A Part

Tags

Anetho, Astoreth, RP, Szesstra, Westel

A crazy thing, love.  It has always made me act rather ridiculously.  I suppose it was something I had always sought, even during the years I rejected all emotion.  Emotion makes you weak, I used to repeat to myself.  If I began to find myself getting attached to someone, I would promptly leave.  That changed, as you know.  I have told you the story of my growing into a man that can allow that weakness.  Some may find that to be my greatest fault.  But I know my capacity to love – you, my daughter, my tribe – is in fact my greatest strength.  For it is from you, and from them, that I draw my strength to fight and to persevere.  For that, Astoreth, I thank you.

Astoreth sat on the floor by her bed, cross-legged like a child, her memory box open beside her.  The paper on which the proposal was written was not old, but it was worn and creased with repeated careful readings, and now Astoreth had to be careful not to let her tears mar it as well.

She did not turn her head at the bored sigh behind her, nor at the sound of windchimes that precipitated it.  “He lies almost as prettily as you do, does he not?” Szesstra purred as she stretched out on the bed.

“He tells the truth,” Astoreth replied, not looking up.

“All mortal men lie.  And all women too.  But you know that better than most, I suspect.”

“No one asked you,” Astoreth snapped bitterly.  “And what are you doing here?  I didn’t call you.”

“Did you not?” the demoness replied, all wide-eyed innocence.  “My violet vainglory, I was certain I heard your cry for help.   Your plea to be released from this pain.”  She rolled over on the bed, leaning over the edge to grin at Astoreth enticingly.  “I know what you want,” she whispered.  “I know how you long for soothing surcease from this self-inflicted suffering.  And I can give it to you.”

“No.”

“And more than that besides,” she purred. “I know what else you seek, though you squirrel your desires away from yourself almost as easily as you hide them from your diligent prowler.”  The demoness grinned wickedly, almost hungrily.  “You have your cake, as you say, but I see you longing for bites of others.  You deprive yourself needlessly, darkfire child.  I can slake your thirst and find many morsels to sate your hunger.  You only need ask.”

“Stop it.  Whatever you’re offering, I want none of it.  I don’t need you.”

Szesstra laughed.  “Is that what you said to the scarlet magister?  No wonder he wasn’t convinced!   Oh Anetho,” Szesstra sang in an eerily accurate imitation of Astoreth’s own voice, swooning on the bed like the distraught heroine of a paperback romance.  “Oh I can’t, I’m maaaaarried!  Oh, don’t, stop!  Don’t stop, don’t stop!”  She shrieked with laughter.

Instantly Astoreth was on her feet, her hands rising up in a swell of shadow and fire as she screamed and blasted the bed where Szesstra had been lounging a split second before.  Feathers spun in a flurry around the warlock as the demoness appeared behind her, still grinning.  “And you still have not told your blackwolf what truly happened that night.”  Astoreth swung gracelessly, and the demoness dodged without effort.  “Tsk tsk.”

“I did tell him,” Astoreth shot back.  “I told him that I let Anetho kiss me, and I pled his forgiveness.”

“Let him kiss you!” she tittered.  “Ah, but you didn’t tell him where the scarlet magister kissed you.  Nor how you urged him on, nor where his bloodfire hands roamed.”

“Don’t you dare call me a liar!” Astoreth shrieked.   “You!  Don’t you dare, you – you queen of lies!”  She spun around and fired another bolt of shadowfire at the demoness, but Szesstra had blinked across the room again, and the grin that spread across her face could not have gleamed brighter.

“Queen of lies, you call me,” Szesstra snarled in delight, “but truths have I only ever spoken.  Carefully selected truths at that; your favorite kind.  Even your blackwolf knows that, knows how preciously you covet your portwine secrets.  That was why his fire-eyes burned you so – for though he had asked to hear all, he knew you incapable of giving it.”

“Westel didn’t want to know!” Astoreth had meant to deny the charge, but the truth was faster on her lips, and it made her eyes burn.  “He… he didn’t.  The whole time I was trying to tell him, West just wanted me to stop.  Stop talking, just stop, just… just shut up!  Shut up, so he could get to the part where he forgave me and we moved on.  So I did.  I stopped.”  She glared at Szesstra.  “Don’t you tell me that was wrong.”

“Do I have to?” she grinned.

“He forgave me.”

“He forgave you for being a victim, which he and you both know requires no forgiveness.  One would think he might wonder at the intensity of your anguish and insistence on your own guilt with regard to the tale you spun him, and take note of the inexplicable imbalance between them.  But perhaps he is an idiot, and a blind fool.”  Szesstra grinned her shark-toothed grin again.  “Or perhaps you did give him what he thinks he wants.  Such a good little wife you are.”

“I gave him what he wanted.  Not what he said he wanted, or what he thought he wanted, what he actually wanted.”

“His lips said one thing and his body another?”  Szesstra chortled derisively.  “Even your besotted scarlet magister knew better than to trot out that old line.  And you gave him ample opportunity.”

Astoreth turned her back on the demoness in disgust – and gasped in dismay at the sight of her memory box overturned, and its contents scattered across the floor, half-awash in feathers from the ruined mattress.  She dropped to her knees and began scrabbling to collect the pieces – old letters, a lock of Laurelia’s hair, an old and ornate dagger, an ice-cold coin on a slender gold chain, the sketches Westel had made of her by the pond, and…

She looked up at the demoness with renewed hatred.  “Where’s my ring?”

Szesstra lounged in the pile of feathers that had once been a bed and examined her nails with disinterest.  “On your hand.”

“My other ring.  Westel’s ring – his father’s ring, the one West gave to me when we were first courting.”

“My darling darkfire child, however should I know?  This is a glorious disaster of your own furious making, and none of mine.”  The demoness chuckled to herself and rolled over to languidly observe the warlock scrabbling on all fours to find her lost jewelry.  “Do you know what I want to know, sweet shadowscribe?”

Astoreth gritted her teeth.  “I don’t care.”

“What I want to know,” Szesstra continued merrily, “is why you do not simply do as you wish. Take what you wish, because you can.  And offer neither explanations nor apologies for it.”

“That’s not who I am,” Astoreth sighed, lifting up the bedskirt to peer underneath.

“You may lie to yourself, little lovely,” the demoness purred. “And your suns and wolves and magisters may follow gladly at your heels.  But do not think me so easily led astray.  The hearts and minds of you and your kind are as a ripe and ready feast to one such as I, with every morsel for my taking.”

Astoreth sighed again, putting her hands on her knees.  “That’s not who I am anymore.”

“But it is,” the demoness insisted.   “The zhevra does not change her stripes.  You may scrub your hands pale, but the scent of blood will still remain; you may drape yourself in virgin white but it will not change the color of your soul.  You want to do these things, your very nature cries for them – but you hold back.  Why?”

“I’m not holding back.  I’ve changed.”

