#siabi au

[rasekstories]

Raiyda Talks to Himself

The lowest rise of Thunder Bluff was dry and green-gold, much like the rest of them.  The center was graced with the presence of a muddy pond that reached ten feet at its middle, and all other happenings did so in a great ring around its shallow rim.  

Raiyda sat with his legs crossed, hovering a few feet above the ground.  He was good enough at his mediation now to speak freely while he maintained his balance, even allowing himself to open an eye once in awhile to take in his surroundings.

Today, an Amani troll stood next to him.  He had thick blonde hair with shaved sides, much like Raiyda's own, corded muscles and a slackened jaw.  His eyes were deep set and dark red, with scars in his chin and chipped tusks that had been stained and discolored with time.  It wasn't anyone the monk recognized, but they spoke as if they knew each other well.

“You don't think it's weird, to defend that land down there for humans?”

“You have it wrong.”  Raiyda slipped easily into his native Shadowpine dialect.  It was a subtle difference between that and and the common Zandali spoken by the Darkspear, but he felt at home that way.  “We're not defending it for them, we're defending it from them.”

The Amani skirted around to the other side, surprisingly quick for such a stocky body.  He cocked his head to the side.  “The Forsaken are just dead humans, aren't they?”

Penetrating eyes.  Raiyda took a deep breath and closed his own.  “They're different now.  They have different interests.”

“Not troll interests.”

“No, not troll interests.  But the Witherbark in Arathi are not my brothers.  Nor are they yours, I think.  What do you want?”

“You don't believe that.”  The Amani shook his head.  “The universal “I”, the conscious “we”. Where does that fit in with tribes, hm?  How does “we” exclude whatever you want?”

Another deep breath.  Keeping his mind steady was the key.  Disruption was the enemy of clarity.  Raiyda squared his shoulders, fingers pressed against thumbs, the backs of his hands resting on his knees.  “Yes, the one consciousness.  All trolls are many spirits in one stream, the stream of the universe. All humans are of the same stream, as are the elves, and the pandaren, and the trees and the fish and everything that lives.  We accepting that the I is meaningless and the We is eternal, we become not just ourselves, but everything, and we cannot die just as the flow of life cannot die.  No man shall hurt another man, nor any living thing without need, lest he hurt himself as he hurts the stream.”

“But not the Forsaken.”

“Not the--”  Raiyda opened his eyes, his legs unfolding underneath him.  Mud from the bank seeped between his toes.  “What?”

“Mister Kerrie is a Forsaken.  His soul is not part of the flow of life, because he is not alive.” Raiyda blinked, watching the Amani circle him slowly.  “So why do you fight, knowing his cause is not one of the universe?  Knowing he is out of line with the natural order of things?  How can the Forsaken cause be the path we follow, as living minds in the one consciousness?”

Raiyda rubbed his eyes.  The troll was taller than before, with longer limbs and darker hair.  He spoke with a gruff voice, and when he breathed his whole body seemed to swell and shrink back down; some grotesque, bubbling sack of flesh.  He was fast and slow, in front and behind, speaking rough Zandali as his purple tongue grew thicker and thicker, and spittle dribbled down his lips and chin.

“You're going the wrong way again, little troll.  You're going to trip and fall somewhere cold, in a grave perhaps, in one of those Forsaken farms.  You've seen what they did to what they call Hillsbrad.”  Darker eyes, deeper voice.  “It won't take long for that rot to reach the Thandol span, and spread up, like dirty fingers into the Hinterlands, up, up up, to your little home--”

“Raiyda!”

He rubbed his eyes, sandy blonde hair tumbling over his brow, always in the way.  The familiar voice called again, closer this time.

“Raiyda, hey!”  Sarjen the younger, his friend from Revantusk.  The boy was clad in red leather, clutching a wooden staff in one hand and a waterskin in the other. He smiled uncertainly, his own eyes flicking this way and that around the rim of the pond.  “Hey uh, who're you talking to?”

