that squeals in her teeth. The arm falls and suddenly she is horizontal to the ground, legs hanging down in the open for a heart-stopping moment before her blades lose purchase and she falls from the fel reaver, limbs waving hectically for something —— anything, but there is nothing —— to grab.

          It somehow takes longer than she expected to hit the ground, long enough to feel calmly chagrined over the utter stupidity of Varian Wrynn and the indignity of a death by falling.

          Her back hits the stone ( somehow not as hard as she expected, either ), limbs crashing down upon it and her head whipping back so her skull smacks against it, too. 

          Alive. Somehow.

          Groaning, Valeera rolls onto her side as the fel reaver crashes to the ground, molten fel bursting from its riven head, apparently less durable than her own.

          “Fools!” Broll’s voice thunders as Valeera drags her knees beneath her and levers herself unsteadily upright, pain spasming through every inch of muscle and flesh. 

          The fel reaver is down for good, she discovers, and so are they. Her, Varian, also staggering to his feet, and Broll, who must have leaped after them both and used his powers to slow at least her own descent. Down on the very ill-fated battlefield they had just left.

          Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea…

          Skyfire chugs away from them. An army of demons too numerous to count trudge across the rock towards them, so assured of their imminent demise and the impossibility of escape to approach unhurriedly. The three of them inch towards each other and raise their weapons, tense with anticipation.

          “Just like old times,” Valeera’s ventures, determinedly buoying the tenor of her voice over the fear threatening to tremble it, “The three of us together against overwhelming odds. Forget gold —— I want a statue when we get back.”

          Not that any of them would be getting back anywhere.

          Perhaps they would get an effigy anyway, a stone tribute to the three of them in some sun-kissed garden of Stormwind, standing side-by-side as they are now —— hopefully looking more brave and less dishevelled than Valeera feels now, but Anduin would surely see to that. 

          Champions of the Crimson Ring. Slayers of Onyxia. Heroes of the Broken Shore, the plaque might read ( are they heroes even if they die in vain? probably, she thinks, there’s a whole valley of missing supposed-heroes at the gates of the city, though Valeera would prefer a statue not so large that a family of pigeons could roost within her nostril ).

          Maybe Liadrin will even visit it.

          “It used to be Valeera we were chasing after,” Broll rumbles.

          The resignation in his voice closes a hand around her throat, but Valeera compels herself to scoff at the affront, however feebly, “I recall chasing the two of you all the way across Kalimdor!”

          “Some things never change,” Varian interjects gruffly, “You two are still fighting each other when you should be concentrating on our foes!”

          A felguard finally lumbers close enough to swing. 

          “The leader!” Varian shouts as he wrenches Shalamayne in two, twin blades ringing against the broadsword of the first opponent as he shoves forward, plowing again towards the Tomb as if they have any hope of reaching it.

          Futile or not, they push through as one, weaving, slashing, grunting, somehow making more progress than the entire Alliance army had achieved.

          A spear is jabbed towards her. Valeera darts aside then in, hacking with her daggers first one enemy then another and another after that, opponent sometimes spontaneously swapped with Varian or Broll beside her.

          Once, Varian is there to fend off her attacker, his sword shoved into the demon’s chest then ripped free to press another.

          Valeera shreds the hamstrings of one encroaching on Broll, its kneeling body a momentary shield against its brethren until it’s flung aside.

          No elements to call on, Broll is forced to foster his own, flinging seeds that become roots ensnaring feet.

          Too soon, it becomes agony to lift her arms, to impel her body to move,  to dodge, to block, to attack. The leader is so close, but more and more demons encircle them, grinding their momentum to a halt bespeaking death.

          “There’s no winning this,” Varian finally heaves, somehow mustering breath Valeera does not have to spare, “Broll, take Valeera. Look after my son.”

          Daggers crossed to block the overhead swing of a broadsword meant to reave her in two, elbows quivering with the effort to hold it, Valeera scarcely processes the order before sharp talons clasp around her shoulders and she’s dragged unceremoniously from the ground, wind beat downwards by strong, feathered wings bearing her upwards.

         “Broll!” she cries, squirming desperately in his grasp, legs kicking fruitlessly, “What are you doing?! Let me go! Put me down!”

          The stormcrow the druid has become is unresponsive, stoically flapping higher until Valeera has to twist to look behind them where Varian fights on, his rapidly-shrinking figure beset by demons. He’s made it to the leader he’d identified, but there’s so many, two of them right behind him, if they could help——

          “BROLL!” she howls again, voice cracked with hysteria as her hands frantically wrench at the fleshy legs above her as if she might be able to steer him around with enough force, “Go back! We have to go back! Varian needs us! Broll! Please!”

           “Put me down so you can get him! There’s no time!” She strains for another glance back, the scene barely visible out of the corner of her eye——

          And then Varian is screaming, a long cry of escalating agony silenced by a flare of felfire, momentarily illuminating the hideous landscape in a flash of even more hideous green, “No!” 

          For a few moments more, Valeera grapples with the druid, twisting harshly this way and that, legs thrashing as if they might find purchase against the air with which to wrestle against his hold, voice hoarse from yelling, “Go back!”

          Eventually, with Skyfire swelling in size before them, her rebellion tapers, furious defiance draining with whatever surge of energy had sustained it. Her face crumples, chest so tight she chokes upon the wretched sobs that convulse within her abdomen and tremor up her ribcage to tear themselves from her throat. She slumps in Broll’s grasp, fingers lip around his claws, ears drooped and head sagging towards the sea rippling far beneath them ------ so oblivious to the tremendous loss inflicted upon her, upon Azeroth, that her outrage momentarily spikes again.

          Light damn the Horde, Light damn the Legion, Light damn Varian Wrynn!

          Hot, angry tears drip unimpeded from her chin.Tangy ocean breeze ripples her hair, dragging sodden, odious strands across her face she does not care to brush aside. 

[darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts]

Plots and Pleasing Smiles

@umbralaperture I accepted this “abuse” of my prompt system because it’s a special occasion. I’m only joking of course. Not only did this sound like a challenge, how could I possibly refuse a request for your birthday? I kinda hope this works… Please excuse the shameless self-insert in this one I couldn’t not be there for your special day. x

**The rest of the prompts received for my Thank You Plan will be written and posted starting in August. This is an early reveal of one so I do not miss a birthday.**

ALL THE WARLORDS / Modern / Song #23 / Fluff          

#23: Sonne – Rammstien

WARNING: Strong Language

---

Plots and Pleasing Smiles

Work had been hectic and that was putting it mildly. Everyone seemed to want something doing and it all had to have been done yesterday. She sighed at her desk looking again at the clock on the wall taunting her with the reminder of the low passage of time. 