“You are holding back, and you have changed, but not in the way you think!”  Szesstra grinned at the woman.  “This simpering, weeping dedication to compromise and compensation is unbecoming.   An example: not so many days past, your blackwolf offered you the freedom you had foolishly forsaken.  You had him withering in your grasp.  He would have done anything for you, anything to hear sweet words fall from your lips to his ears again, anything to turn your tears to smiles.  And you refrained, and it wasn’t for love.”

“It certainly was!”Astoreth said, taken aback.  “In a relationship based on equality and –”

“Oh do not even begin with that ridiculous prattle,” Szesstra cut her off.  “Must I tell you again?  We both know why you demurred.”

The warlock frowned petulantly.  “I wanted him to come to such a decision while he was calm and sober.  That’s fair, that’s –”

“You didn’t do it to be fair,” the demoness purred.  “Not for love, nor for respect.  You did it out of pride.  You did it so you could compliment yourself for your marvelous magnamity, and to prolong the pleasure of listening to him grovel for you.  And what did this gain you?”  She had leaned close as they spoke, and now she snatched up Astoreth’s left wrist.  “The rules of your imprisonment do not change.  You yet wear the blackwolf’s collars, and you pretend to conduct yourself by his laws.”

Astoreth yanked her hand back.  “If I do, I do so by choice.  And there’s no pretending about it.”

“No pretending?” she sneered.  “Then what of the desires you shared with the scarlet magister?  What of the looks you cast the shielded lantern?  What of those whom you decline to touch, lest they hear from your fingers the salacious thought your sewn-tight lips will not let fly?”

“I made a promise,” Astoreth set her jaw.  “And I keep my promises.”

“Absurdly and recently so,” the demoness concurred in scathing tone.  “And strangely consistently for one whose allegiances once changed with the wind from the Ghostlands.  Yet I’ve noticed something, my violet vainglory.”  She leaned in to look Astoreth closely.  “Your record in promise-keeping cleaned up dramatically and very suddenly two springs past – at about the same time the blackwolf gave you his Name.”  She smirked.  “Hard choices are easier when alternatives are denied; you know this as well as any.  Honesty is simpler when falsehood is impossible.  You remain faithful to your blackwolf in word and deed to ward off his displeasure – but would your choice be different if you did not know he would see through any veil you thought to wear?”  The smirk became a wicked smile.  “Are you truly reluctant to betray him… or merely afraid you’ll get caught?”

Astoreth said nothing.

“He does not deserve to command you,” Szesstra said in low tones.  “And you know this.  You do not even respect him enough to confront him openly.  You refuse to test him, for fear he will fail.  He does not challenge you, nor you him.  He is an ill—”

Astoreth’s hand flew before she could think, and Szesstra’s head snapped to the right.  “That’s enough,” Astoreth seethed.  “I love Westel, and I will not tolerate any more of these insults and lies and accusations!  Not from you!”

The demoness laughed, a deep, rumbling, dangerous sound.  “Such a lovely little liar… and of course you lie the sweetest to yourself.”  She opened her eyes a slit then, and smiled at the warlock.  “You do not love him.  You are not capable.  You gave up that ability, and that privilege, years ago.  It is not in you.”

“I don’t believe you,” Astoreth retorted.

“How long will you keep this up?” Szesstra purred.  “How long do you intend to play this game of shells and hearts?  To pretend yourself a lovely innocent who was overwrought by the world; let the brightest of silver suns and most feral of black wolves come to your gallant aid; dance only with the handsomest boys and have the most beautiful babies.  You don’t even play with your whole heart!  Your grasping hands seek to keep your husband close and your lovers in easy reach, despite every pretty little promise you have made.  Is it no wonder your steadfast blackwolf doubts you, when he saw first-hand what you dealt the silver sun?  Just look at the pain and agony you’ve caused; the deaths and tortured screams you’ve left in your wake.  All in the name of love these days, you say, but in truth for lust, and greed, and pride, as you always have.”  She grinned wickedly at Astoreth.  “The scarlet magister certainly had your number, didn’t he?”

“I’m done with you.  I’m not going to sit here and let you – you, of all people, judge me.”  Astoreth stood up, and began stalking towards the door.

“Me, judge you?!”  Szesstra laughed, and the next instant she stood between Astoreth and the door, her eyes blazing and her smile wide.  “I fear you have been spending too many times in those rooms of court where your magisters so love to play.  I am no judge, my violet vainglory; call me instead a devil’s advocate.”  She chuckled.  “But now, suppose instead we hand this case to a jury of your peers?”

She held up both hands, and snapped her fingers, and instantly the room was full of people.

Astoreth blinked, whirling around to look at them all.  “What the hell –?”

Szessta chuckled.  “Nine is the sufficient number, yes?  Or is it twelve?  I can never remember.  Let us hear what they have to say.”

Goredis Fireheart glared at Astoreth.  “You killed me.  You strung me along for political gain, and then you dropped me.  It broke my heart – and I was an old man, Astoreth, you knew my heart wasn’t strong.  You knew.”

“Your choices were your own,” Astoreth retorted.  “And anyway, didn’t I help you?”

“Yes, how did that work out for you?”  Talordris Sunblaze leaned against a wall.  “Let’s see.  You strung me along, teased me – oh, but before that, you ambushed me, murdered me and stuck someone else’s soul in my body.”  He suddenly advanced on her the way he had in Northrend, and Astoreth took an involuntary step back.  “You fucking bitch, you destroyed my life.”

“I didn’t – but you don’t understand – and then you –”

She bumped into Krystion Shadowthorne, who shrugged at her nonchalantly.  “I’ve got to be honest, I have no idea what I’m doing here.”   He moved around the bed and sat down to idly sift through Ast’s memory box.

“You took advantage of me!” Candriss sobbed in a corner.  “You let him take advantage of me!”

“I did no such thing!” Astoreth snapped back at her.  “I only wanted to help!”

“What you consider aid only salts the earth that nothing may grow,” Anetho Dawnpride snarled, between coughs.  “You used me – to fill your bed, to feed off my emotions… just to break me apart.”

Krystion peered up at Astoreth, letters from her box in each hand.  “Am I even in here?” he asked, his tone hurt.  “Didn’t you remember me at all?”

“I died for you,” Bareris Darksworne said, his blue-green eyes radiating pain.  “I loved you, and you left me to a fate worse than death.  You fucked around on me when I only wanted you.  And when I needed you most, you left me for him.”

Cardre Bloodfyre put up her hands and began to back out the door.  “Look, this really isn’t my scene,” she said.  “You never had time for me anyway.  So you all have fun.  I’m out.”

“You ruined my marriage,” Corael Dawnbreaker said.  “I called you my sister, but you berated me and tormented mercilessly until you needed something from me – and then you took everything I had.  Everything she had.”

“You took my daughter from me!” Bareris said.