Raiyda blinked and shook his head.  The big Amani was gone, his footprints obscured by water lapping at the mud, gone without a sound like a spirit come to torment him and gone again.  

“No one.”  He said, shaking out his hands.  “Don't worry about it.”

[rasekstories]

The Wind that Blows Through Stromgarde

The door was open when Killean returned to his office.  He paused for a moment and composed himself, careful to look as unsurprised as possible.  Inside, seated at his desk, was a troll with her feet kicked up and a pout on her lips.  She glanced at him as he came inside, the yellows of her eyes reflecting the light of a massive column candle melting on the edge of the wood.

“Miss Anjuu.”  Killean offered a low bow.  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The troll straightened her back and held out her hand, motioning for him to take the seat across from her.  She was dressed out of her usual attire; her leather harness and shorts replaced with a heavy green and purple robe that pooled around her thighs.  It was low cut and lined with fur and feathers, typical for a druid, and well suited to the damp and chilly Lordaeron autumn.

Killean took his seat.  “I assume this is business.  I heard you were victorious in Stromgarde last night.”

“We were.”

“But the keep isn't ours.”

“No.”  Anjuu slid her feet from the desk and leaned forward.  “We have de courtyard.  De Shadows of Lordaeron are patrolling de gates until we can make our final attack, which should be next week sometime.  De Forsaken might be able to work tirelessly, but our troops needed a break, myself and Ranse included.”

Kerrie offered her a smile from the ruined skin that still clung to his face.  “We've spent weeks preparing for this assault, and you and Ranse need a break after one short fight.  I hired trolls because of their prowess in battle and unrelenting hatred of... everything, not because I thought they might be lazy.”

That upset her, he could see it in the way her lips turned and her eyes narrowed.  She leaned back, pulling her robes further up her thighs, to wear a massive cut was held together with vines.  “I have dis to worry about.  Ranse has a cracked rib dat needs to heal.  Unless ya want to push into de keep without us, it will have to wait.”

She threw her robes back down over her knees, and she and Killean sat in silence for a moment.  He was perfectly still, not needing to breathe, and being so blessed as to lack skin enough to give his face expression.  Anjuu folded her arms across her chest and waited.  It was her game, he noted.  She had something else to say.

“Why did you leave the Shadows in charge of patrols?  Why not some of our own men, or those in the Foul company?  I trust them more than I trust those miscreants.”

“All of dem is dead, Kerrie.  Dey can patrol all day every day and be just fine.  Besides, dey did us a service by throwin plague into de place before we charged.  I have no reason to tink dey would just leave now.”  She leaned forward again, tossing him a folded letter.  “Besides, I got dis.”

It was unrefined parchment, crudely cut and dark.  The handwriting inside was rough and spidery, but each added loop and flourish gave away its author before he even saw the signature.

“Our man in Northrend has something to say?  I assume this isn't just a general report, or you wouldn't be wasting my time with Clan Stormfist's receipts.”

“Just read it.”

Kerrie shrugged and sighed, settling himself back in the chair.  “Mister Killean Kerrie, Undercity, Siabi Cooperative blah blah, dealings in Northrend, yes we know, Stormfist arrived on the evening of the 12th with 500 gold pieces, yada yada, dealings in...”  He narrowed his eyes. “Dealings in Ashenvale regarding the lumber exports to Warsong Hold in the Borean Tundra.  I have agreed to assist them in Siabi's name, offering employees for the safe and timely distribution of the product in Kalimdor, in exchange for the deposit and a handsome salary thereafter.  Sincerely, Branbraithe Aderion.”

He sent the letter down on the desk and sank back, teeth clenched.  Anjuu was watching him expectantly, twirling her thumbs around each other.  She wanted to abandon Stromgarde, he could see it in her face.  She wanted to finish the job and move as far away from it as she could.  The lack of concern she displayed, wandering into his office, sitting at his chair, and giving him the letter suggested she had support behind her, too.  If he wasn't careful, he could find himself face to face with the massive troll she kept as a body guard.  Threats wouldn't work this time.