She thought back on the past week that had seen the rest of the household acting unusual. Hushed voices, whispered secrets and late-night trysts that she had been left out of. She had naturally received constant reassurance that none of it was anything to worry about but how could she not when all the men in her life seemed intent to keep things from her?

*Sigh*

“You know that is you up to 8 sighs per minute? Gonna have to start charging you on excessive exhaling soon.” A mirthful voice came from next to her and it was only then that she noticed the other woman standing next to her.

“Is it? Damn sorry I guess I’m just a little tired.” A thin smile pulled at the edges of her mouth as she looked up at the teasing blue eyes of her friend.

“No wonder.” How many jobs did you get stuck with today? This has to be enough work for 6 people right here.” Aerion reached out and absently flipped the corners on the document files stacked high on the desktop. Her voice had a joking tone but the wince she failed to hide in her expression told a different story. She’s worried about me.

“Probably but it's ok I can do it.” She straightened in her chair again, a new resolve emerging with her attempt to reassure her friend.

“Just because you can do it Naiya doesn’t mean you should.” Aerion declared whilst swooping in to swipe half a stack of the files.

“Hey!” Naiya made a grab for the stolen workload only to have it effortlessly removed from her reach.

“A job halved is one less job for you to do at the end of the day. I’ve nearly finished mine I can do at least this much.” Aerion smiled knowing her friend was in no fit state to really put up a fight.

“Did I ever tell you how much I love you?”

“Not since I brought you coffee earlier. Besides you really want to be throwing around dangerous proclamations like who you love when you have a harem at home?” The smile on her face was as vulpine as someone else’s Naiya knew all too well.

“Haha, must you call them that?” Feeling a blush heating up her face Naiya laughed wryly.

“What else would you like me to call them? Anyway, none of that matters as long as you’re all happy and no one is getting hurt.” Aerion shrugged and thankfully dropped her teasing.

“How supportive.”

“Meh. It’s who I am. Oh shit, that’s my phone!” Scuttling back to her desk to grab the call. Naiya let out a bark of laughter when Aerion had to juggle the files in her arm and the receiver to prevent dropping them. Earning her a small pout from her friend as they stuck their tongue out at her whilst talking in her official business voice.

---

The commute home was cursed. The weather that had been forecast as sun all day had turned into a downpour of rain from nowhere, and it naturally just had to wait to do that at the exact moment she was getting off the train for her short walk home. Dropping her bag on the chair in the hallway she peeled her coat off discovering it had done nothing to prevent her from getting soaked.

“Great.” She grimaced and pulled a little at the fabric sticking to her skin.

“Princess you’re home!” The delighted voice didn’t give her a chance to prepare herself for the hug attack. A pair of deceptively strong arms wrapped around her from behind, the smell of peaches tickling her nose.

“That looks like fun. May I join?” He was a little more reserved than Ranmaru but it was clear Mitsunari was no less happy to welcome her home.”

“Sure. Hi Honey.” She freed her arms from the embrace she was already in to hold them out for the second man to come to her. An invitation he happily accepted. She giggled suddenly remembering Ieyasu’s comment about it like being greeted by a couple of puppies.

“We’ve all been waiting for you. You’re soaked!” Ranmaru pulled away from her suddenly realising the state she was in and began giving her a concerned look from the top of her head to her toes.

“Well, it did rain.”

“Come inside quickly I’ll go grab a towel. Ranmaru would you?” Mitsunari slipped away leaving her arms and she shivered at the loss of warmth.

“On it.” Ranmaru stooped down to scoop her up into a princess style carry and began walking as if she weighed no more than a throw pillow.

“I can walk you know?”

“Yes, but this way I get to hug you and get you warm all at once. You not want me to Princess?” He constructed his face into one that looked like a wounded puppy. He knew she couldn’t say anything against those eyes.

“That look should be illegal how do you expect me to say no?”

“Ran, put her down over here.” Kennyo called out from the sofa looking up from a book he had rested on the arm. Depositing her gently next to the calming influence in the house Ranmaru vanished into the kitchen where what sounded like a small army was fighting.

“Now then Angel drink this.” A large hand and honeyed voice supplied a steaming cup of cocoa. She relaxed even more finally feeling like she was officially home and took a sip.

“God that’s sweet.”

“I tried to stop him putting in so much sugar but he insisted it was not sweet enough.” Yuki grumbled his complaint from his position by Sasuke. It looked like the pair were engrossed in watching something on the latter’s laptop. Another project for work, I guess?

“Sweets are good for reviving the soul Yuki.” Shingen’s serious reply earned him an eye roll from the younger man.

“And rotting your teeth.” Hideyoshi gave his own opinion to no one, in particular, making her giggle at the familiar warmth in the room.

“If he had no teeth would he stop with the stomach-turning pillow talk?” Kenshin enquired swirling his glass of wine.

“Come on Kenshin we all said we’d give it a rest for the night.” Yoshimoto shrugged in a non-committal display of preferring not to get involved in anything that could develop into a war in the living room. His reclined pose by the window made him look like a finely sculpted work of art.

“You all did that? What exactly is going on?”

“Nothing for you to worry about, little mouse.” She had no idea where he had sprung from but Mitsuhide gave her nose a small tap with his finger startling her. A soft white towel fell over her head, turning her world dark for a few moments until she put down her empty cup and moved it enough to give a small judging glare to the smirking kitsune.

“Mitsuhide you have all been saying that for a week. I know I was busy with work but if something is going on, I want to know about it.” Naiya pouted, suppressing the sigh she knew was there.

“Fireball.” Nobunaga entered the room handing a large plain box off to Hideyoshi before grabbing a glass of whiskey and taking a seat. What is going on tonight? Hideyoshi vanished into the kitchen, her eyes followed him before tracking back to Nobunaga. “Do you not trust us?” Nobu had that unreadable expression fixed on his face as he looked at her. The same one he used in a boardroom when listening to someone give a report.

“You know I do. I just don’t like being left out the loop.” She busied herself with the towel drying off her hair only to find it plucked from her hands by Hideyoshi who had taken over the task without asking.

“It’s true even at work she has to know everything.” Mitsuhide cast out his playful comment as he watched Hideyoshi take over his usual mothering role.

“Well, how do you expect me to do my job if I didn’t?”

“Fair point.”

“What smells so good anyway?” Naiya tried to turn her head to get a better view of the kitchen. Every time one of the others went in or out the door served as a kind of fan to waft the smell of gastric temptation around. The only issue was from the angle she was in, and the speed with which they were all moving she couldn’t even get a glimpse.