Astoreth looked around in confusion as the collection of former friends and lovers closed in around her.  “I’m – I’m sorry,” she gasped, backing up against a wall.

“No you’re not,” Anetho smirked.  “No more than I ever am.”

“How many of us did you say you loved?” Goredis seethed.  “How many of us did you lie to?”

Astoreth heard the scrape of metal as Talordris drew his dagger, and she desperately scanned the room for someone to help.  “Stavier!” she screamed.

Stavier Luminiar never moved from where he stood, at ease, by the door, watching.  “You knew how I felt,” he said quietly.  “And you know what you did.”

“The jury appears to have reached a decision,” Szesstra laughed in Astoreth’s ear, having somehow slipped behind her.  Her clawed fingers dug gently, almost lovingly into Astoreth’s shoulders.  “They know you for who and what you are.  Why do you fight it?”  She tilted her head to whisper in her ear, her breath hot on the warlock’s throat.  “Or shall I ask, why do you not fight them?  You could destroy them, control them, make them love you and fear you.  Every.  Last. One.  The shining knights, the mysterious magisters, the sneak-thieves.  You could have them, hurt them, break them, and leave them begging for more.  You have done it before, you could do it again.”

“I’m not that person,” Astoreth gasped.  “I’m not.”

“Aren’t you now?” Szesstra purred.  “I think we’ll let him be the judge of that.”  She snapped her fingers, and the mob that had pressed around Astoreth vanished.

Westel stood behind where they had gathered, his eyes fixed on Astoreth’s face.

She stared back at him, helplessly.

“All things end, my curious kitten,” Szesstra sighed as she circled around Astoreth, her hooves clicking softly on the hardwood floors.  “All truths and illusions come to dust.  All lives and memories will wash away.  All loves, all hatreds, all things.”  She smiled at Astoreth.  “Well, most things.  I am immortal.  You could be like me, dear darling darkfire child, if you let go of these silly trappings and strings and let me help you.  Such glorious works we could make.  Marble monuments and robust dynasties – a legacy for the ages – creations that will last!  Unlike everything here on Azeroth, which eventually falls…”

Astoreth became aware that she was holding something in her hand.  She lifted up her fist and opened it to reveal Westel’s silver ring on her palm.  The light from the window highlighted the engraving: APART.

“You ache because you care,” the demoness rumbled.  “I can take it away.  Love is such a small price to pay for peace, darling darkfire.  What do those such as we require it for, anyway?  It makes one weak, makes one act ridiculously – as you have today.  Give up this silly game, lovely.  Say the word, and you will never have to feel this pain again.  And you will be beautiful, and terrible, and we will work wonders.”

Astoreth said nothing.

Szesstra sighed, and rubbed at her temple.  “Well, the offer remains open, sweet drowningchild.  Think on the cost, and you may change your mind.  Remember, you were destined to lose it anyway.”

Astoreth stood there in silence as Szesstra walked past Westel, smirking.  “Do not think I have forgotten you, little prowler, little black wolf with your eyes like fire,” the demoness purred to the ranger.  “You have seen enough for tonight, I believe.  But I have things that you need and desire as well, souls to share and tales to tell, and I suspect I shall be seeing you again soon.”

Astoreth looked up and clenched her fists again.  “You leave him alone, you fucking –”

“You think to protect him from me?” Szesstra laughed.  “The scarlet magister has told you of his fate.  If the Isle does not take him, I certainly will.  All the while you cannot protect his favorite bedsheets.”

Astoreth gasped in sudden realization and horror, her eyes going wide as she turned to the ruined bed –

– and woke with a start, her hands clenching unruined green silken bedsheets as she lay on a wholly intact mattress.

She took a moment to breathe.  Her room was empty.  Her box was safe under the bed, and she knew the ring would be inside.  Westel lay beside her, perfectly quiet.

Too quiet.

“Westel,” she said softly.

He turned away.

The Binding

Tags

Astoreth, flashback

He knew when he’d been beat.  There had only ever been two outcomes – the word retreat held no meaning for him – but defeat itself came as a surprise, and he fought it to the last.  He thrashed wildly in his efforts to escape the bonds of fel energy constricting around him, and continued shrieking madly even as an arcane muzzle clamped over his mouth and he was wrestled to the ground.  Nothing held him at this point but pure will, the magical energy so close he could smell it – could still taste the power on his tongue mixed with the blood – but he could no longer reach out and take it, and he howled in frustration.

He hated the idea of submission to this, this mortal – his pride railed against it – but he could only be what he was.  Mortal or no, power was everything, and she held more than he – even more, it seemed, than the masters she had stolen him from.  He strained one more time against his bonds, but they held fast.  With one last muffled scream of hatred and humiliation, he lowered his head, and was still.

The room was deathly quiet in the aftermath of the struggle, and as he lay in the circle he listened and felt for those around him.  Five mortals: three of lesser power, one of greater age… and her, the one who had challenged and fought and bound him, still kneeling on the ground and panting from exertion.  Now that she was so close, now that he could feel her and smell her without the heat of battle between them he was chagrined to realize how small she was, and how soft her flesh.  He did not understand how such power could reside in one so fragile… but that was not his to question.

The elder mortal moved from where his stood and made a satisfied noise.  “I must say I’m impressed, Astoreth.  I sense you have the potential to become one of the most powerful warlocks of this era.”

She snorted in reply, and took to her feet, small shoes scraping softly against the dusty floor with each step.  “I bet you say that to all the girls,” she grumbled in a tone inaudible to the other mortals as she knelt near her captive.  He heard it, of course.  Their tongue was strange, but he understood it well enough.  He was incapable of fear, but he wondered what she would do now.

“Kreelum,” she said softly, the first time he’d heard his name spoken by mortal lips; the tone of authority in her voice did little to mask the timbre of youth.  “You are mine now, Kreelum.  My servant, my guardian, my hound, my hunter, my slave.  I am not inclined to be cruel to those who serve me, but neither will I hesitate to remind you of your place.  Do you understand me, Kreelum?”

A sigh came from the elder mortal in the room.  “He’s a beast, Astoreth, he can’t understand you.”

Stupid mortals.  She was young, but smarter than many.  He gave a snort and a whine.  He understood.

She reached forward and placed a hand along his neck, and Kreelum felt the bands of magic release him.  He scrambled to his feet, and at a snap of her delicate fingers he found his way to her side.  She lowered her hand to him, and Kreelum lifted his head to meet it.  He found he liked the way her hand felt as she stroked his quills.  Her touch was cool on his skin, but he could sense a rumbling of pain and anger and seething hatred just beneath the surface.  He had a vision of this tiny, soft, arrogant, unexpectedly tenacious creature unleashing fiery hell on her enemies… and now, he with her.  He grinned, and let his tongue loll out in a way that had as much to do with the thought of sinking his teeth into new foes as it did the spot she had found behind his right tentacle and was presently scratching.  Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“I’d keep him muzzled for awhile,” the stupid mortal advised, but Kreelum’s new mistress chuckled.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” she answered in a careless tone that Kreelum instantly appreciated.  “I am anxious to take him hunting.”