“This is excellent news, Anjuu.”

“Is it?”  She smiled.

“Indeed it is.  Once Stromgarde has been placed safely in the hands of the Banshee Queen and Lord Trollbane, we can relocate some of our men to Ashenvale to assist the orcs in their endeavors.  I don't suppose they'll need our help cutting down any elves they find, but that route will take us right between Darkshore and Darnassus, and I'd prefer to have some experienced men oversee it.”

“As soon as we done fightin for de keep, den.”

Kerrie held up his hand.  “No no.  We can't leave the politics in the hands of Hoskold or Alvarix.  A mercenary will do with spoils what he pleases, and the other likely seeks to undermine me simply out of spite.  We'll be handling the transfer of St--”

“We're going when de fighting is done.”

He blinked.  “We need to ensure that the Banshee Queen and Lord Trollbane get what is theirs, Anjuu. That's why we're fighting for Stromgarde in the first place.”

Anjuu rose to her feet, inky black hair falling around her frame.  She was tall, even for a troll woman, and the way her tusks bent outwards gave her a menacing look in the candle's sickly glow.

“I am Anjuu of de Witherbark, born in Arathi to Dena and Ten'zun.  My bruddahs fought for de Amani empire and de safety of our village, and carried de last breath of our people on dey shoulders.  Arathi, OUR Arathi, is no longer ours.  Dey sit in dey little corner, crushed against de mountains, and each way dey look dere is orcs, or dwarves, or humans who hunger for dere land.  I will not stay and play politics to see de land of my people given away, especially not to a Trollbane.”

She huffed and straightened her robe, stepping out from behind the desk towards the door.  “When de fight is done, we're going to Ashenvale.”

She slammed the door when she left, and it echoed high in the vaulted ceilings and rang in Kerrie's ears. Hiring so many trolls was his mistake.  He threaded his fingers together, staring down at the letter.  If he let Anjuu run wild as she was, she'd be giving him orders by the end of the year.

Such insubordination must be punished. But how to get to Anjuu without going through her body guard?  Ranse was soft at heart, but he was barrel-chested and could crush the dead man's head in his hands if he wanted to.

Ashenvale.  He traced the ink with his bony fingers, little seeds of thought already beginning to sprout in his mind.  This will be fun.

[rasekstories]

Sarjen’s Letter to Sanzha

He was settled on one of the lower rises of the Peak of Serenity, on the edge of a precipice that overlooked jagged rocks and a deep valley far below.  Behind him lay the hot springs, bubbling and blanketed with steam, and the rims of them were embroidered with tired monks and brown grass that reached out far from underneath the snow.  He sat as far away from the water as he could, his breath frosty, pouring over a letter in his hands.

It was a simple thing.  The handwriting was neat enough and the language was plain, but it held a sense of urgency and longing that could only belong to youthful souls; rash and pained as they were.  Still, Sarjen thought it was lacking.

Little Sarjen had written it and hovered a few feet behind, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot, waiting for the old knight to give him the go-ahead.  It was a plea for a girl from back home, the beautiful girl whose family was well known in the village and lived in one of the bigger huts, to forfeit her date with his brother, and to wait for him to return from his training in the mountains.

She wasn't the brightest girl.  She was educated at her father's insistence, but always a bit dreamy, a bit flighty, focusing on pretty stones and dresses and boys who were good with their swords.  Big Sarjen wondered aloud if Little Sarjen ought to be more direct.

Where were her long lashes in the letter?  Where were the dolly curls that framed her face like breathing ferns, or her seaside limbs?  Where were the slender fingers that dipped into a bowl of white paint and accented her eyes, or full blue lips wrapped around the smallest pearls of tusks?

Sarjen pointed to the letter for emphasis.  Her robes fit her well.  Deep blue and silver cloth folded over itself, draped over her swaying hips, her shoulders back, the high collar that clipped below her chin.  The books she carried in a satchel at her side, the herbs and vials of strong smelling liquids she kept with her, just in case.  

