Quarantine

The walls of the citadel were layered in ages of ice and snow, and the cold penetrated her armor far deeper than ever she had known. Luisette took hold of her helmet and gently eased it off her head. Strands of her fine, blonde hair had frozen to the inside of the plate, and they broke off with a barely-perceivable snap.

Her long, uncovered ears twitched in the cold air, and she leaned forward even closer to the small campfire the shaman in her group had generously built. She gingerly removed a plate gauntlet from her right hand and took in the sight. She wore hastily knitted gloves, a small protection, and they had been riddled with holes and exposed the tips of her fingers. Bruises covered her pale wrist and extended under the glove, where they lay hidden and out of sight.

“Even the smallest injury can go unnoticed, sometimes,” said the large tauren sitting next to her. He took her hand in his and covered it with his other, whispering a healing spell. His ears twitched as he inspected his handiwork; the bruises were starting to fade, and her hand felt not quite as cold as it had been.

Luisette looked up and met the tauren’s gaze, smiling. “Thank you, Ashmole.”

Ashmole returned the smile and patted her hand before returning to his modest meal: Northrend cod and a small side of vegetables. Fish were the easiest to transport, especially frozen, and over a small fire they could be spiced and cooked the same as easily as if they had not been in a dark, frozen hallway of the Citadel.

The wing of the citadel they huddled in had been closed off in a rushed quarantine. The abominations, Festergut and Rotface, had been struck down, but not without much effort. Their monstrous creator, the “Professor” Putricide, had also been slain, and his body still lay on the floor of his laboratory, pools of his own slime gathering and coagulating around his body. Everything—and, considerably, everyone—had been exposed to noxious gases and substances during the onslaught. And so, until the quarantine lifted, there the members of the Horde and Alliance were to stay.

The members of the Northrend Exploration and Research Foundation had been chosen to take part in this assault, and luckily, they had suffered no losses. They celebrated quietly with mostly smiles and relieved glances to their comrades as they clustered around the campfire, warming their tired bodies and spirits.

A blood elf with hair as red as flame came up behind Luisette and leaned down, kissing her cheek, before settling on the floor to her left. Luisette smiled at her childhood friend and greeted her warmly. “Sinu a’.”

Saeil hooked her arm through Luisette’s and rested her head on her shoulder. The thick hood of the cloak she wore gave small comfort against her friend’s plate armor, but she paid no mind. “Thank you for letting me fight alongside you,” she whispered.

Luisette kissed her friend’s temple in return. “It would be a great loss if you had not come with. The strength of our ranks is in part due to you.”

Saeil smirked and squeezed her friend’s arm with her own. “Flatterer.”

Luisette grinned back. “I know.”

A young tauren soldier approached the two with folded parchments in his hand. “Letters from home, Misses Redhawk and Dawnrise.”

“Letters?” repeated Saeil, eyebrows furrowed. “I thought we were under quarantine.”

The tauren nodded. “So we are, but these arrived before the quarantine was put into place. We were just given permission to sort and pass the mail.”

Saeil scoffed. “Permission, huh? Did you have to read through them, first?”

A wry smile passed across the tauren’s features. “Even if we did, ma’am, I couldn’t read that fancy elvish script, anyway.” He handed the letters to the two elves and promptly left them.

Saeil and Luisette looked at the front of their letters and then swapped them with smiles; they each had the other’s. “Apparently,” Luisette began in a fake condescending air as she broke open the seal, “we look the same to them as they to us.” The letter itself had nothing save her name on the front, and for a moment she had hoped it might have been from—

She pulled out the parchment and nearly dropped it. Saeil looked from her friend’s face to the letter. “What’s wr—” She recognized the perfect script as soon as Luisette had, and said no more. After a moment, she said softly, almost apologetically, “I didn’t think she would have sent you anything.”

Luisette shook her head. “It’s not like the location of our battalion is a secret within the military itself,” she said dryly as she stuffed the letter back into the envelope.

“You’re not going to even read what she has to say?” Judging her silence to be a refusal, Saeil took the letter from Luisette’s hand and reopened it herself. She glanced at her friend from the corner of her eye. “If you don’t mind,” she added, but the question was merely out of courtesy.