No, he thought, not bad at all.

Emphasis on “Presumed”

Tags

Astoreth, Cearalaith, Corael, RP, Stavier, Westel

Astoreth made a conscious decision to completely ignore Stavier Luminiar as his mood suddenly and inexplicably darkened before he stormed off across the bar with murder in his eyes.  She was having a good time, and she didn’t really want to know what had so abruptly ruined Stavier’s night lest it ruin hers as well.  She deliberately did not turn her head when she heard Stavier’s voice rising, demanding of some unknown party does she know you’re alive.

Westel looked, however, and when he started and swore in shock Astoreth could ignore it no longer.  With a sigh of resigned dread she turned and looked as well.

Thankfully she had put her drink down, else she would have dropped it.  Dead gods, she thought, her blood running cold, not again.

* * * * *

Only one person besides Cearalaith herself had a key to her apartment these days, and strictly for emergencies; Cear knew there was no circumstance under which Stavier would have entered without knocking or at least announcing his presence.  So when the rattling at her door began she did not hesitate to wonder who it might be or why; she immediately leapt into action, vaulting over the back of her couch, bolting down the hall to her room and grabbing her weapons in the dark.  She heard the door open as she grasped her sword, and rather than charging back out decided to lay in wait, pressing her back against the wall by her door and listening.

The stranger walked into her living room and paused, presumably looking around, before moving towards her hallway.  The intruder did not speak, but the weight of each footfall suggested a form just a little larger than the paladin; most likely a male elf or undead, and judging from the soft chink that accompanied each step, well armored.  Cearalaith held her breath and waited, counting the steps as he moved closer.

She timed it perfectly, giving no warning before turning into the door lightning-fast and bashing the intruder in the face and chest with her shield.  He was caught completely off-guard, crashing back with a grunt of surprise , his flailing arm knocking over a side table and vase – and once he was down, Cearalaith wasted no time putting her bare foot on his chest and her sword to his throat as he gasped for the wind she’d knocked out of him.  “Who are you?!” she demanded.  “And what the hell are you doing in my house?!”

“Cear?” he choked.

Cearalaith staggered back.

Oh gods, oh Light, she thought.  It’s impossible, she thought.  Nothing’s impossible. But how could this be? The Light works in mysterious ways.  Where has he been?  Why do I care?  This can’t be real.  Why would he come back?  I’m going to kill him.  I’m going to kiss him.  I’ll kiss him, then kill him.  No, other way around.  No, this is a dream.  I’m dreaming.  He’s dead.  He left me alone. I’ve been so alone.  I want to wake up.  I don’t want to wake up. 

He half-sat up and looked at her, and a shaft of moonlight illuminated his face, removing most doubt, though it left a million questions.

“Bloody hell, you’ve gotten strong,” Corael said.

Anais and the Troll

Tags

Anais, Astoreth, Jak, RP, Westel

In the end, Anais decided the direct approach was best.

“Mommy Ast,” she said, drawing herself up tall.  ”There’s a troll in my room.”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Astoreth replied, never taking her eyes from her needlework.  ”That’s nice, dear.”

Anais blinked at her stepmother.  ”No, really,” she said, clambering up onto the couch beside her.  ”His name is Jak an’ he comes in my room and tries to play with my toys.  He’s the one who keeps knocking my knife down.”

At the mention of the knife, Astoreth did raise an eyebrow at the child.  ”Again?” she asked.  ”I thought your father put that out of reach.”

“He did,” Anais confirmed.  ”But Jak knocked it down again.”

At this point something about the words troll, knife and in my room seemed to sink in, and Astoreth put her sewing down.  ”Tell me again what’s going on?”

Anais took a deep breath.  ”There’s a troll named Jak an’ he comes into my room an’ plays with my toys an’ he especially likes the knife Daddy’s friend Miss Pipiltin gave me but I think he’s in trouble ’cause he never stays long an’ he always disappears ‘fore I can talk to him for long an’ he asked me for help but I don’t know how to help him and I was hoping you knew.”

Astoreth sat back, a bit blown away by the torrent of information.  ”He’s… he comes into your room?  How?”

“Dunno,” she shrugged.  ”I just wake up and he’s there.”

“And he’s a — a troll?” Astoreth confirmed.  ”Like… like Mister Do’xian?”

Anais shook her head again.  ”He’s a kid, like me.  He didn’t even know that elves don’t have tusks.”  She shifted.  ”He doesn’t like light.  He only comes at night and only when there’s no moonlight.”

Astoreth frowned.  ”Are you certain, Anais?  It might have just been a dream.”

“No,” Anais insisted.  ”It wasn’t a dream, it was real.  I could see him!”

“Sometimes dreams can seem very real.”

“But it happened –”

“And they can happen several nights in a row.”

“But my stuff got moved!”

“It could have been one of the cats.  Or Ithruiel.”

“But Mommy Ast –!”

Mommy Ast smiled sweetly, in that way she did when she was bringing discussion to a close.  ”I know it was probably very vivid, darling, but really now –”

Anais waved her hands in desperation.  ”Mommy Ast, Jak thinks he’s dead!  But he can’t be dead, right?  People go away when they’re dead an’ they never come back.  Right?  An’ I like him an’ I want to help him an’ he can’t be dead.”

Astoreth stopped, and stared at the child for a long moment.

“I… think we need to talk to your father,” she finally said.

Passings

Tags

Astoreth, Beirgin, Caloneth, Cersei, Duskflame, Hadrian, Melody, Sorrelon, Westel

The day was sunny, as were all days in Quel’thalas, and the crowd sufficiently large that no one seemed to notice Astoreth as she slipped in late and moved silently to find a suitable viewing spot as a man stood in order to speak of Caloneth Sorrelon II, his life and his deeds.  To be fair, Astoreth had only met Westel’s brother once, but after five minutes she was certain she had known Cal better than this elder elf of trembling hands and boisterous voice who so floweringly praised the deceased’s bravery, his charity, his devotion to his family and his prowess in combat.  Cal had seemed a good fellow, to be sure, but somehow she thought even he might be embarrassed by the description of him as ‘an angel of the Light come to trod the unworthy soil of Azeroth’.  The first speaker finished and another stood up, and Astoreth quickly decided to spare Cal further embarrassment by focusing on the people around her rather than the words being said.

There was Cal and Westel’s sister Melody, of course, face tired and eyes likely red behind those glasses, but standing tall: ever the rock of her family.  At Melody’s side, clutching her arm, was her mother Cersei – and Astoreth could not help the stab that went through her heart at the sight of her mother-in-law, looking haggard and aged despite her still-lineless face and vibrant golden hair.   For all that Westel resented his mother as shallow and uncaring, and for all the mistakes that she might have made, Astoreth could not imagine how it must feel to bury two sons and be estranged from a third.  The man on Cersei’s left shot her an unkind look as she choked back a small sob, and though Astoreth had never met this man there was no mistaking him for anyone but Lord Magister Caloneth Sorrelon I; the young man in the casket had been the spitting image of his father.

