a-nebulose

[a-nebulose]

Moonlit Debate

“Go on, Harry, ask her.”

“Sod off, Jack, why don’t you ask ‘er?”

“Are ye daft? She looks meaner than my gran.”

“Easier on the eyes, too.”

“My gran is a beautiful lady, Winston.”

“Aye, for a pug.”

“Oi, oi! Stop that, you two. No scufflin’ in front of the elf.”

“Can she even hear us, Harry? The lass is off in the woods, near as I can tell.”

“Did you see the ears on ‘er, Jackie boy? Ye think she can’t ‘ear us? I’ll bet she can ‘ear crickets fuckin’ from across the damn lake.”

“More’n hear us. Lookit the peepers on her.”

“You shouldn’t be looking at a lady’s peepers, Winston.”

“I mean her eyes, you daft git. And besides, who could blame me for lookin’ at her peepers? Not like she’s coverin’ ‘em up. M’only human, an’ no lady I know would be wearing that… well, that.”

“That’s why I want Jack to ask her. Maybe her squire has it? Do the purple elves have knights? Oh, ask her that too, Jack!”

“I’M NOT ASKING ‘ER ANYTHING!”

“… Now you’ve gone an’ done it, Harry.”

“You can sod off too, Winston, weren’t my fault.”

“I agree with Winston, Harry. You had to go and shout, and now she’s moving that cat of hers this way.”

“Wunner what she feeds that thing… Harry, ask her that too.”

“Fine, fine, FINE, I’ll go an’ ask ‘er all your stupid questions. An’ when she feeds me to ‘er cat, I ‘ope you lot slip in the shite it makes me into.”

“Evenin’, er… priestess, right?”

“Yes. Is everything well? I saw scuffling and heard shouting.”

“Just a bit of carousin’, nothin’ to be disturbed over. Kul Tirans are a rowdy folk, especially the valley types like us. Beggin’ your pardon for disturbing you.”

“I was simply listening to crickets, there was nothing to disturb.”

“Right, right… that’s a… quite the accent you got there.”

“I could say the same of you.”

“Eheh… heh… aye… say, er, if you don’t mind my askin’… you’re a whatsit… a battle priestess, righ’?”

“I am. It is why I was assigned to your levy, as support.”

“Righ’, righ’… so me an’ the lads were wonderin’… if you’re goin’ into battle… where’s your armor? Because, well, don’t take this the wrong way, now, but… you’re not wearing… much. So, where’s your armor?”

In answer, the kaldorei priestess, with stoic patience, lifted one clawed finger, and pointed up, to the full moon in all of its glory. And Harry stared up at that heavenly body, and a smile crossed his face for the first time that night, as he regarded the ancient warrior woman once more, his question answered, in so simple and elegant a fashion.

“Well, that’s a shite place for it, innit?”

[a-nebulose]

Character Q&A

What is your full name?

“Tlayna Rastoke.”

What do your friends call you?

“Tay. Just Tay. Not Taytay, or any of that cutesy shit. Just Tay.”

What is your favorite animal?

“Is... is this an interview for five year olds? The fuck do you need to know my- fine, fine. Bats, I like bats, because I’m a cliche.”

Where were you born?

“A hamlet in Duskwood called Rastoke, northern chunk of the province. It’s still there, people are gone though. Feel free to check it out if you like looking at failure.”

Do you have children?

“No. I do enough babysitting as it is, Light help any kids of mine if I, by some ironic miracle, have them.”

Is there a person/people you love?

“So we go from my favorite animal to personal shit like this? I have loved people, sure, in my own way. And it bit me in the ass every time. Now? Don’t have the time or patience for it.”

What is your favorite color?

“Who the fuck wrote these... purple.”

What is your full occupation?

“I was a magical problem solver for hire up until last year, when I somehow managed to become a baroness. So I do that, mostly, try and keep things running smoothly, deal with other noble’s fuckery. I also help out this League of Lordaeron group, because Light knows they need all the help they can get half the time. Not a member, though, just an... altruistic consultant... person.”

Are you good at physical fighting?

“I’m not exactly built for melee, but I cut my teeth in real fighting as a spellblade. So... better than some, worse than others? I’m good at it, pretty good, even... but in an actual fight skill’s only part of it, in my experience. All the fancy swordplay in the world doesn’t matter if your opponent just decides to sit on you.”

Which form are you best at?

“Lighter weapons, short sword and dagger. Usually I mix it up with a wand, compensate that way. That’s what I’ve been doing for years, and I’m not dead yet, so it’s what I’m best at.”

What about magic?

“That’s my focus, for obvious reasons. I have a looooot of experience with lots of different kinds of magic. Not exactly archmage level power, but I don’t need that kinda stuff. Prep beats power any day of the week.”