Saeil looked over the letter, two pages in length, eyes flicking across the words. Luisette leaned against the wall behind her and stretched out her feet. She tried to feign disinterest, but a twitch of her ear with the turning of a page betrayed her.

“Well,” Saeil started, a bit unsure of which information to disclose, “she’s still at home.”

“Your home.”

“Well, yes…” Saeil shifted a bit uneasily. “She does pay for a third of living expenses.”

Luisette scoffed, but said nothing further.

“She wants to begin anew, Luis.”

The blonde waved her hand dismissively.

“Damn it, Luis, I’m tired of playing messenger between you two,” snapped Saeil. “She’s trying, at least.” She pushed back stray red hairs from around her face to behind her ears. “You don’t live with her. You haven’t seen how she’s changed. Hell, she-- she’s almost back to normal—or as close to ‘normal’ as she can return.”

Luisette looked at the other elf sideways, finding it hard to keep her anger from dissipating. She broke her eyes away and stared hard at her hands in her lap. “I can never forgive something so… so perverse. So against all that we were taught to fight for. Something in league with what we’re fighting now.”

Saeil quietly placed the letter next to the other elf’s thigh as she stood up—a gentle suggestion. “I should probably go find where my mutt’s gone off to,” she murmured, if only to give an excuse to leave Luisette alone for the time being. She lightly caressed the back of her friend’s head, the only consolation she could give at the moment.

Luisette leaned back into the hand and sighed.

A Modest Proposal (Part 1)

As written in the private journal of Thallis Stonecutter.

-----

Quite a peculiar thing happened to me today.

I was doing errands, like I’m oft wont to do when the front-job is slow goings, and I was hired by a nice young lord to retrieve a stolen item of his. He was paying his dues at the Raven Hill cemetery, he says to me, when a pack of thugs with shovels and shifty looks in their eyes came upon him. ‘You’re being robbed,’ they told him, or at least he told me that they told him, because I’m still in doubts as to whether a proper scoundrel would be so blunt and uncreative. But no matter.

‘You’re being robbed,’ they told him, and he handed over his coin purse to them, which had a pretty amount inside, from what I’m told. But then one of the robbers spotted the crest on his cloak buckle, and they demanded that as well.

‘It’s a family heirloom!’ he pleaded desperately as he told me of his plight. ‘I must get it back!’

I was about to tell him that a family heirloom shouldn’t be worn so conspicuously when he offered to pay me a reward of quite some weight. The specificities I shall not record here, dearest journal, but for a rough amount, it lasted a week at the inn and a night at the pub.

So I made my way to Raven Hill, my pony quite content to stay at the stable in Darkshire while I rode Nightmane instead—quick as the wind and as fearless as ever a horse I’ve known. We arrived to find the graveyard infested with all sorts of dark creatures, and I wondered if my employer had me sent here for sport. I dismounted Nightmane and led him to a large tree, and whispered to him gently. He would come for me if I called, but we both knew our limits and our priority to save our own hides.

I crept through the courtyard, blades at the ready and a piece of cloth tied around my face to protect against the foul stench on the air. As I crouched behind a tomb, in the near distance I saw a small group of men standing near a broken wagon, their voices heated but quiet. A glint of metal caught my eye, and the larger of the men had clasped together his tattered cloak with a fastening far too rich for his line of work.

I removed my bow from my back and notched an arrow, pulling the string back tight. I aimed and released it, and it struck him through the neck. He fell instantly, and after initial shock, his men unsheathed their knives and stood back-to-back as they searched the darkness in the direction from which the arrow came.

But I was no longer there, and when I appeared in front of the smaller man with blade at the ready, it was over much too soon. His stomach was sliced open before he could feel the blood flowing from the wound, and his partner made a few decent parries before I made his chest a sheath for my sword. Stepping over the two bodies, I knelt next to their leader and rolled him onto his back. The cloak buckle was covered in blood, and I wondered if the young lord would dock my pay because of it.

A skittering sound caught my attention, and to my right I saw a skeletal figure hunched in the darkness not ten yards away. Its head was rotten and eyes eaten by maggots, but yet it acted as if it could see me quite as clear as any other—living—animal. It chittered, and looked from me to the dead man to my side, and from the man to my hand which stayed unmoving over the metal clasp. My eyes darted to where its gaze fell, and when I looked back the vile thing had sprung towards me. I dove to the side and rolled upright, blades at the ready, when I saw that the creature had bit the heirloom, ripped it from the cloth it held together, and ran off with it in its mouth.