“Dinner. Masa is doing it. It was supposed to be a BBQ but then the heaven’s opened and quashed that plan.” Shingen filled her in with as much detail as he was willing to divulge. Hideyoshi had retreated after smoothing down her hair attempting to stop Nobu from eating whatever contraband he suddenly noticed he had. Mitsuhide was stifling a laugh that probably gave away the fact that he was the source of whatever breach of the “no candy before dinner” rule.

“Are you warm enough?” Kennyo asked after softly closing his book and putting an arm around her shoulders, giving her a small squeeze.

“Yes, thank you Kennyo dear.”

“Dinner is about to come out. Are you all gonna get your butts into the dining room?” Masa bounced out the kitchen a tea towel draped over one shoulder bashing a ladle against a pot lid to gain everyone’s attention.

“Eloquent as ever Masa.” Yoshimoto cracked a joke that had everyone laughing before rising from his seat.

“Hey man, my food speaks for itself.”

“It’s true and it has much better manners.” Ieyasu grumbled from by Masa’s elbow as they had both been in the kitchen.

“HEY! Just for that Yasu I’m putting one less strawberry on your desert.” Masa tried to make a grab for the fluffy-haired blonde and missed.

“See if I care.”

---

“Oh my god! What is all this?” She couldn’t quite get over it. When they all made it to the dining room nothing was as it was normally. The furniture was still there but it was now covered in finely crafted paper decorations and things that looked like glitter gems. Fairy lights and strings of lanterns had been draped around the space too.

“It was supposed to be a surprise BBQ dinner but when it rained, we had to set everything up in here instead.” Ieyasu explained.

“We wanted to have dinner under the moon with our brightest star.” Shingen took her hand placing a kiss on the back of it.

“More poetic claptrap.” Kenshin said brushing past into the room making for the drinks set up on the sideboard.

“You guys did all this?”

“Yes. Ranmaru and Mitsunari were in charge of helping Yoshimoto with the paper decorations. Kennyo went out with Hideyoshi and Shingen to gather the rest of the decorations. Masa dragged Ieyasu around the market for the food.” Sasuke began his break down of the day's events as if he was reciting something from one of his science reports.

“It was hell” Ieyasu muttered his ears turning a little red for some reason.

“Kenshin and Mitsuhide arranged all the drinks. And Yukimura and I were in charge of all the setting up. And the dismantling…”

“And the setting up... again.” Yuki added putting an arm around Sasuke’s shoulders a proud smile on his face.

“Haha, that all sounds like a hell of a lot of work. Was this what you were all being so secretive about?” Naiya looked around the room the many smiling faces of the people she loved and who loved her in return. “It’s wonderful but don’t you think it’s a little overly elaborate for dinner?”

“What do you mean?” The smiles from before were replaced by ones of varying confusion.

“Oh, dear it seems the Princess has forgotten.” Mitsunari gave a kind look as he empathised with her. What? What have I forgotten?

“I think you could be right.”

“Foods here come and get it!” Masa came in carrying the last of the large platters of food, the roast beef and chicken carved up beautifully in a mouth-watering display.

“Great I’m starving.” The last man to join in the gathering stood in the doorway making an over-exaggerated display out of stretching, his shirt untucking itself from his pants revealing just a hint of bare skin at his hips

“Hey, Motonari where did you just spring from?” Ranmaru gave a judgemental glare. In all the break down of things done today, it didn’t appear that the guy with a reputation as most hard to pin down when chores were being done had actually done anything to help today.

“Nowhere. I was sleeping. Ooo chicken!” With carefree abandon and completely ignoring anyone else’s opinions on the matter, Motonari grabbed a chicken leg from the platter as it was being set down and brought it up to his mouth taring a piece off it like a caveman.

“Hey don’t go taking it like that! Bloody Pirate.”

“Snooze you lose.”

“What is it I’m supposed to have forgotten?” Her words drew 13.5 sets of eyes back to her as she was guided into her seat at the table. Seriously what is so important?

“What tomorrow is Fireball.” Nobu took a cake from a different table carrying it over to put in front of her. The beautiful mirror glaze looked like a galaxy.

“Nobu is that?”

“I went into town myself on an errand and got this from your favourite bakery.”

“Oh my…” Her eyes fell on the scripture picked out in flowing fondant on the top.

You are our Sun in the daytime and Brightest Star in our night

The room was silent for a moment waiting for her blissfully happy smile to settle on her face before it was broken by a chorus of voices. How could I have forgotten this?

“1, 2, 3… Happy Birthday, Princess!”

---

[littlesnowarrow]

Security fail, pt1

So... I did a thing. Yesterday (for me, as I’m writing this) was @saibrarutherford‘s birthday, and because she’s the sweetest lady around, I wanted to give her something for her special day. 

It was supposed to be a one-shot, but it has turned out too long (and I still haven’t finished it after working on it for a full month), so I’ll be dividing it in three parts. Because yeah.

Security fail part 1 

Next Part

Summary: Saibra Trevelyan returns home from an exhausting mission in Orlais, as usual, when she finds out that some things have been happening in her dear stronghold. But, who is responsible for them?

Words: 2.6k

Warnings: None.

AO3 Link

Grammar and vocabulary corrections are always welcome.

Saibra was worn out. Like every time she returned from Orlais; those people truly only knew how to complain about each other and plot in that Game everyone seemed to enjoy playing save her. And she had just been a couple of days out. But she couldn’t go to her quarters yet. The required meeting at the War Room with her advisors was about to begin, and she really wished it would end soon so she could slip under her blankets and sleep at least for a whole day.

And… there was something she wanted to check by herself. Cullen, Josephine and her were waiting for the rest to arrive, using the time to check how many rifts were left in the map. Or at least she tried, because the Antivan was was so distressed it was impossible not to wonder what had gotten into her. She had been shifting from one foot to the other, fidgeting even, and she would have paced if she had been accompanied by people less observant. Suddenly, something seemed to change her mind, as she approached Saibra and leaned very close to her ear, very careful her words wouldn’t reach the Commander.

“Inquisitor…” She gaped a couple of times, but she couldn’t find the words with which she so naturally got on. Saibra would have worried hadn’t been for the intense red colour that darkened even more her skin. “You should know that your Spymaster is an incorrigible prankster.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Leliana said behind them. Both women turned to her startled since they hadn’t heard her enter. Josie’s blush became more intense when she saw the Nightingale’s angelic smile.

“No?” the Ambassador was starting to lose her temper. “My… my things! In the courtyard!”