As Astoreth observed them, Melody Sorrelon happened to glance her way and give her a heartfelt half-smile.  Lord Sorrelon caught his daughter’s gaze and followed it, and even as she returned Melody’s gesture Astoreth did not miss how the magister’s eyes narrowed at her.  So much for going unnoticed.

Further to Lord Sorrelon’s left stood his grandson Hadrian Sorrelon, the son of Westel’s brother Vathal, and he was accompanied by an older woman and a young girl who Astoreth guessed to be his mother and sister.  All three shared matching copper-blonde hair, and Hadrian appeared to have inherited his mother’s handsome features.  The young man stood tall and proud, though his brow was furrowed, and Astoreth remembered Caloneth telling her how he had tried to be a father figure to Hadrian since Vathal’s death.  She wondered who would step in now.

Finally Astoreth turned her attention to the woman standing front and center before the family, who dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered cloth, and whose crimson tresses spilled down her back in a bold and impressive contrast to the white of her skin and the black of her gown.  Her bosoms heaved as she drew in a shuddering sob, but Astoreth noted that her cheeks were rosy and her mascara did not run beneath her thin veil.  Astoreth had never met Dessandra Sorrelon, but the stories she had heard had not inclined her to think kindly of the woman and at this moment Astoreth decided that she rather hated her.

Finally the last speech ended.  The string quartet struck up a somber tune and all around Astoreth elves began rising to gather in small groups and to talk.  She waited for a moment when the family appeared sufficiently occupied with other parties to slip up near the coffin and quietly place her small bouquet  of mageroyal and peacebloom amongst several larger, more obviously expensive arrangements.

Rising, she rested her hand on the side of the casket for a moment and looked down on Cal’s peaceful face.  I’m sorry, she said to him silently.  I am glad I met you.  I’m sorry it took so long.  I’m sorry you missed your nieces.  I’m sorry that Westel… She sighed, and shook her head.  Westel’s sorry, too.  He loves you, even if he never could say it.  I hope you are at peace, Cal.  You will not be forgotten.

Astoreth did not dare stay long.  She turned to leave but had not quite made it to the edge of the little glade in which the ceremony had been held before her flickering ears caught a faint sound of someone calling for Miss Duskflame.  She turned back… and her heart momentarily stopped, as she saw Lord Sorrelon striding towards her from across the clearing.

He was still a good fifteen feet away, however, when a stooped elf of advanced years and short breath suddenly cut in between them, out of breath.  “It is you!” the elder beamed at her.  “I told Marilla, I said Marilla, that’s Kieran’s eldest girl, or I’m a goblin’s grandpop.”

It took Astoreth a heartbeat to place the voice and the face as an old friend of her father.  “Magister Larkspur,” she smiled.  “I’ve not seen you in ages.  How have you been?  And Marilla?  Elliani?”

He waved his hand back towards the Sorrelon family, where a woman of matching age stood talking to Lady Cersei and Melody; a bit closer, Lord Sorrelon glared in puzzlement at Astoreth and her new companion briefly before someone else came up to speak to him and he was obligated to divert his attention.  “Marilla and Cersei were great friends back in the day, you know,” Larkspur commented, and Astoreth did not bother to explain that she did not.  “Fell out of touch for awhile, but you know how these things are.  Such a shame, that handsome young man.  How is your mother, dear?”

Astoreth shook her head.  “Gone these ten years, sir.  She fell grievously ill after the Fall, and did not recover.”

He tsked.  “Such a shame,” he said again.  “I knew about your father, of course.  And your brothers, too.  Elliani’s engaged again, did you hear?  But she never forgot your Beirgin.  Takes flowers to the wall every year for him, still.”

The thought brought an odd smile to Astoreth’s face, even as it brought a little ache with it.  Her brother Beirgin had been  betrothed to Elliani Larkspur at the time of his death.  They’d postponed the wedding due to the war.  “I had not,” she admitted.  “Please give her my congratulations.  I wish her every happiness.”

“Mmm.”  Magister Larkspur sniffed.  “The boy’s a bit frivolous, if you ask me.  Overfond of the hawkstrider races.  But he’s from a good family; she could do worse.”  He peered up at Astoreth curiously.  “But I admit I’m surprised to see you here today.  I didn’t think your people were close to the Sorrelons.”

“Well – no, not as such,” Astoreth hedged.  “In fact I’ve only –“

“Your father wasn’t fond of the nouveau riche,” Larkspur nodded.  “And then there was that scandal with – ah, but that would have been before you were born.”  He smiled at her.  “How did you say you knew young Caloneth again?”

“I didn’t say,” Astoreth said patiently.  “But he was my brother in law.”

Magister Larkspur blinked at Astoreth.  He turned and looked back at the Sorrelons, and Astoreth could almost see him counting in his head.  She sighed and saved him the trouble.  “I married Caloneth’s brother Westel last June,” she explained simply.

He peered back at her with an intensity that indicated the implications of her statement were not lost on him.  “Married Westel Sorrelon?” he asked.  “Hmmph.”  He looked around.  “And… where is your husband today?  Seems a man should come to his brother’s funeral.  Especially given the circumstances.”

“He is unwell, and was compelled to remain at home,” Astoreth said, again as simply as possible.  “He would have been here if he could.”  If he could put one foot before the other.  “I am here in his stead.”

“I see.  And so why are you over here, and not over there?”

Astoreth forced a smile.  “I’ve not yet had a chance to truly get to know my new, extended family,” she explained patiently.  “It seems inappropriate to force myself upon them in their grief, and I practically a stranger.”

The magister harrumphed again.  “Indeed.  And tell me, what do you think your father would have made of this match?”

The question caught Astoreth off-guard.  “I think he would have liked Westel very much,” she answered honestly.  “He’s honest, and straightforward.  He has a cutting sense of humour.  He’s intelligent and practical, and has little patience for fools.  He adores me, and he is a good father.  If you mean to comment on his profession – my own brothers were rangers, if you recall, and Westel has risen high in their ranks.”

The old magister waved a hand.  “I’m not speaking of his profession at all, and you know that.  Liking a man is one thing, child.  Letting him marry your eldest daughter is another.”  He sighed, and shook his head.

Astoreth bit her tongue as a memory of her father urging her to respect your elders, even the ones you don’t like drifted through her mind.  “I am very happy with him,” she said evenly, “and I believe that’s what my father would have cared about most.  As I am certain Elliani’s happiness is paramount to you and Marilla.”

