#daelin speaks

[cetologies]

um okay reminder do not follow me if youre a terf i dont like you and also die

#daelin speaks

[y-rhywbeth2]

Lore: Time and Festivals in Faerûn

Accuracy Disclaimer & The Other Stuff [tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]

Abeir-Toril: Why it's called the "Forgotten" Realms History | Time & Festivals | Lexicon [1] [2]| Languages | Living in Faerûn [1] [?] | Notable Organisations | Magic | Baldurs Gate | Waterdeep | The Underdark | Geography and Human Cultures --- WIP

As in days of the week and months, terminology and measurements, timepieces available, the calendars and holidays (and some of the different ways different people celebrate them).

The most common calendar in use in Faerûn is the Calendar of Harptos - technically created by a wizard of that name, but nobody really knows who he is, it's just the name of the calendar to them.

The calendar is split into 12 months, each consisting of 30 days, and a day is 24 hours long. The equivalent of a week is 10 days, most commonly referred to as a tenday. The final day of a tenday is referred to as the elf day, which is the equivalent of a weekend (except only one day long), and is usually a day off work.

Years are 364-365 days long. Festival days occur between the months, with an extra festival (Shieldmeet) occurring every four years.

In Chondathan (the language spoken on the Sword Coast, including Baldur's Gate) a year is called a dael, plural is daelin.

The terms for minutes, seconds and hours do not exist on Toril.

Approximately, what we call second is termed in most of Faerûn as "a breath," and a minute is a "goodly breath or three".

In rural areas, most people don't measure time. One organises oneself by keeping an eye on the light levels, shadows, and the rhythm of daily activity around. Around monastaries and temples, the equivalent of an hour is "a bell" - as the buildings will ring their bells at regular intervals, and people can track the time accordingly. Urban areas, being full of the things, can track their daily activities by the bells.

Wealthier individuals can afford candle clocks and similar, which has lead to an alternate name for the hour-equivalent; "a candle". Candles can be expensive. A standard candle clock costs 1 gold, and those meant to measure longer periods of time can go as far as 10 gold (for comparison, the average income for most of Faerûn is 10 silver a tenday, most of which will go towards rent and food).

Neverwinter, being a city known for its glass working, produces water clocks. A few, more advanced models include gears and clockwork. Neverwintan clocks are known to be the most accurate timepieces, leading to the phrase "by the clocks of Neverwinter" being used as a phrase to swear one's honesty and reliability. Another phrase is "even a water clock run dry tells the correct time twice a day."

And of course there are sand-clocks, also called sandglasses (we would call them hourglasses). Sand-clocks come in various types, depending on what time you plan to track (varieties include: 30 seconds; 60 seconds; five minutes; ten minutes; an hour; two hours). Costing between 5-25 gold, an hourglass is typically well out of the price range of the average Torilian.

"Time bell" is a term for any time signal, such as alarm clocks (although strictly speaking, those exact objects don't exist in this world) - the term comes from the striking of temple bells as a call to prayer.

Halflings have their own distinct time keeping terminology. The equivalent to a minute is a tune, with multiple minutes being called "long song" - for example, five minutes, would be "five long songs." In terms of longer time periods, halflings will tell the time according by describing the zenith of the sun.

Faerûn has no names for the days of the week as Earth does; if you want to be specific about what day it is, you have to use the whole date: the day of the tenday [of the month, optionally]. For example, "the ninth day of the third tenday [of Flamerule]."

There are multiple systems tracking the passage of years, the most commonly seen in Forgotten Realms products being Dalereckoning (DR). The first year (1 DR) began with the year that the elven court of Cormanthyr granted humans the rights to settle in their lands. The preceding year being 0 DR, and years before that continuing into negative numbers (as with BCE on Earth).

Dalereckoning is the most commonly used measurement in most of Faerûn - though not on other continents, which have their own systems, and even within Faerûn various kingdoms also have their own systems. (Cormyr Reckonings (CR) begin with the establishment of the kingdom's founding dynasty and trying to track CR and DR together causes a splitting migraine for sages in-universe. Tethyreckonings (TR) begin with the founding of Tethyr (this measurement is, thankfully, rarely seen outside of legal documentation.))

Attempts have been made to create a year-counting system that brings all the calendars together into a cohesive whole, but generally, on Faerûn, you'll count the years in Dalereckoning.

---

Times of day are split into periods related to the height of the sun:

Godswake [Predawn hours]

Dawn

Morning is split into two halves, Harbright and then Elsun

Highsun [Noon]

Afternoon is split into Tulsun then Tharsun

Sunset

Night

Midnight, or Deepnight

-

The Months (and the festivals) and their corresponding months:

Hammer - January

(Midwinter)

Alturiak - Feburary

Ches - March

Tarsakh - April

(Greengrass)

Mirtul - May

Kythorn - June

Flamerule - July

(Midsummer)

[Shieldmeet]*

Eleasis - August

Eleint - September

(Highharvestide)

Marpenoth - October

Uktar - November

(Feast of the Moon)

Nightal - December

-

The Festivals are held across all of Faerûn, and the specifics and names of the festivals may change by region. Some regions also have several other festivals unique to that location (the city of Silverymoon has dozens). There are also numerous holy days devoted to certain gods, and some faiths have specific ways to mark the festivals.