Saibra stifled a snort. So it was true. Everyone in Skyhold had seen the new flag in the courtyard had been replaced by someone’s frilly undergarments, who no doubt belonged to Lady Montilyet. They had only hung there, graciously waving with the cool mountain breeze, until lunchtime, when the Ambassador had taken a break from her usual pile of paperwork in her office. The deed itself and her loud shriek had been the object of the rumors that were heard through the valley in the last few days, something her Commander had told her as soon as Saibra had gotten down from Solace.

“The ruffles were very festive.” Her grin widened, and her lips showed the tip of her fangs, like a predator that was having fun with her prey.

“Leliana!” she protested.

“What’s the matter?” asked Cassandra in her thick Nevarran accent.

“Our Lady Ambassador was victim of a serious attack against her intimacy at the beginning of the week, soon after your departure to Orlais,” Cullen answered. “And Leliana seems to be the one at fault.”

“Certainly I’m not.” Leliana huffed and crossed her arms before her chest. “If you must blame someone, it should be Sera. I’ve told her many times not to involve my agents in her businesses.”

And then, the Nightingale frowned. Everyone in the room exchanged a concerned look between them; it wasn’t usual for the redhead to reveal her train of thought that openly. Her unyielding mask began to crack bit by bit as she seemed to realise something the others didn’t.

“Sera could have arranged the banner incident, but she left with you, so it’s impossible she’s been able to organise the rest.” Her voice had become a low and dangerous growl that made their hair stand on end.

“Which ‘rest’?” Cassandra was the only one with enough courage to try to interact with her. Josie gasped at Saibra’s side, and her face turned pale when only five minutes ago had been of the same colour of the brightest pepper in the kitchen. Leliana answered with a nod.

“I’m afraid we have a joker in the hold, Inquisitor,” she announced.

“Meaning?”

“There have been some incidents since your leaving, now that Leliana mentions it.” This time it was Cullen speaking. “We all thought it had been Sera’s doing but-”

Little by little, the three advisors tried to summarise what had been going on during these days, taking Josie’s undergarments as the starting point. A lot had happened: from changing the tea sugar for salt lumps or emptying wine bottles -the cheap ones though- for coloured water to having placed food leftovers inside of each mattress that existed in the entire fortress. Or dusting stinging powder inside socks, disassembling chairs and benches so they would break by just sitting on them… Even putting bells on Baron Plucky.

That had personally infuriated the Spymaster, who had sworn she would take care of the rogue elf’s punishment. Not even Bull, whom they had hidden the patch and painted an eye on his scar, had any idea of who the culprit could be, nor the reasons that were driving them to commit those… pranks.

And it was true. Sera liked to play, but she had never dared with such scale. As they kept telling the facts, a feeling of restlessness began to fill Saibra from head to toe. Whoever was doing all that clearly didn’t have to intention to harm them, but it could be an strategy to distract them while some tragedy happened somewhere? Corypheus couldn’t be that smart, could he?

“They seem to have been merciless with everyone, without a clear target,” finished Josephine.

“But whoever they are, they must have spent a lot of time among us to get to know our weaknesses,” Cullen pointed out.

Not everyone. Although the whole of Skyhold had been flown off the handle, Saibra and her family had gotten out of it. It could be said that Vastra had had her share; a couple of nights ago, her sister found her children eating a box full of chocolates right before bedtime. The dawn had come and the little girls still hadn’t gone to bed, no matter how many tricks Vastra used with them. When she accepted it was impossible to calm them down, she ordered Jim to take care of them while she went to take a long and well-deserved nap. And nothing had happened to Cullen as well, at least not yet.

“I will personally see this matter dealt with if you allow me, Inquisitor.” Leliana offered.

Saibra was too tired, especially after that long series of unfortunate events, so she simply nodded in agreement and concluded the council.

***

Saibra dragged her feet through the hallways of her fortress, nodding or slightly bowing her head to answer the greetings of the people she run into. She needed a warm mug of tea and a calming bath with some special salts Josie had received. The pouch gave off a pleasant smell of camomile, lavender and orange, and with only a small sniff she was feeling a bit more revitalised.

The walk from the War Room to her bedroom had never felt so long, and on her way she couldn’t help but think about the recent events. The prankster had been clever to put Sera on the spot from the beginning, and lucky that everyone thought she was guilty when she probably didn’t even hang Josie’s famous underthings in the courtyard. And yet the prankster had raised the spirits of her people; she heard them tell stories of what had happened to one’s partner or the kitchen help. Her favourite so far was the explosion in Dagna’s lab that had covered the cave with a permanent glitter impossible to wash away.

But Saibra didn’t felt observed nor threatened; maybe those days in Orlais had immunised her against dirty tricks and back-stabbing for some time. Surely the joker was already gone and far from there, though never outside Leliana’s reach. She decided to pray for their souls and hope Leliana’s punishment were to be somewhat merciful.

She left the room half closed for when Cullen returned from his office, and climbed each step as she couldn’t climbed the next one. When she finally reached the top, she was disappointed to see the bathtub wasn’t ready. The hearth wasn’t even lit to heat the water. Odd. Despite her arrivals always caused a big fuss, the staff made sure her relaxing ritual was prepared for when she dropped the Inquisitor’s armour on her bed. Maybe there had been a mishap. Maybe the prankster had striked in the servants quarters today…! But if that would have occurred, they would have been informed during the council. So, she shrugged and began undressing to a more comfortable outfit.

After a brief moment, someone knocked downstairs. Neither Cullen, Vastra or her nieces ever asked for permission to come in, so it was probably Dorian. She allowed him to come up the stairs while she casted a tiny fireball to lit the hearth. Saibra giggled under her breath; she knew how much her Commander hated it when she used her magic unnecessarily, but Maker she needed that bath.

A head poked out from the stair’s railing, at first cautiously and then more freely. It was an elf, Dalish judging by the tattoo that covered her face, and her dark brown hair tied in a high ponytail that showed a pair of moving ears. Her eyes were of a deep bright green, wrinkled at the corners because of the mirthful smile she was offering to her.

“I’m terribly sorry, your Worship. I was required somewhere else, so I couldn’t prepare the bathtub on time.”

“It’s okay. If you’re still busy I can do it myself.”

“Please no! I’d never let the Inquisitor carry these heavy buckets by herself.” The elf hurried and gently pushed her away from the heated water. Saibra examined her from top to bottom, curious if she was talking seriously; she was so short and thin she would break if she lifted the buckets. But contrary to her expectations, the elf did her job without a single sign of pain or trouble.