What did it feel like, when she touched his forehead and spoke to him about her Loa?  Do the spirits of the Hinterlands sing with her voice when she calls to them?  Does he feel the warmth of their uplifting hands when she patches him up after a fight?  Did she ever fix his bruises?

Little Sarjen shook his head.  The girl, sweet Sanzha, always left with his brother.  He could still see her, fawning over his swordsmanship in her tailored robes, heavy lashes over adoring amber eyes, and him, Mekki, looking back.  So smug, even now!  Little Sarj balled his fists and shook his head again.  If she waited, he could return to Silvermoon as good a monk as his mentor, and throw Mekki to the ground as had been done to him so many times.

It was his dream, after all.  Win the girl, beat the bad guy.  That's what being a hero was.  That's what made men happy.

Sarjen's lips formed a thin line beneath his helmet as he turned away, the temptation to crumple the letter in his hands and drop it down into the valley below growing inside of him.  Maybe he was right.  Maybe in a few years time he'd be standing proud before a hut of his own, with a blushing Winteraxe girl at his side and a swaddled child at her breast.

It was too familiar, like so many years before, more than twenty now.  A young man with a dark braid shelling out for a hut in Shadowprey, something that could fit more than just two people.  A girl with fire red hair who looked at Sarjen the way she looked at rats, and turned him away when he came to visit.

A boy with dark hair, cradled in his father's arms as he stole away from the new mother, sleeping, to show an old friend what made life worth living.

“What do you think?”

Sarjen held the letter out to the young monk.  He'd promised Juzmik he'd look out for his family, his children, no matter what.  Even if the old rogue died, even if his children grew up and no longer needed him.  Even if it tore away his armor and peeled back the patchwork skin, and gnawed at his heart and mind until he was nothing but dust and bones.  If Little Sarjen moved on.

“You'd better hurry.”  Sarjen smiled.  “You'll want to catch the post before tomorrow.”

Little Sarj smiled back, folding the letter.  He tucked it inside his thin leather vest and turned back to the temple, yelling thanks in his native tongue over his shoulder.

He'd gotten his affirmation, his vision of victory, of swooping down upon Sweet Sanzha with her perfect pearls and deep dimpled cheeks.  He was going to be the hero for once.  He'd stand over the monster from his childhood with his staff above his head and a girl with long lashes clapping her hands and no longer need an old watch dog to check his letters for him.

Sarjen sighed, defeated, and buried his head in his hands.  His body begged for sleep and food that he couldn't taste.  He wanted to go to a home that didn't exist, to run off and start something new somewhere else, but his feet wouldn't move from their perch at the edge of the cliff.  It hurt and it was childish and selfish, but he knew when morning came he'd be waiting for the boy by a wyvern with his helmet in hand.

What was he supposed to do?  He had nowhere else to go.

[rasekstories]

Harvest

There was fire all around, low and smoldering coals peppered among ruined shop fronts and what remained of the apartments that sagged above them.  It was sweltering there, in the heart of Stratholme, but the fear of death or worse kept the living sharp and wary, their sweat only noticeable when it stung their eyes and made their hands slick on their swords.  There was a darkness there, too, and voices whispering from vaulted arches and around dark corners, enticing and terrible.

The party had reached the inner sanctum of a great cathedral, its stone burnt black and much of its roof missing.  Once beautiful stained glass lie in ruins beneath open windows, glittering, colorful stars still saturated with hope and pious longing from its admirers long dead.

Knelt over a stone slab set before the steps of the main altar, Anjou's lips read without speaking, her Common simple and broken.  A ruined corpse still clung to a nub of charcoal it had used to write its last message, trailing off before it could finish as its owner succumbed to his wounds.

“It's colder than I thought it was I only came back here now because I knew if I could have a chance to find you I couldn't let that go.

They all looked like you I could see your eyes and smell you Thoughts of you could write the streets That threaten to swallow me whole

Ah!  If embers in the air could be the stars. If this ruined damnable place left only scars Please forgive me for coming back here I needed to find you one last time.