Which type are you best at?

“The type that gets your forcibly recruited to be kindling. Next.”

Craftsmanship?

“I sew, and I’m good at making magical items and trinkets. Little things, useful tools, that sorta stuff. I don’t sell them though, that’d just be hypocritical.”

Any other skills?

“I bake, and I cook. Other than that... is superhuman patience a skill? Yeah, that.”

Are you an only child?

“I have a sister, much younger than I am. We never really knew each other all that well, but we reconnected last year. She got married in the fall, to a Captain in the Alliance military. Poor bastard has no idea what he’s in for.”

Where do you see yourself in five years?

“Dead of hypertension. Next.”

Have you ever almost died?

“I grew up in the most dangerous province in Stormwind, was sent to Outland to fight when I was twenty two, and spent the last nine or so years fighting dark spellslingers, cultist idiots, worgen, undead, demons, and dumbassery of others. You tell me.”

Do you have a secret, not just a secret, but like a really big secret hardly anyone knows?

“Sure do.” She doesn’t say anything beyond that, expression deadpan.

Salty or sweet?

“Did your mother write these questions for you or something? Salty.”

Do you like yourself?

"Most of the time. On Mondays I dissolve into a puddle of self-loathing for a few hours, it’s cathartic.” She remains deadpan, without any indication she’s joking.

Do you believe in the Twelve?

“Eh? Is this a cult thing? Who did you say you were with again?”

Are you religious?

 She actually grows serious for a moment, eyes narrowing. “I believe in power, and what it can do to anyone, good intentions or not. The Light, the Void, Arcane, Fel... it’s idiotic to say they’re the same, but all of ‘em have one thing in common. They want to change you, and if you let them, you might not recognize yourself in the mirror the next morning. Even worse, you might not even care. Religion breeds zealotry, and zealotry is rewarded with power. And power without logic? Self-destructs.”

Do you carry prejudice with you?

“I do, I think everyone does. But everyone gets the chance to prove to me they’re not a dumbass,” her expression grows long-suffering. “I’m disappointed a lot.”

What do you consider entertainment?

“I’d tell you, but so much blood would rush to your face you’d probably pass out. Besides that? Reading and research and some mild crippling alcoholism.”

Favorite drink?

“Rum. Dark rum, preferably. The boat carrying me to Northrend back in the day had a crate full of the stuff, and I was hooked from the first sip. Hard to find a brand that can match up to that one, though.”

Do you have any family traditions?

“Suffering the fuckups of our predecessors.”

Thank you for answering my questions.

“If I see this in the Gazette you’re going to have a really bad time.”

[a-nebulose]

Skybound Reunion

It was good to be home… or as close as she could be to home in that moment. Melwyn basked in the starlight atop the tallest tower of Dalaran, the tower of the Tirisgarde itself, as she overlooked the floating city below. The winds parted around her as the young woman balanced with effortless grace upon the railing of the tower’s highest balcony. Technically, she supposed, non-mages weren’t allowed where she was.

But who would dare to tell that to a kaldorei woman scarred of face and clad in the leather armor of an Alliance scout? To say nothing of her odd staff, the blade that would normally have marked it as a scythe extinguished and hidden. All of these things made her relatively immune to being called out for her trespass, at least for the time being, and she had the whole of the balcony to herself. The druidess took a deep breath of the clear air, the first lungful of wind not tainted by Fel in over a week, and exhaled it out in a sigh. Her starmotes, shimmering nimbuses of blue and violet, with cores of white, floated around her as always, constant companions no matter how dire the circumstances, luminous reflections of her peace of mind.

The relative silence was shattered by sounds of mirth, though Mel was far from annoyed by that, the laughter and conversation as a party moved out onto the balcony music to her ears. She turned, to face inward and catch a glimpse of the newcomers, no doubt mages taking time off from their work. The more mischievous part of her looked forward to baffling them with the sight of her balancing act. But when her bright gaze fell on the group, the smile that had been teasing about her lips died a swift and untimely death.

A cadre of mages did indeed stand in the periphery of the balcony. She glossed over the two humans, the dwarf, and the gnome, and focused instead on the tallest of them all, a kaldorei like herself. A man, his hair a dark blue-green, his features refined and aquiline, and his robe patterned in a grand fashion. He seemed reserved, but in good spirits, until eyes of a duller silver than her own rose, and spotted her. And a horrified mix of apprehension, anger, and guilt marred them.

The inane and pathetic urge to fly away boiled up in Melwyn’s gut, and she felt her teeth baring themselves as if of their own accord. Her starmotes flared up and grew still, and her gloved hands clenched as she stared right back at him. Soon, the remaining mages noticed that standoff, looking between them both with some confusion.