When the bath was ready, Saibra shrugged off her silken robe and tested the temperature with the tip of her toes before finally dropping in. The water was exquisite, warm with a subtle colder current that gave her goosebumps all over her legs. She could still hear the elf moving around and doing this and that, never fully pausing for longer than a couple of seconds. She unpacked her travel bag, shook her cloak to dust the dirt of the road and filled a brazier to warm her bed. Somehow everything reminded her of when she was a child, and her mama would prepare them to go to bed after a long day playing in the Trevelyan manor courtyard.

She was almost dozing off when the elf stopped behind her and poured Josie’s bath salts. The crystals tickled her skin before adapting to the water’s temperature, causing them to dissolve into that marvelous smell of citrus. A pair of hands unexpectedly run along her shoulders in a slow massage. Her fingers were cold, and knew exactly how much pressure she had to put to undo the contractures in her shoulders. Saibra began humming out of pleasure, without minding if that stranger could see her in an almost vulnerable state.

“Is it comforting, your Worship? I might not have healing magic, but they say my hands can do wonders.” she whispered. Saibra sighed in response. “Is it alright if I move to the head?”

“Please…” she finished with a soft groan as soon as the elf began rubbing along her scalp with a chuckle. There was a moment in which she touched certain point, and the mage unintentionally poured some of her own magic into the water.

“Wow! So it’s true you’re a mage, huh?” She didn’t know? Saibra would have sworn that her class was the order of the day. “Must’ve felt strange living outside the Circle for this long.”

“It certainly has sometimes. But even though the Ostwick circle was a pacific one, the freedom is still enjoyable.” She felt the elf nod in agreement. “And you? When did you leave your clan?”

Somehow, the cheerfulness she so easily gave off darkened just an instant before she recovered. Her fingers resumed massaging her head as if that question hadn’t reopened an old wound in her heart. Be as it may, her voice didn’t show any of that uneasiness.

“A very long time ago. I ignore where they might be now, with the hallas taking them around Thedas. I wonder if they’ve planted a tree in my memory or something of the sorts.”

She knew, after the time she had spent in the Graves, that the Dalish honoured their dead planting a tree as a natural gravestone. It saddened her when she realised that the elf had accepted that her people had given her up for dead, either because she left back then or because she had joined the humans at present day. Although if Saibra asked her, she would probably be intruding too much, and she didn’t want to seem a nosy boss that only seeked to satisfy her curiosity.

It ended too soon, unfortunately. The elf indicated her with a couple of light taps that she should come out of the water before she would catch a cold, so Saibra got up and let herself be embraced by the soft towel she wrapped her with. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“I should be thanking you for taking me in! Life hasn’t been easy since the Blight-” she stopped abruptly, as she had made a terrible mistake by mentioning that.

“The Blight? Are you from Ferelden?” she leaned forward when the servant used a second towel for her head.

“I lived there, yes. But anyway,” she changed the subject, “A lone, wandering Dalish is always suspicious, it doesn’t matter what difficulty we’re going through.”

She seemed so lonely and tired of that prejudice that her words sounded older than what she really was. Saibra couldn’t help but pity her, as much as it wasn’t very polite to do. There was a small silence between them, staring at each other and drinking from their eyes stories they weren’t told. Saibra felt the unstoppable urge to hug her, to help her sooth away those unspoken problems.

One of her ears lifted at the sudden sound of a closing door. The spell that had bonded them broke as the elf helped her step down from the bathtub, her endless energy bursting again, and bowed as a farewell after handing her her nightgown. Saibra still wanted to embrace her, but before she could consider if that went beyond her limits as leader of the Inquisition, the elf was already gone.

But Saibra didn’t hear the snort the cheerful elf barely managed to suppress while she headed to the stairs, or the casual “Hey Cullen” she spoke to the Commander.

When Saibra emerged from behind the screen, Cullen was still looking at the stairwell with a very confused look twirled in his scarred lip. “Is something wrong, beloved?” she said while hugging him from behind. Cullen shook his head as if he wanted to get a horrible idea out of his mind and twisted in her arms ready to land a soft kiss on her forehead. But instead, he observed her bewildered, eyes open with concern and distant laugh. Now it was her turn to be confused. “What?”

“Sweetling, you should check yourself in the mirror.”

She stepped back almost frightened, and without ever letting go of his hand, Saibra approached the full-length mirror hanging next to her dresser. She checked out her body expecting to find anything unusual, but there was nothing that could justify the warning of her lover…

A strand of hair swung before her eyes. She would have sworn that lock couldn’t belong to her, that it was the tip of the towel that was still drying her scalp. And at the same time it had the same texture as one of her curls, only that the colour… The colour…

“AAAAAAH!”

[trulycertain]

perchance to dream

It takes her a second too long. Morgana turns to cast, to stop the other mage, but the woman’s spell has already hit Alistair and he’s falling. The mage laughs and says something in Orlesian, something Morgana can’t quite catch.

Morgana throws a fireball at her, lets Leliana do the rest, and then runs to him. She already knows it won’t be enough. If she weren’t in the middle of a fight, she’d wince at the sound of armour hitting the ground.

His eyes are closed, and his sword has fallen somewhere next to him, his shield still on his arm. There’s barely a scratch on him - nothing that could have caused this. It doesn’t look like an entropy spell.

“Alistair,” she manages, putting her sword aside, dropping to her knees beside him and checking the pulse at his neck; it’s still strong and steady, but he doesn’t stir. “Alistair,” she tries again. “Please.” The last word is barely a murmur, and her hand lingers on his skin. She’s reaching out with healing magic before she can help it, trying to understand, but she can’t get a grip on any pain and her magic is telling her that nothing’s wrong with him. That’s impossible, surely. It’s as if he’s only…

“Asleep,” Zevran says, crouching next to her. “As I suspected.” He looks up. “My dear bard, are you thinking as I am?”

“I am,” Leliana replies, joining them. “I’ve seen this before, but it’s been a long time.” She meets Morgana’s eye then, and looks worried, almost… sorrowful. “Morgana... we need to talk.”

Morgana tenses, dread rising in her. If there’s something wrong with him, if he’s dying… He’s protected her so many times; he’s the son of a king, the best man she knows, and she’s just a Circle mage who fell into this world by accident. It wouldn’t be fair.

She looks down and realises too late that her hand is still lingering on his neck, her thumb tracing his jaw. She hastily takes it back, and her heart jumps into her throat when she sees Leliana and Zevran’s eyes following the movement. They exchange a look, but don’t say anything.

“What?” she demands, after the silence has gone on too long.

“I’m familiar with this spell,” Leliana says, and her voice is too gentle, too soft. “It was often used for purposes of… embarrassment, in Orlais. A friend I had, a mage - he was quite expert at casting it.” That look of old guilt crosses her face, but there’s not time for it now. “I don’t understand why someone would target Grey Wardens this way.”