Larkspur snorted.  “There is such a thing as too much time at the races,” he grumbled, and Astoreth smiled at him.  He waved her off.  “Yes, yes.   Well, best wishes to you, dear.  I hope your husband is recovered soon.  It was good to see you, dear, good indeed, but I must see to my wife.”

“I’m sure he will be.  Shorel’aran, Magister,” Astoreth offered him another smile as he nodded at her, but let it fall into a frown as his back was turned.  She did not watch him long, however; Lord Sorrelon had been looking her way again, and she wanted to leave before he decided to corner her with questions as well.

OOC: Astoreth Art

Tags

Astoreth, character art, warcraft

In honor of Nocturne‘s fifth (!!!) anniversary this year, my friend and guildmate Tywren commissioned sketches of several of our members from the extraordinarily talented Kimberly Swan.

Here is the fantastic sketch she did of Astoreth!  (Click to embiggen.)

I love the swirling shadows.  I love the look on her face.  I love her full-body expression of arrogance.  I love all of Kreelum’s pointy teeth!

You may find more of Ms. Swan’s fabulous art on her Tumblr or Deviant Art.

Aftermath

Tags

Astoreth, Cearalaith, Kuvasei, Liealia, Stavier, Szesstra

Cearalaith has fully physically recovered from the ordeal the demoness put her through via Kuvasei.  Most of the thanks for that go to Stavier Luminiar.  I really don’t know what I would have done without him.  She even seems to be herself emotionally – the girl has always been ridiculously resilient – and she holds no grudge against Kuvasei.  I, of course, am a different matter.  When we finally talked, she admitted to missing me, but told me directly she could not trust me.  I cannot blame her.  Perhaps this is something time will heal; perhaps I simply have to live with it.  Regardless, she is well, and that’s more than I deserve.

Kuvasei is also physically intact, but her mind and spirit are yet in pieces.  She blames herself for what happened to her beloved aunt – as she should, really; the demoness only was able to get ahold of Kuvasei because Kuvasei insisted on screwing around with things she did not comprehend, against the wishes and advice of everyone who cared about her.  But there’s taking responsibility for your actions, and there’s giving yourself over to your guilt, and Kuvasei is decidedly in the latter camp.  On top of that, she too was traumatized, and she is not letting herself face or deal with her own pain.  As a result, she has nightmares.  She spends days and nights alternately consumed by her angst or out obsessively stalking the demon for revenge.

She has made no progress that has not cost more than it was worth.  The ritual Kuvasei was compelled to perform brought the demon fully into Azeroth without any of the pesky rules and restrictions of a typical summoning, and of course the demoness fled the scene before we could show up to ruin her plans.  I cannot simply summon her in her current state; we are compelled to use more mundane means of tracking her.  We were able to locate her first hiding place – but Liealia Luminiar was captured by the demon’s cultists while scouting it out, and spent several days under the tender care of her prime henchman.

I think Kuvasei still blames me for the demoness slipping through our fingers.  I stand by my choice: at that point three of our six members were injured beyond the ability to carry themselves out of the demon’s lair, Stavier (though well) was distracted with worry for Lia, and the likelihood of success was incredibly low compared with the likelihood that if one more of us were hurt then none of us would leave the place alive.  We rescued Liealia, of course… and she also is quite resilient, and recovering well.  But the demoness escaped  and we’ve no clues as to her whereabouts now.  She seems to be lying low… which is smart on her part, but incredibly frustrating on ours.

At this point I’d be willing to let the bitch go if I could have my Kuvasei back.  I am trying to help Kuvie  the best that I can… but she is knotted up with fear, anger and self-loathing to the point it seems she might implode, and I fear deep down that I may have already lost her.

Unexpected

Tags

Astoreth, Cearalaith, Kuvasei, Liealia, Stavier, Szesstra, Westel

“Not what you expected, is it?”

The words pierced a blackness that to find that which had lacked consciousness before they existed.  Thoughts reflexively formed in response, but they were jumbled, unclear.

“I expected…”  I?  I.  Who am I?

“Expected what?”

A response tried to form again, and an identity began to form with it.  “I expected… a Light,” she said, the words coming before the understanding, sounding strange even as hearing and thoughts and voice came into understanding around her, and in the distance a blazing pinpoint of luminescence appeared.  She turned towards it, puzzled, then back to the one who had spoken first, as memories and recognitions resurfaced and tumbled into form.  The blackness swirled and separated into the earth and sky of a barren plain, and Cearalaith stood unsteadily upon it.  “And… I… kind of expected Corael to be here.”

The man who had wakened her was not Corael.  He was an older elf, his pale features sharp and chiseled; his black hair fell limply around his slender ears and down his shoulders, and he appeared to be dressed in simple, dark silks and leathers.  He pushed up from the dreamscape rock on which he was perched and walked towards her.  “Your Light is over there, waiting for you,” he pointed off towards the distance.  “I suppose you could wait for your Corael to show up, if you wanted.  Though I wouldn’t hold your breath, so to speak.”

She stared at the man as he spoke.  “You look familiar,” she said tentatively.  “Who are you?”

He shrugged.  “No one of consequence to you here.”

She peered at his face.  “…Father?” she asked.

He blinked his steel-blue eyes at her.  “…uh, sure.  Let’s go with that.”

Cearalaith scowled.  “No, then.”

“Do I even look like him?” he laughed incredulously.  “Look, it really doesn’t matter.  As far as you care I’m a figment of your imagination.  An entity cooked up by the lingering remnants of your subconscious in order to bear an unbearable situation and function long enough to make the necessary choices.”

“Necessary… choices?”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Cearalaith frowned.  “I didn’t remember myself a moment ago.”

“Try to remember.”

She furrowed her brow and attempted to concentrate.  “…I remember… running in a field.  I was wearing my pink sundress – the grasses scratched at my bare legs – and my mother was calling…”

He shook his head.  “Too far back.  I mean right before it happened.”

She closed her eyes.  “Corael took me out to the shore… I remember the crashing waves, and the gulls…”

“Better, but still too far.  Closer.”

She opened her eyes.  “There were two of them at my door.  They had his papers and effects… and then Astoreth–”

“Cearalaith.”  He stepped closer, and put his hands on her shoulders, and they were cold.  She had forgotten cold.  “I know this is hard, but you have to do it.  Cearalaith, do you remember how you died?”

“I…” Cearalaith furrowed her brow, looking down between them.  She looked back up, her hand moving to the gaping hole in her chest.  “Kuvasei.  Kuvasei took my heart.”

He nodded.

“It wasn’t her fault,” Cearalaith hurried to add.  “There was something wrong with her… she taunted me.  She spoke of herself in the third person–”  She looked up at him again as she began to put the pieces together.  “Kuvasei’s in danger.”

He snorted.  “Mutt’s always in danger.  Who gives a shit about her?”

“I do,” Cearalaith said.  “And it wasn’t her fault – it wasn’t her.”

“Now you’re making excuses.”

