rosamunds-waterlogged-notebook

[rosamunds-waterlogged-notebook]

Chapter One

Wet wood and brine stick to your nose as you pace the knobbly deck. This old ship has spun you through the nethers and spit you out in a place so familiar, so charged with emotion that you swallow every few feet, your eyes tracking the horizon for that telltale sign of Boralus. Hurried missives have filled your pack with the trouble that's spilled over at home. Your mother’s letters were enough to shift your priority away from that Banshee’s plague, her letters which grew more frantic and panicked as the months drew on. Then, finally, the last note was delivered by Aunt Atwater’s elemental, edges burned by the eager companion’s firm hold. You’ve palmed that letter so often these last few days that your fingertips are black with ink.

Static sits at the base of your neck. You shake your head and knuckle the knot at your hairline, then stop as First Mate Thornhall flicks a nervous glance in your direction. She’s been, quite obviously, eyeing you since the beginning of your journey aboard the Arabella. Her firm and confident steps falter as you pass her line of sight. You can’t blame her. The title “Champion of Azeroth” makes many feel uneasy, you included. You must look quite different than what she pictured in her mind. Your old friends would eye you with uncertainty, maybe even be frightened of you. The passing thought makes you grit your teeth so hard you can hear them squeak, eyes moving back to the horizon as the stern skims your childhood waters, ship hands readying Arabella for a smooth berth. 

“Rose, 

We’ve had to leave home as the port is no longer safe for anyone daring to stand against Priscilla and her goons. I fear something terrible has befallen our Lady Proudmoore as she’s thrown her support behind that damned pirate. Of course, she’s never been the same since Jaina-”

“Shaman!” You shift your weight to the quarterdeck, squinting against the fog that has settled. 

“Captain?”

“Make yourself useful and create some ruddy elementals to get us past this fog. Don’t want to be smashed to bits before we reach the Great Gate,” he bellows, pointing West. 

“By your call, Captain!” Quick movements condense the air around you, and with a flick of your wrist, lantern-sized fire elementals have materialized, floating obediently to the borders of Arabella. 

A hiss of pain brings your attention back to the First Mate. 

“I didn’t think they’d burn me—blasted things,” she mumbles, shooing the elemental away. A slight smirk comes to your lips as Thornhall begins to pick at the hole in her gloves.

“Yes, well, they are made of fire,” you return, soothing the admonished elemental with a gentle pat. Your gaze meets Thornhall, who is focused on your unblemished gloves. “Ah,” you pick up, “a Shaman’s touch. No burns for me.”

Thornhall is silent as the Arabella creaks and groans in choppy waters. “I have heard of elementals that can interact with others without pain. Is that,” she trails off and clears her throat, “is that something you train them to do?”

“Elementals are not trained,” you say slowly, choosing your words, “They are their own beings, and we simply ask them for aid. But, sometimes, an elemental will latch onto a Shaman’s intent when they are called, making them aggressive or passive or anything in between. I didn’t ask that elemental to bite you,” you say, pointing toward Thornhall’s hand, “but I did call on it to guide us. Perhaps it felt like you were getting in the way of its mission,” you finish with a small smile. 

Thornhall returned your smile less uneasily as before and moved toward the main mast for a report from Bobbins, the Ship’s watch.