“But he’ll be all right?” Morgana asks. “We can solve this?”

“He will.” Leliana sounds more certain now. “But… the spell can only be removed by a kiss.”

“An…? Oh.” Morgana looks back to his face. He looks younger like this, and somehow… vulnerable. She can’t just - “I’m sure he’d mind,” she manages, faintly.

Leliana makes a noise that might be a suppressed laugh. “Morgana - “

“Is there… It might be better if someone else…” It’s too much: it’s exactly what she’s dreamed of, but not - not like this. She thought he’d be bloody well awake, for a start. She can’t quite look at him, now she’s thinking of it, and she knows her cheeks are pink. But she can’t think of anyone he’d trust… Perhaps Leliana.

Zevran says, “Flattered as I would be, there is a requirement.”

Leliana says, “The kiss must be on the mouth. And only someone the sleeper is… interested in can break the spell.”

“Interested…?” Morgana echoes. 

Zevran half-grins; there’s something wolfish in it. “She means, ‘in love with.’”

Leliana glares at him, but Morgana’s too busy staring at both of them, trying to ignore the hollowness those words provoke. She opens her mouth, closes it again, and eventually manages, “Then it can’t be me.”

Zevran barks a laugh, and Leliana blinks at her.

“He’s not… He’d never…” She pulls herself together, makes herself look at Leliana steadily. “It won’t be me. I’m his friend. It might be you.”

Leliana rubs a hand over her face, and she sounds strangely certain when she says, “It won’t be me. Here, let me show you.” Leliana tenses a moment, sighs, and then leans down and gives Alistair a perfunctory kiss on the lips. He doesn’t move; he stays prone, lying there, without even a twitch of a finger. She looks back to Morgana. “I told you. Do you see?”

Morgana nods, still numb. “What about… Morrigan?”

“Such denial,” Zevran mutters, shaking his head. “Fereldans. This is too painful to watch any longer.” He stands, moving as smoothly as a snake, and begins to walk away.

“Zev - “ Morgana tries.

“I will see you back at camp. When you have woken him up.” He whistles as he leaves, and the sound fades through the trees until it’s gone.

Leliana puts a hand on Morgana’s arm and leans in, eyes wide. “I need you to trust me. It won’t be Morrigan. Believe me.”

“I can’t be…”

“Try for his sake, if nothing else. There is no other cure I know of. Surely you don’t want to take the risk that he could sleep forever?”

“Of course I don’t. But he can’t be in… love…” Morgana grits her teeth. Humiliation and pain are rising, searing, in her chest. “Why are you doing this? Are you trying to prove some sort of point? You said this was some bard trick, for… for humiliation. This is just because I… I care for him, isn’t it? This is - You’ve been laughing at me all this time?”

Leliana doesn’t look angry, only sad. “Think, Morgana. You’re my friend. Why would I hurt you in such a way? You should not have found out like this, but you will realise. Please… try.” Then Leliana’s standing and leaving, too.

Morgana’s left kneeling next to Alistair. The clearing’s quiet around them, and all she can hear is birds. She’s sure that if he was awake, he’d be making some joke about all their companions waiting to jump out and laugh at them. She needs that. She needs…

She looks down at him, and contemplates never having his voice beside her again, his warmth at her side gone. She blinks, suddenly feeling like she might cry, for the first time since before her Harrowing. He can’t just… She already knows it won’t be her, and this is a waste of time. He’s a good man, but Chantry teaching is powerful, and she’s turned to him before, sneered at him and called him a templar… They’re friends now, but he probably couldn’t contemplate anything more. She’s been a bloody idiot to hope, but at least she had his friendship; that was enough. Anything he’d give was enough. Now she won’t even have that.

If this were a book, he’d wake up, and he’d tell her… She tries not to think of those three words. They frighten her too much, because love is pain and Harrowings and she’s a mage, even with a sword in her hand and the Tower miles behind her. They frighten her because they’re in the dreams she stole and hid away from the others, and from herself, and they’re all she could hope for.

She breathes in, and decides. Sod it, she’ll try. Then she can go back to camp and murder them for making her do this.

The worst thing is, he looks like him. High cheekbones, that jaw and that nose, his... his mouth. He looks like some sort of prince from a tale, exactly the sort of man she could never hope to have, but also like her strong, tired friend. She misses that warm amber gaze; she feels steadier when his eyes are on her. But if they were, then all this would be solved.

“I’m sorry,” she tells him. “You can kill me when you wake up.”

She runs a hand over his cheek, then cups his jaw. The angle is awkward, and she has to put her other hand on the ground and lean across him. She closes her eyes, trying not to wince, and she’s almost certain she hits his nose. Then her mouth is on his. His lips are dry, but exactly as soft as she imagined. It’s strange: she hadn’t quite imagined the scratch of stubble, but it’s not unpleasant. It’s…

No. No.

She moves back -

And he inhales, and his mouth moves slightly under hers, and… he’s kissing her. She nearly falls on top of him in her surprise. His eyes are still shut, but she feels his hand move to her waist, steadying her, before it slides to her back, urging her closer. She closes her eyes, and goes. He kisses her gently, with a half-awake, slow sincerity, and she finds herself relaxing into it. He’s so warm. She didn’t imagine that, or the gentleness of his hand on her back, or the way that he pauses, and she can feel him smiling against her mouth, before he kisses her again. It should be uncomfortable, and yet she never wants to stop, to let him go.

He draws back slightly, his lips a hair’s breadth from hers, and she hears him breathe, “Morgana?”

Surely he can’t know what he’s doing, he still seems like he’s mostly asleep - She throws herself off him, shuffling backwards, her arse scraping against the ground…

And his eyes blink open. He moves to sit up and squints groggily, before grinning at her. “Hey. I… think I just had a really good dream.” He rubs at his eyes.

“...Oh,” she manages, very, very quietly.

He stops, his face falling. “You’re looking a little… Have I done something? I thought you meant… You don’t usually just kiss me out of nowhere. Unless I’ve missed… a lot.”

She means, “‘in love with.”

She stares at him, wide-eyed. “You don’t… mind?”

He laughs, and even startled, the sound’s rich and warm. “It’s you. Most people don’t mind when they get exactly what they wanted.” His voice softens, and he watches her intently. “What they’ve wanted for… a long time now. You really didn’t know, did you?”

She shakes her head.