We were young, do you remember? The sweet and summer fond Septembers We spent within each others arms It is cold, but my body still remembers

I've seen you in their hunger I've seen your body dragging under All of them, pulling you away from me I'm sorry I ever left.

I'm sorry, but I'm home.”

Anjou pursed her lips, only vaguely aware of the bodies behind her, one reading more fluently over her shoulder and the other further down the walk, his sword drawn and ready.  She pressed her hand against the corpse's shoulder, giving it a gentle push.  Several parts fell away and clattered against the stone, giving Ranse further back an unwelcome start.

The druid ignored his chastising, her eyes fixed on something small that had fallen loose from around the poet's neck.  The clasp on the chain was broken, and a simple tug freed it from the corpse all together.

It was small, probably gold by the way I caught the light, and the front of it was engraved with flowers and vines around a blooming center that was typical of Lordaeron craftsmen before the wars.  A button at the side released the cover, springing open to reveal a brown and grey picture fitted to the inner shell.  A young woman with a forced smile, pale eyes and blonde hair pulled back in a bun.  She wore a high collar and a crisp dress, though the buttons were simple, and the embroidery along the hems suggested nothing above a commoner.  

Across from her, on the back of the cover, were three small jewels embedded in the metal.  They seemed to serve no purpose other than sentimentality, but they were beautiful, deep blue and red darker than blood.

“Do all humans carry things like these?”  Anjou turned to the girl next to her, who shrugged.

“I think most families have something that is important to them.  A keepsake or a trophy, maybe passed down through generations.  Some of them are probably very valuable, if they haven't been damaged beyond repair.”

“And this one?”  Tuula admired the locket for a moment before shaking her head.

“I seriously doubt it.  It's gold, but it's not very big.  Unless someone had a personal attachment to it, you probably couldn't get very much for it.”

The druid snapped it closed and tucked it into her leather pouch.  She climbed to her feet, knees dirty with soot and dust, standing before the charcoal poem with heavy thoughts in her eyes and mind.  Whole lives had been lived in Lordaeron. Whole families crushed and crumbled into nothing, their bodies long gone, their legacies survived only by the things they left behind, Anjou thought of the digs she'd seen among ruins, some close to her home, and the admiration that came with unearthing something as simple as a household idol or a necklace.

“How many people do you think have seen this?”  Anjou nodded at the poem.  “How many people would know his words if they did?”

She ran her fingers along the stone, cold despite the fire and dry like sun bleached wood, smudging some of the charcoal in a blurry line.

“We should go.”

[rasekstories]

Raiyda’s Sunsets

Every sunset in Kun-Lai was beautiful to Raiyda.  He sat beneath the boughs of a gnarled cherry, still clinging to its autumn blooms beneath a lair of snow, his legs folded beneath him.  The mountains that circled the Peak of Serenity were awash with color like melted wax, and the sun sinking beneath them was the dying flame at the end of a wick.

He hadn't come to Kun-Lai enough over the past few months.  He was always here or there, spending time in Silvermoon or the Undercity.  He'd paid a few visits to Revantusk, and even chanced a glimpse at his old home in Zeb'Sora, where Amani trolls still hid behind woven rush doors and sang their war songs out of sight of the unforgiving Farstriders who hunted them for their tusks.  He'd gone to Northrend to see the fighting pits in Grizzly Hills, where orcs and trolls and tauren lived day to day on venison, and huddled under shaggy worg hides when the harsh winds from Zul'Drak poured over Drakkari made walls.

He'd fought in the rebellion, in the Barrens and in Orgrimmar.  He'd given his money to an elf collapsed beneath a bridge, and his precious box to a woman struggling to carry everything in just her arms.  His cheeks were smudged with dirt and his leathers were cracked and stained by weather, but he smiled easily enough, and when he finally returned to Pandaria the monks welcomed him happily.