I must admit, dearest journal, that for a moment I was agape—eyebrows furrowed and the like—but that moment soon passed, for I sprinted off after the creature that was bounding away so hunched forward that his front arms dragged on the ground.

Like hell I was going to return empty-handed.

Business

Thallis trotted her pony down the lane, somewhat unnerved but feeling hopeful. Making new business contracts was always risky, especially if the merchants weren’t advised from a trusted source, but there’s always something to be said about forging new ties—namely, to keep an eye and ear alert for any misgivings of merchant confidentiality. Ordering a half-crate of dynamite might not seem too odd for, say, a dwarven miner, but for a dockgirl who seemed to have barely enough coin to drink and sleep in a local inn each night? She could only hope that her dealings and mentions of outside work wouldn’t soon be called into question. She had many employers to be sure—albeit deathly loyal to just one—but it was also part of a successful job that neither employer nor supplier were to be linked to any of her deeds.

At least for the moment, she put trust in Adel and Tiforis, for they seemed to be concerned solely on what she had commissioned them to make, and not what the end-product was going to be used for. She silently cursed herself for dropping the slightest information of her dealings, misleading information or not.

“You’re a righ’ idiot,” she told herself in a harsh tone, “and if this goes south, you’ve only yourself t’blame.”

Stuck

In an exercise to develop the personalities of two of my major characters, I decided to kill two birds with one stone (figuratively) and lock the two in a room (literally) to see what happened from there. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did envisioning it.

-----

"The lock is fortified by magic, you realize."

Thallis gave a sour stare to the night elf behind her.

"A lock is a lock."

Kestil sighed in mock defeat but continued to watch the human girl prod and poke at the padlock with her tools. The tools were eventually discarded and Thallis pulled a dagger from her boot. She jammed it into the keyhole and pushed her whole weight against it, turning the blade as far as it would go, and back again, and again and in and out and gods, it stuck.

Thallis stepped back and looked down at her handiwork; the padlock was whole, but from it the dagger stuck out straight. Kestil looked on as well and raised an eyebrow, amused, fighting to keep a grin off her face.

"Shut up."

The grin was released. Kestil held up her hands in defense. "I said nothing."

Letters

Thallis leaned against a crate and pulled the crumpled letter from her shirt pocket, careful not to draw too much attention from the other dock workers. She unfurled the note and smoothed it out, its edges weathered from its trip in the clutched talons of a carrier bird. Cannonball stood at Thallis’ feet; his round, black eyes gazed intensely at his owner in expectancies of payment for a job well-done. Thallis raised an eyebrow at him.

“You expectin’ somethin’, then?”

She dug a nut from the leather satchel on her waist and flicked it at the macaw; he snatched it with his beak and began to bite and peck at his treat. Thallis turned her attention back to the letter.

Daughter—

Report received, request approved. Keep fourty.

Heading underground, contact T. in the main base.

Love, Da

She pulled a match from her pocket and struck it against her boot. It ignited instantly, and she held it to the corner of the letter. Soaked in kerosene and left to dry before applying ink, the note was gone in seconds.

The first half of the letter came as no surprise. Thallis knew her request to work on the Stormwind docks would be approved, so she hadn’t waited for the answer. After all, good coin and better information were too tempting to pass up. The second half, however… There was only one “T.” that was of any consequence, and Thallis grinned; she knew she had struck gold.

She toed Cannonball with her boot. “Go home,” she told him. “You’re makin’ me look suspicious.”

Topaz

He held the bronze stone in his fist and clenched it tight. A swirling mist inside the stone’s jagged cuts moved in agitation, and a voice inside growled.

What be de meaning of dis?

Nusuth opened one finger from his fist and looked petulantly at the rock.

“You be talkin’ too much.”

The mist churned tumultuously.

You think I be talkin’ too much? I show you talkin’ too much! I be talkin’ all night ‘n’ day, “talkin’ too much…”

Nusuth stuffed the topaz stone into his sachet and pulled the strings tight. His long, troll ears flattened.

“Crazy talkin’ spirit.”