“We used to hear about sleep-spells, in the Chantry. I always thought they were just stories. The mage… she was laughing at me, when she cast it. I guess she thought no-one would, you know, want to wake me up.” He tilts his head and watches her consideringly, searching her face. “The stories always said the person who kissed you had to feel the same, or they couldn’t break the curse.” He scratches the back of his neck, ducks his head. “I mean, do you…?”

She crosses the space between them, takes his face in her hands and kisses him again. He makes a low, surprised noise, but he wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her close. It’s not everything she’s dreamt of, not at all. It’s better.

[ask-silverfire]

[Reworked] Past and Present - 10th Feb 2017

“Get up.” The elven girl stood, her hand on her chest. She was very young - perhaps twelve or thirteen. She moved her hand to wipe the back of her glove against her blood-stained lips, but paused as she caught her father’s threatening glare. Trying not to tremble, she reached for her handkerchief from her pocket instead, and demurely dabbed the corner of her mouth. “Again.” She wasn’t fast enough, once more. Another loud gasp escaped her lips as the arcane barrage hit her chest, breaking her ward. He would never go easy on her - what was the point in anything less than his usual strength in his offensive spellcasting? How was she meant to improve and grow stronger? “We do -not- collapse repeatedly, Rei’ann. On your feet! We will do this until you either show that you can take that hit, or stop me.” No shaking. No weakness. Experience had taught her that if she dared to look anything less than nonplussed, he’d resort to fireballs and fireblasts. That was far worse than what he was doing. She had to be thankful. She had to be even more thankful every day that her father did not send her to her grandfather for her training session. Her grandfather used Divination a lot. He said it was to ensure that her mental barrier was so strong, she would never allow anyone else to do to her what he did to her. Rei’ann would rather spend an entire week without rest, food, or water enduring repeated arcane blasts, than five minutes with Lord Silverfire. “Yes, Ann’da.” *** There were not as many warmagi as there used to be. Too few people understood how much more it took for them to do what they did, without the restriction of heavy armour. Many saw them as glorified magi who merely knew the ways of battlemagics, and that their colleagues who were armoured like warriors were far more powerful. Of course, when it came to the bloodmagi, they kept their mouths shut at their equally light armour, but just as potent abilities in defensive casting. Rei’ann had never taken the bait. The one flaw about hypocrites, which they themselves have absolutely no insight about, is that they have not the ability to see beyond their lack of lateral thinking. Let them underestimate you, she had always been taught. More fool them. Of course, once the Spire realised that they needed as many chronomancy-specialised Transmutation masters, who could also battle-cast, and who could move quickly and stealthily, they came crawling towards the likes of herself to advise on the efforts to free the frozen army. She stared at the masses of the combined armies, immobilised in time. She had taken the briefings from the scouts, both from their camp as well as that of the Kirin Tor, and - albeit grudgingly - the Alliance. No way, she had warned the respective Magister in command. There was no way that a mere handful of them would be able to reverse that. They could manipulate the matrix briefly, to bring out individuals, but their enemies were likely watching. Even if they chose not to kill any of the rescuers on sight, it would be slow and inefficient. “Every life counts, Magistrix.” “Even of those who are put at risk? A life for a life? Or more than one life for a life?” *** “Candidacy for Archmage?” Rei’ann stared at Hathorel. The poor elf appeared to be completely serious. She remembered him from her younger days, when part of her grandfather’s household resided in Dalaran. “The former Lord Silverfire was of high standing amongst the Kirin Tor back in the day. With Archmage Sunreaver’s words, you have not gone unnoticed, Lady Silverfire.” “Funny, I’d rather go unnoticed. The lordlings of the Kirin Tor didn’t bat an eyelid when they saw me led to the prison cells some years back. Why would they change their minds all of a sudden?" Some years back was a mere understatement. Rei’ann was being dry - she fully understood the incentivisation the Kirin Tor desperately needed to gain the favour of the blood elven magi once again. However, she knew Hathorel’s intention. He climbed their ranks in the past, thanks to her family’s influence. He owed her, and sought to repay it. “Might I also remind you that I have not officially received the stamp of ‘Master’ in quite a number of schools. I’m sure they would prefer not to award that dandy title to myself.” She saw Hathorel stiffen. She knew how he clamoured to Aethas Sunreaver as soon as he re-aligned himself with Dalaran once more. Rei’ann understood the threats facing them in Northrend at the moment, but unlike the Magister before her, she had no intention of climbing her way to the top. Hathorel himself coveted the title, but he was shrewd and capable - certainly sensible enough to know his place and where he stood in the food chain. “All know your skills state otherwise.” Rei’ann stared at Magister Hathorel, in the way that was typical of a Silverfire - intense, penetrating, unblinking, and cold as ice. “The Kirin Tor treat us like temporary bed mates to beck and call at their whim, Hathorel. They would close an eye when Garithos did what he did, then expect us to lick their boots because they know that they have the upper hand in commanding the strings that pull Sunreaver. The threat of the blue flight is common to us all, especially in light of what is currently going on in Icecrown. It is for -that- reason that I am here. Allies matter - Sunreaver knows that, and so do the Kirin Tor. However, I have no intention of being awarded a title by two-faced, double-crossing traitors. Sunreaver may comply with what they expect him to do - don't get me wrong, he has my respect for it for doing so on our behalves, but I will not.” The battlemage glared back at Rei’ann. She knew she had hit a topic of contention, but he would not argue back at her. Her point of view was shared not only by herself. “Mark my words,” she continued. “The moment this particular war is over, the Kirin Tor will once again turn around and find any reason stab us in the back. If -you- have any sense of self-preservation left, you’d do what you need to do, then return to where we actually belong.” Rei’ann curled her lips into a mild smirk. “I’ll remind you, it’s not this human city.” Hathorel inhaled deeply. “You have made your point, Lady Silverfire.” Before he left, Rei’ann piped up a few last words. “Let us be blunt, Hathorel. You need not worry. I would not ask much of you in return for what I aided you with. There is very little that you can actually offer me.” She smirked again. “But maybe, in the future, you’ll help someone else climb up, at my say-so.” Hathorel let out a soft sigh. “A number of those affiliated with your scattered House have already no need of that, my Lady.” Rei’ann shrugged. “Who knows? One day you might find me asking you for that very favour outside the gates of Orgrimmar.” Hathorel raised a brow. “Why Orgrimmar?” “I’m just being facetious, Magister.” *** “Magister Hathorel.” “Lady Firestar.” They looked down upon the scouted plans of the Arcway tunnels. Champions from either faction had already started to break through the secret entrance. The rest of them, secretly following and flanking from the back lines, had detected