“No, I know her,” Cearalaith insisted.   “Kuvasei was possessed, or – the demon.”  Her eyes widened.  “The demon must have taken her over.”

“How do you know?” he pushed.

“Because I do!”

“Not good enough!” he snarled.  “What makes you think the mutt didn’t just betray you?!”

Her anger flared.  “Because – she never once called me by name.  Little golden crown, she called me at the end.  She didn’t walk into my apartment – she waited until I invited her.  Her eyes – oh gods – I remember her eyes –”  She caught sight of the man’s smirk, suddenly, and threw off his arms in a rage.  “And because she’s not a mutt, you asshole, she’s my niece!  She would sooner slash her own wrists than bring harm to her family, and how dare you say otherwise!”

He grinned.  “Good,” he breathed.  “Get mad.  Let it fuel you.”

“Screw you,” Cearalaith seethed.  “Kuvasei is in danger and I’m going after her.  You can either help me, or you can get the hell out of my way.”

“Just one problem, princess,” he chuckled as she stormed past him.  “One little problem.”

She stopped, her back to him.  “…I’m dead.”

“You’re dead.”

She shook her head.  “That… this can’t be right.”

He shrugged.  “It is what it is.  And what it is, is crap.  Trust me.”

Cearalaith turned back to face him.  “Can you… get me back?”

“I can,” he said softly, walking toward her with a hint of swagger in his stride.  “But I won’t.”

She scowled.  “Look, you asshole –”

“No, you look, princess,” he snapped.  “I’m doing you a favor.  I can get you back, but I won’t.  Instead, I’m going to make sure that you stay here until the cavalry shows up and someone else can get you back.  It’s better this way.”

“Better?!  How?!  I need to get back and stop that thing, before it takes Kuvasei and goes – gods knows where!  Or what it will do!”

“You don’t have to worry about that.”  He moved closer to her, putting his hands on her arms.  She tried to wrench away, but he his grip was like cold steel.  “You just have to trust me – and hold on until they get here.  Hold on to your anger.  I know this is hard, I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but – hell.”  He sighed.  “Look, you’ll understand when you’re older.”

“I thought you weren’t my dad,” Cearalaith snapped, still trying to twist out of his grasp.  He chuckled and pulled her closer despite her resistance, pressing his cold lips to her forehead, and she winced, due as much to the chill the kiss sent through her as the act itself.  “Why are you doing this?”

Wordlssly he brought one cold hand to the hole in her chest, and with it drew the veil of blackness close around her again; it seemed he put something inside her, but she could not see it.  She tried to scream and fight, but found herself suddenly weak, sinking in his phantom arms as she faded into unconsciousness again.  “Because,” he said quietly, “I have a vested interest in seeing you grow older.”

*****

She believes the Light is a force of life and healing and all that is good and right in the world.  I believe the Light is a weapon, a simple but potent tool to be wielded at my will and to my ends.  If she is right, may I be its instrument now – and if I am right, may it be mine.

She would have expected waking up to be more painful, if she’d expected to wake up at all.  The air rushing into her lungs was only briefly excruciating, and the moment of disorientation she experienced at opening her eyes to grey skies and bloodstained stone was less than she’d experienced just…

Cearalaith blinked, her mind trying to snatch at a quickly-fading memory as several things happened at once.  Her hand flew to her chest – where it met new flesh, smooth and solid and warm.  Her heart pounded beneath.  Stavier was lying on the ground near her, evidently exhausted, panting as the glow surrounding him faded, and Liealia knelt beside him.  “Fuck the Argents,” the blood knight grinned up at his wife between labored breaths.  “They only wish they could do things like that.”

She sat up tentatively, trying to say his name, but someone else was screaming hers and then arms were around her.  Cearalaith’s eyes welled up.  “Asty?” she whispered, her arms reflexively responding and wrapping around her sister.

Astoreth only sobbed.  When she finally spoke, her first words were “I’m sorry.  I love you.  I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t enough, but Cearalaith couldn’t find it in herself to want more right then – her once-adored big sister was there with her, holding her, soothing her through choked sobs, and it felt better than she wanted to admit.  She held Astoreth tightly in kind, fighting off her own tears as she tried to focus on what was most important.  “Kuvasei,” she said.  “Astoreth, we have to find Kuvasei – something’s wrong with her, the demon has her, we have to –”

“We know,” Lia told her gently.  “She’s all right.  Kuvasei is safe.  Westel is taking care of her.”

Some small part of Cearalaith knew that after what Kuvasei had been through she couldn’t possibly be all right – but as with Astoreth’s outpouring, she was grateful in the moment for what Lia’s assurance meant.  The immediate danger was past; she curled up in her sister’s arms and let herself cry.  She could deal with everything else tomorrow.

Lok’tar Ogar

Tags

Astoreth, Garrosh, Kuvasei, Liealia, Stavier, Tywren, Zul'rohk

It is a tragic story.  A young man, full of promise – if perhaps burdened with expectation – rises to a position of authority amongst his people.  He may be a warrior or a scholar, but he is blessed with cunning and charisma; he respected and admired by those he leads, and the people seek his guidance eagerly.  His motivations – at least at first – are simple in concept, if more complex in execution: protect those who depend on him.  See his lands flourish and prosper.  Become a better man than his father.

But in pursuing these goals, the young man loses sight of the reason he chases them in the first place.  He makes small sacrifices for the greater good – and then greater sacrifices, for the increasingly lesser good.  Invariably this young man is too foolish – too inexperienced, perhaps, or too emotionally invested – to recognize when his sacrifices outweigh the benefits.  He makes the best decisions he can in the moment he is confronted with a choice.  He always acts with the best of intentions… and paves his own road with them, as well.  Passionate leader that our young man is, those weak of will or personality of their own follow his banner into madness willingly – and powerful leader that he is, those who oppose him are swept away.

He is not irredeemable, not at first.  But one day something happens.   He destroys a town, or he bargains with a demon.  He kills a man.  One day he makes a choice.  And in doing so, he destroys himself.

After that day he is no longer the man he was.  He is barely a man, in many respects; he is more appropriately a monster. Death, destruction and despair fall in his wake.  No longer a leader, he betrays and sacrifices his own people, those he once would have given anything to save – those he may have set on this very path to save.  Terribly, some of them still go willingly. And still he tells himself: it was for the best.

It is a tragic story, and a disturbingly familiar one.   Twice in a decade it has played out in ways that have irrevocably changed my own life, and this twisting feeling in my gut tells me that I am living through a third.

I encountered a young man very recently, who despite young age had garnered great respect amongst his allies and his opposition alike.  He might have grown to be a great leader – one who would protect his people, and see his lands flourish – and he might have avoided the fates of Arthas Menethil and Kael’thas Sunstrider, as he had the ability to see beyond today’s crisis to tomorrow’s need; to believe that the greatest sacrifice if of oneself, not one’s people, and to understand that some means may never be justified, despite the ends.