The Room

Recently, Kestil and many of her friends and acquaintances have become haunted by malicious beings in an act of pure hatred and revenge. In addition to her nightmares, Kestil has been granted the presence of a jerk of a ghost, and goodness, has it been fun so far.

Thank you to Yva for giving me such a fun ghost to work with!

The start: http://bit.ly/kestilshaunting (Read first)

-----

It was happening again.

It started out mundane enough: A lack of a current assignment meant free reign around Stormwind, and Kestil was enjoying her time off, sitting on the dock near the Old Town with an enchanting textbook in lap, boots off and to her side to let her feet dip into the sun-warmed water. Myrra napped next to her, basking in the light and rolled over onto her back, tolerating the local fisherboys that played with her paws and ears and commenting on just how red she was. One scratched at her belly, and a roo-roo escaped her throat as she turned to give the boy a better angle.

The box on her waist crackled to life with activity and a voice came through. Kestil smiled upon recognition of its owner, and she greeted her mother with a smile. At first presentation of this small, mechanical box to her mother, she was met with uneasiness to use such a piece of “technology”—as they called it—but after the initial setup (“I think the operator is hitting on you, Mom,” Kestil remarked with a grin), both women had grown to enjoy the ease with which they could talk to one another at any time.

Her mother went on to ask if she “knew anything about cooking clams.” The fisherman down the way decided to shower his generosity on the Ravenoak household today and showed up with a basket full of his catch. “Being as old as he is, I couldn’t just refuse them,” her mother explained, almost helplessly, and Kestil laughed. She replied that no, she didn’t have any good recipes on hand, but she knew someone who would.

It carried on mundane enough.

Kestil headed into the Old Town, the Pig and Whistle her destination. Her visits there were much more frequent these days, and it had become a weekly haven in which she could relax and visit with friends. But today she hesitated. She stood outside of the entrance, and already she could feel her breath quickening, her lungs suddenly feeling tighter at remembering the night before last. Where the room had closed in. Where she realized she must be going mad. Where the headaches from lack of sleep became pounding like a titan’s hammer and her thoughts became rushed and panicked at the hint of going inside a building and she had to remember to force herself to breathe.

Breathe, Myrra seemed to command as she pushed on Kestil’s leg with her muzzle. I’m right here.

But she was right there that other night, sleeping under the tiny bed, crushed by The Room and leaving her master helpless and shivering in a ball in the middle of the floor when The Room granted mercy.

Kestil forced a sharp breath into her lungs, calling back to her primal senses and her Sentinel training to slow her breathing and relax her nerves. She closed her eyes and listened to the air whooshing inside her with every inhalation. Breathe in, exhale. One, two, three, hold; two, two, three, exhale. Calm. Normal. The Pig was not The Room.

She placed her foot on the steps to the Pig, and then on the second, and third, reaching the top and opening her eyes. Keep a sharp mind, keep alert. Quick in, quick out. She hastened her steps, now fully inside of the Pig, and she made straight for the kitchen, giving a brief nod to Elly before entering the back room.

Ye wanna learn how t’ bake clams, eh? Stephen had asked, and Kestil replied that she did. Kestil’s eyes darted around the kitchen, taking in its space, and she was pleased to find it adequate and open. The Pig’s kitchen was not The Room.

Oh, but it was.

Kestil turned her attention back to Stephen, but he was gone. She whipped her head around to the door and saw him in the main room talking to Elly, only vaguely remembering hearing something about “getting some cooking rum” from the front of the house. She sighed in relief, gave an embarrassed smile to Myrra who had flopped just outside the kitchen door, and turned back around.

The chopping table was directly in front of her now, pressing up against her legs. She muffled a yelp and here it was again, The Room, the hard-to-breathe thinning air, the constricting lungs, the table actively pushing against her and driving her into a back corner. She cried out for Myrra, but she was gone, Stephen was gone, the walls were filled in and the ceiling dropped to just above her head. The meat hook, which had been at the far end of the room near the firepit, was now swinging perilously in front of her, towards her, its hook still bloody with pieces of meat still wetly attached. The firepit consumed the south wall, and the flames licked at her legs as the room squeezed and the hook twirled on its chain and suddenly swung towards her like a hand had launched it.

The point neatly lodged itself into the mortar between the bricks near her face, and then everything was black.