temporal alterations next to the center of the tunnels, underneath the Nighthold. “There is something holding the time-stop, just adjacent to the Nightwell. Either wards, or beacons, empowered by the font that is the Nightwell itself.” “Anomalies may also manifest as beings, Magister.” “I am not discounting that. None of us have.” “There may be more than one of those beings there. There may even be a hierarchy of them.” “Or constructs.” “Adjacent to the Nightwell, no less.” They had agreed that there was little point in individual rescues from those still trapped outside. One of the solutions was to temporarily disrupt the spell matrix around a large area, thereby releasing those from the hold of the time-stop. “The main source of the temporal disruption is next to the Nightwell. That is not to say that there are other beacons around. If they can disable any of the beacons, it would help destabilise the anomalies around the main source of the disruption. It may even help the main forces, should they meet that main disruption straight on, whatever it is.” “Remember also that they are standing on a large confluence of leylines. The beacons’ sources may come from both the Nightwell as well as the afferent flows. Interrupt one, and you may start a chain reaction, or even a massive localised one. They'd need some of them to remain near where the ley points meet the spell - discreetly. Channel the interruptions along the peripheries, then when the matrix is sufficiently destablised, break it, and release however many you can.” “What of those who are by the beacons?” “Teleport out as fast as they can, before they become overwhelmed, of course.” “There will be guardians or wardens. I refuse to believe that any beacons would be left unguarded like that.” Rei’ann looked up at Hathorel. “Nobody who accepted the task knew for sure that any of it would work, Magister. You’re veteran enough to understand this.” ... He found her at a widened terrace of one of the many tall spires in Dalaran A cup of spiced tea in each hand, he offered one of them to Rei'ann. "Still thinking about what is happening in Suramar?" Rei'ann accepted the cup with a curt nod of gratitude. "No, but you may tell the news, for you wouldn't approach me otherwise." Hathorel dipped his head at Rei'ann's calmly wry tone. "It turned out that there is indeed a huge anomaly by the Nightwell. The leader of the Nightfallen rebels confirmed that that... -construct- was what was holding the temporal freeze on the forces outside. The beacons were disabled, but did next to nothing." She nodded slowly as she sipped the hot, sweet tea. "The champions have fought their way through, I take it?" "They are, if they are not already doing so." There was not much more to say on the matter. Her work was done - she only waited to hear the outcome. She finished the tea and set it aside on the wide banister. "You were right, my Lady." Rei'ann glanced at Hathorel. The battlemage was older than she remembered. His loyalty to Aethas Sunreaver had never wavered through the years, but she could see that time, no matter how short, still took its toll. It had already taken its toll when she saw him at the docks outside Orgrimmar, when she finally called in the favor he owed her. She saw him rarely otherwise, even within the Spire. Nevertheless, he was still a proud and extremely capable Magister. "They do treat us like bedmates," he continued, with a hint of amusement. "I think that was the elegant term you used to describe them." "Yet here you'll remain, while I shall shortly be returning home." "We need to be allied again, out of necessity. You joined us - you joined the Archmage for the same reason back in Northrend." "He has those like yourself, and a few of my House. My duties lie elsewhere. Not everyone who can be here should be here." They watched the familiar lights and movements of the floating city beneath them. The fel-tainted sky towards the southeast was as sinisterly vibrant as ever. "The fel doesn't hurt you anymore, I see," he remarked. "It has not for a long time now, thanks to Magister Sunglance." Hathorel nodded. "Lady Firestar, I never did offer my condolences to you about Magister Dawnlight. You were right too, when you brought him to me outside Orgrimmar. He was a promising candidate, and did well, amongst all of our eyes, until his final mission." He inclined his head, out of respect to the deceased. Rei'ann's gaze lowered for a split-second - so quickly, blink and one would miss it. "He's in a better place, Magister Hathorel." *** "Minn'da!" Rei'ann smiled as little Taryane Firestar ran to her as soon as she appeared in the little girl's room. The toddler threw her arms around Rei'ann's legs and gave her mother a tight hug. Rei'ann lifted her into her arms, smiling widely. "Have you behaved yourself, little star?" Illethiann called their daughter what he used to call Natsanna when she was a small child. Rei'ann was never one for nicknames, but she has grown fond of it since. Taryane Windblaze had kindly relieved herself of her duties for the time that Rei'ann needed to be away, to care for the child to whom she was guardian. The blood knight had greeted Rei'ann on her arrival home, before departing to allow mother and daughter their private time. Rei'ann knew that Illethiann would appreciate both their presence, as he treated the older Taryane like his own child. "Story!" Rei'ann laughed faintly. It was a typical demand from Taryane. "What story would you like to hear, little star?" Taryane palmed the rings on Rei'ann's left hand and pointed at the gold and black signet that belonged to Rei'ann's mother. " 'We are what we make of ourselves'." Taryane's speech was slow yet, as she was still developing, but Rei'ann knew what she was referring to. With a placid expression, she removed the ring. The enchanted engraving inside the ring revealed itself at a wave of her hand, showing the words Taryane quoted. "Minn'da put them there." Rei'ann gazed at the ring. "Yes, little star, Minn'da did put them there." "Secret story!" Rei'ann smiled once more as she carried the small child to her bed. "Yes, it is a story about a secret." *** When Rei'ann was six, she used to disappear to the family's immense library to read in the middle of the night. Her father was strict, and demanded no less of her being up to scratch with her education. Her tutoring in the day time was not adequate - she was expected to self-study. Sun-forbid if she could not answer his questions when he quizzed her. In the library, she often found her mother lingering, waiting for her. Her mother always waited, ready with food, drink and light. Sometimes, she offered a lap for her to sit on, a warm, comforting presence. It was simple, but to Rei'ann, it was all that she needed to keep her going. "We are what we make of ourselves, my daughter. Whatever happens in your life, never forget it." Years later, when Rei'ann found her mother's remains, plucked her ring off her finger and placed it on her own, she understood. And on that epiphany, she crumbled to her knees and wept, amidst the dead, corrupted land. *** Rei'ann looked down at the estate grounds. Taryane was soundly asleep by then. She felt an arm curl around her waist from behind her, and leaned back as Illethiann kissed her temple. "I am glad to see you unscathed," he said. Rei'ann smirked faintly. "For you, I'll try to remain so." He sighed and held up a scroll. "Why did you write a Will?" Rei'ann looked at the document, then at him. "Because there are secret stories that need to be told." She smirked again as Illethiann arched his eyebrow. "But as I said, for you, I'll try to remain unscathed." She took the document and, in Illethiann's presence, destroyed it in a blaze of arcane fire. "You will have me until the end of time itself, for as long as you will have me, and want me." She kissed him. They both went indoors.