Finally, the dwarf cleared his throat. “Brenthar, lad, do ye… need a moment?” The wizened face peered up at the bearded kaldorei in a way that suggested a kinship, and a familiarity, one shared by the other mages. The fact that the source of her ire had friends sent a vindictive little spurt of anger through her once more.

After a moment, Brenthar replied, not once looking away from her, with the air of someone confronted with a venomous snake. “That would be appreciated, yes.” His Common was more accented than hers, something Mel took a petty satisfaction in. The soft tone was enough to disperse the mages, however, though the youngest human, a woman, cast a curious glance over her shoulder at both elves before she vanished around the corner. Alone, the two regarded one another carefully, neither willing to speak. It was, however, Brenthar who lost the battle of silence. “You look… different.” He took a few careful steps closer. While he not tall for a kaldorei, barely two inches taller than she was, Melwyn refused to relinquish her perch, and the height advantage it offered, staring down at him. The druidess grudgingly gave him credit for matching her gaze, if only barely. “I don’t remember your eyes being so… sharp.” He finished lamely.

“You didn’t spend much time looking at them.” Melwyn replied coolly, not for the first time wishing she’d been graced with a more powerful voice. “What are you doing here, Brenthar?” She almost spat the name, and again some part of her wanted to leave. But another part was very much interested in trying to make him squirm. Much to her dismay, he didn’t seem to be doing that to the level she truly wanted.

In response, the Highborne gestured behind him. “I work here. I’ve been working and serving the Alliance for years now, as an instructor and as an agent. Your uncle made it clear what would happen if I so much as spoke to you again, but there wasn’t anything left for me but to… join the world.” Some anger burned on his expression, briefly, as he reached up with his left hand to touch the matching ear, half of the appendage burnt off. “I was… regretful, when I heard he’d died. He was a good man.”

That brought a sneer to Mel’s face, as a snort of disbelieving derision came from her delicate nose. “I don’t think you were regretful at all. You hated him, from the moment you two met.”

“I did. I met him for all of ten minutes, and I hated him for years after. Because he forced me to look into a mirror. Because he hurt me, and burned me.” A long pause, and then another murmur, lower than before. “Because he took you from me.”

Melwyn snarled, then, her crescent moon pendant flaring, her eyes ablaze in argent fury, her starmotes lighting the night air around her. Brenthar didn’t flinch, but his eyes widened, and it struck her that he had truly never seen her like this before. That the last time he had seen her, she had been a meek, sobbing mess at his feet. “I was never yours to keep. Never yours to have, never yours to use. I wasn’t some plaything for your amusement, and I wasn’t something to take your frustrations out on.” Fury that she hadn’t felt in months, coupled with an old hurt, bubbled up inside her, and in that moment, Melwyn wasn’t certain she wouldn’t attack right then and there.

Her rage wasn’t met with a babbled apology, or arrogant denial, however. It was met with anger in kind, though not as intense, as the mage stepped forward. “Yes, you were. Because you were raised to be that, trained to be that. Just as I was raised and trained to take advantage of it. It was wrong, yes, but don’t pretend that either of us knew any better.”

“You knew better at the end.”

That made him jerk back as though he’d been slapped, and his anger vanished into shame and self-loathing. And Melwyn became very frustrated that the sight of those emotions on his face didn’t bring her the satisfaction she thought they would have. He looked at his hands, then, and didn’t speak for some time, time enough for Melwyn to calm herself just a tad. When he finally spoke, the soft bass of his voice was contemplative. “I did, in the end. When I was made to look like a fool, when I was forced to take a look at my self-image, and spit in its face.” He looked up at her again. “Your uncle saved both of us from the traps we led into by our parents, both of us molded to suit a world long gone. You were all I had, but I didn’t deserve you, and you deserved more than the life of servitude that was offered. I’m sorry, Melwyn Dewpetal.”

She stood on her perch for a while, watching him. For better or worse, the young woman had always been skilled at picking up emotion. What she saw on his face, in his stance, annoyed her with its sincerity. “It’s Duskstorm. Do you really think I want an apology? From you, of all people?”

“Honestly, I don’t know you well enough to presume what you want.” Came the reply.

Melwyn glared down at him, wanting to scream, to yell, to blast him, to make him hurt. Instead, she murmured back. “No, you don’t. You never wanted to.”

“And if I want to now?” Again he was trying to meet her eyes, far more steadily than before, and carrying a barely hopeful, earnest look.

Her face grew cold, and remote, and she knew in that moment she most likely resembled her adoptive mother at her most vicious. “It’s too late. Years too late.” Then she let herself fall, down into the city, her body changing as she descended, until as an owl she tore through the air as quickly as she could, leaving behind Dalaran.

But even as her body flew, Melwyn’s mind swam through memories. She prayed that she wouldn’t drown in them.