In his death, that young man may have become a greater man than his father.  And in murdering him, Garrosh Hellscream has made his choice.

I’ve been repeatedly advised to keep my head down, stay out of it, let other people handle it.  I know for a fact Westel wants me to have nothing to do with this war; though he wears it well, he will not be content until I am safe at home with Laurelia and Anais.  I don’t know how to explain to him that I do not feel safe at home.  I’ve delicately acknowledged to the people who have asked about my surprising decision to join the Horde offensive in Pandaria that I was more or less drafted; I’ve not explained to anyone – not even Westel – that in my case the “draft” consisted of being dragged off an Orgrimmar street in broad daylight, interrogated and given two choices: prove my loyalty to Hellscream by joining his army, or face trial and likely summary execution as an agent of the Burning Legion and traitor to the Horde.  That if they’d been able to prove I was consorting with the Alliance I probably wouldn’t have been given the option.

But even if I were safe – Westel is not safe.  Nor is Kuvasei.  Nor Stavier, nor Liealia; not Zul’rohk or Tywren – especially if the shadowhunter’s cover is blown – nor any elf or troll: it has been made blatantly clear that we are expendable.  And certainly no one thinks that Hellscream will stop when he runs out of elven and trollish blood to spill – not when there are goblins and Forsaken to spare.  And tauren and orcs when there is no one else left.  It is not that we are soldiers and these are the risks of war; Hellscream has made it clear that no sacrifice, no matter how bloody and senseless, is too great to achieve his goal.  Live by these words, he says.  Lok’tar ogar.   Victory or death.   Sacrifices must be made.  He does not care if the world is scorched and barren in the end, so long as he stands astride it and no other.

I do not know how to let other people handle it.  If you want a job done right, as they say.   I made some sacrifices of my own, once – and I did it precisely so I would have the power to handle things that need handling.  Of course I will not rush in blindly, despite Westel’s worries; I’m not an idiot.  But neither am I going to sit home knitting and wringing my hands.

I have the drive.  I have the power.  I can be quiet and subtle.  I can keep the littlest ones safe, and keep Westel and Kuvasei from worry.  The only thing I cannot do is nothing.  I have too many promises to keep to do nothing.

I do not know how this will end.  But I know I cannot just sit by and watch it happen, any more than I could sit back and let Deathwing destroy Azeroth.  I do not know what will become of my people, of my friends.    I do not know what will become of the Horde.

But I do know what will become of Hellscream.  He set the terms himself.

Lok’tar ogar, indeed.

On the Dagger’s Edge

Tags

Astoreth, Tywren, Vol''jin, Zul'rohk

Six weeks ago, in a cavern between Four Winds and Kun-Lai.

Blood soaked Astoreth’s sleeves and coated her boots. Most of it was not hers. She flexed her arms – everything ached, but at least it all worked.

She looked around the dank cavern; not everyone who had joined them on this expedition was so lucky. Several grunts lay riddled with arrows, their faces twisted in agony. A peon’s arm stuck out from beneath a large boulder. In fact, only four individuals had survived the melee, including Astoreth herself. The only ones who matter, she thought.

She made her way over to Zul’rohk, who acknowledged her with a nod. “I don’ get it,” the lanky troll muttered as he slung his bow over his shoulder.  He scowled and jerked his head at the corpse of the orc who had first drawn blades. “He had to know we’d never go along wit’ it.”

“He had to know you wouldn’t go along with it,” Astoreth said. “It probably never occurred to him that Tywren and I – that a pair of elves might side with a troll against the fist of Hellscream.” She rubbed her aching arm as they began to walk. “Or that he might not be able to take us if we did.”

Zul’rohk grinned, his tusks gleaming in the dim light. “He almost did. But we not just any trolls an’ elves, eh?”

He chuckled briefly, but his mirth faded as they drew up on Tywren and their badly-injured companion – a Darkspear shadowhunter, now coughing roughly as he tried and failed to sit up properly. The elder troll’s eyes met Zul’rohk’s with an unmistakable intensity. “The warchief shows his hand,” the wounded shadowhunter rasped.

“Shhh,” Tywren soothed him. “Be still, Elder. Just for a moment.” The shadowhunter complied, closing his eyes, struggling to breathe as the small priest examined his wounds.

“Will he be all right?” Zul’rohk asked.

Tywren nodded. “Physically, yes, he should. I’ve seen much worse. He’ll need time to heal, but…” Tywren looked significantly at the room of dead orcs, and back up at Zul’rohk and Astoreth. “We’ve got other problems,” he breathed softly, the edge of his mouth quirking up in a kind of desperate smile. “Once we all leave here, Hellscream’s going to know that we know about his assassin. He….”

He trailed off, and it took Astoreth a heartbeat to catch his meaning. “He can’t let us live.”

The shadowhunter coughed, pushing himself up on his hands again, this time without falling. “Dis be what de Horde come to – killin’ its own?”

“Elder, please –”

The shadowhunter shook his head, waving off the priest’s concerns. “I can’t let dis happen,” he said – and to Astoreth’s surprise, his piercing eyes tracked from Zul’rohk to include Tywren and herself as well. “I need ya.”

“You have a plan,” said Zul’rohk.

The shadowhunter grinned and gave a single, short nod. “Go back to de warchief,” he said. “Tell him I’m dead. Stay close to him. Watch him. We move to take him out when de time is right.”

Astoreth turned her head reflexively, half-expecting their would-be assassin to come charging at them again, screaming traitors. But the orc lay across the room, his eyes glassy and his innards out. The shadowhunter coughed again and she turned back to him.

“Others are like me,” he whispered. “You gotta find ‘em. Swear it – swear de blood oath with me.” He held out his hand, covered with blood.

Zul’rohk took the shadowhunter’s hand, unhesitatingly, and spoke words in Zandali.

To Astoreth’s surprise, Tywren did likewise.

Then it was her turn. She reached out… then hesitated. “I… don’t… know the words,” she said.

The shadowhunter grinned. “Sure ya do,” he chuckled. “Dey call you blood elf, don’t dey? So swear on ya blood.” He grasped her bloodied hand with his own.

Astoreth furrowed her brow as she watched their fingers slip against each other – his three blue digits, her five pale pink ones, rendered almost indistinguishable in tone by the crimson fluid covering both of them.

“I swear to you by blood,” she found herself saying in Thalassian. “The blood of my heart and life. Of my father, of my lover, of my children. Of my people laid low by betrayal. By the blood of my brothers and sisters: we will have justice.” And as she finished, the shadowhunter smiled.

“It be done,” he said. “We bruddas in dis, until de end.” He chuckled. “And sistah.”

“Where will you go now, Elder?”asked Zul’rohk.

“I’m gonna disappear for awhile.” He stood slowly, and though he clutched at his side, he held his balance. “You go, before they start to suspect anyt’ing,” he told them, as he limped away into the shadows. “And don’ forget about me….”