It was hardly a few months after they'd arrived the first time that his father passed away.  There was fluid in his lungs, the mistweavers told him afterward.  He'd come to them sick, and was too far gone by the time he let anyone know.  Raiyda could still feel the burning in his eyes and in his chest, finding his father's body propped up against a low hanging tree, covered in a layer of fine snow.

He could remember how stiff his hands were; how he was too heavy to move; the way his eyes looked out over the mountains.  He always looked sad after all that had happened. Even when they were smiling, even when they had Raiyda's sister with them, his father's laughter was strained and his shoulders sagged.

The snow was piercing at first, then it prickled his skin, and finally he forgot about it all together.  A group of young pandaren, climbing the mountain as part of their training, struggled to pull one troll off the other.  When he recalled those memories now, it was as if he watched them through the lens of another; an impassive observer with no connection, no empathy, no familiarity.

Why was that boy fighting against them? His lips and fingers were cracked, and his clothes weren't heavy enough to withstand a winter's night in Kun-Lai.  Ice had formed on his tusks and in his mess of blonde hair, but still he dug his feet into the snow and clawed at the corpse beneath the tree as the young monks struggled against him.

He watched the boy rest his chin on his knees in a warm bath as a kindly mistweaver hovered over him, her far away voice echoing questions he heard long ago.  “Why did he bring you here?  Did he know he was dying?  Did he say anything to you?  Do you have any family?”

Family.  There was a young girl back in Zeb'Sora, with blonde hair and crooked teeth, who looked so much like her older brother.  There was his mother's sister, who frowned at his father and at him, and swept them away from her house and the little girl, to keep them all safe from the black spirits that plagued them, as she said.

His father, relishing the chill in his lungs and against his skin, telling his son not to listen to the spirits so much, that they could help, but they could also hurt. Telling him to learn the difference between the people he could touch and the spirits he could not.  Don't let them control you, Raiyda. You have to be your own man, Raiyda.  I miss your mother very much, Raiyda.

The home he'd found in an Amani warband, with its proud generals and sweet girls.  Ezzran, who called him his brother, and Jeen, who gave him his box.  Sweet Bahula, tugging at her leggings.  Juzmik's gracious offers.  He stood beside them at the gates of Orgrimmar with a short blade strapped to his back, gold and green across his chest.  He forgave the ones who turned and ran, and stood in awe of the matron who gave her everything to keep them all alive.

The warchief with bloodied wrists, carried from his cell.

Raiyda sighed, feeling the weight of his travels slide from his shoulders to mingle with the snow.  He was reminded several times that Siabi was a business, not a warband, but when they were a warband it was that, and not a family, and a family was your flesh and blood.

But the newness of them made him smile. Most of them in their 20s except for little Sarjen, who was older than Raiyda still, all of them stepping out of Revantusk for their first real adventure.  The outcast elves, all of whom would see more in their lives than Raiyda and his children and his children's children would ever see.  Goblins who gravitated to the sound of coins rubbing together.  An orc here.  Forsaken there.

They blended and became beautiful and warm, filling Raiyda with something he dearly missed; something that grew old beneath a tree and lost its spark; something that stood beside him while others dropped their swords and went back.

They filled him with the hope that he could come to a place called home one day, and his biggest worry would be when they were coming in, not if, and his mind would never wander to Kun-Lai, nor his feet scale the frigid steps.  He would never feel the need to light a candle along the outer ring of the temples.  He would never have to make his way up the mountainside, where young monks traveled to test themselves against the elements; to sit beneath the gnarled wood and look out across the mountains with eyes too old to belong to someone so young.

But the wind caught someone cooking dumplings down below, and the laughter of a girl like a ringing bell, and the low hum of the pandaren tongue, and Raiyda smiled.  Kun-Lai wasn't so bad.  He'd come here for a reason, with his tormented father who wanted nothing more than a better life for his son.  The pandaren had been kind to him, kind to them.  He could still see his father smiling over a bowl of warm water, wrapping his knuckles after a day of unfamiliar training, and wondered if it was everything he'd hoped it would be.

And even if it wasn't, well, the sunsets were always nice.