That said, they all follow the same general themes.

Shieldmeet occurs only once every four years, and is traditionally a day when the rulers must open their courts to the common people and allow them to make their voices heard. Shieldmeet is a large celebration, featuring all fashion of bazaars, fairs, large musical and theatrical performances, and especially competitions of skills - including spellcasting tournaments for mages.

To elves Shieldmeet is Cinnaelos'Cor [Corellon's Peace], which is basically elven new year (the elven equivalent to a year is basically four years - an aeloulaev - and even then elven farmers are the only ones who have any need to measure the passage of time. Most elves aren't paying enough attention to time to measure it.)

-

Midwinter: Traditionally a day for making or renewing alliances between the nobility, who celebrate it with parties. If you're a commoner and you live in a place with cold winters, such as the North, there are no parties and you call it "Deadwinter Day" and it's a day to hope your food stores hold out and that you don't freeze this year.

To deep gnomes, this is the Festival of the Star; a holy day in celebration of their patron god and protector, Callarduran Smoothands. A bioluminescent fungus is cultivated through the year, which are timed so that it will release its glowing spores on midwinter day. The fungus grows on a cave roof over a body of still water, and the light they cast causes a reflection like the night sky in the dark water. The festival celebrates svirfneblin history and their ancestral ties to the surface, as well as celebrating Callarduran for the protection he continues to provide his people.

Duergar settlements cease their tireless production for a single day, to listen to priests of Laduguer recount tales of their people's suffering as they denounce the weakness of their non-duergar kin and the Morndinsamman. This is followed by a recounting of the names of people who have wronged the Duergar, and collective promises of retribution against them.

Unsurprisingly, this is one of the holy days of Auril - goddess of cold and winter. Aurilians celebrate by dancing in the ice and snow and having fun, and they are tasked with proselytising to the masses, encouraging them to convert to the service of the Icedawn.

This is the Day of the Masked Lord's Embrace for Drow followers of Vhaeraun, who pass the day in a state of introspection and sensory deprivation - levitating in the centre of a patch of magical darkness for the full 24 hours. The magic required is provided by Vhaeraun himself.

-

Greengrass is a festival to welcome spring. Traditionally, the wealthy gift flowers to the commonfolk who wear them or offer them for the gods relevant to summer (Lathander, sun god of renewal, for example)

Orcs begin to gather their hordes under the guidance of priests of Ilneval, preparing for war. In response, dwarves under the guidance of priests of the goddess Haela Brightaxe prepare their people and homes to defend against the oncoming orc armies.

For Chaunteans, Greengrass is a fertility festival and the day is celebrated with feasting, drinking and hedonism - uninhibited behaviour is encouraged.

-

Midsummer is about music and feasting and also pretty much it's valentines day, with betrothals and new courtships and dancing. If the weather is bad on Midsummer then that's a bad omen.

The scattered Harpers often have reunions on this day. The church of Tymora, goddess of luck, hosts night-long revels that serve as reunions for various people, including for the Harpers, who have agents within the church.

Svirfneblin observe the sister holiday to the Festival of the Star, the Festival of the Ruby that celebrates deep gnome history and their descent into the Deepearth and their life there. According to their legends, the deity hid rubies (which the deep gnomes prize above other minerals) deep in the earth to guide his people down there.

-

Highharvestide is, as the name implies, the harvest festival as the crops are all pulled in for winter. It's also the day travellers who haven't already left wherever they're staying leave before winter sets in

Worshippers of Malar, god of the hunt/wilds, provide one of their few positive services for the world by going on a massive hunt for the last tenday of Eleint. They then gather all of the meat and take it into the nearest towns and villages, parading their trophies and leading the people to a feast. For as long as the feast lasts, none may commit violence there.

-

The Feast of the Moon is a holiday for honouring the dead and your ancestors. Unsurprisingly, it's a hit with the gods of death.

Bhaalists celebrate it by honouring dead members of the faith, and retelling the stories of memorable deaths.

Myrkulites consider it a day when the souls of the dead may walk the earth again, and pass on messages to the living. They burn wine as offerings to the spirits, to offer them a brief respite from the chill of death.

Halfling communities, led by priests of Arvoreen, observe the Ceremony of Remembrance; a remembrance day for those who died defending their communities. It is said that loved ones of the lost experience brief, wordless contact with the spirits of the departed on this day.

Similarly, dwarven communities honour their fallen defenders, and craft arms and armour for future defenders in their name.

To elves, this is the Mystic Rites of the Luminous Cloud, If there is a full moon, elves will gather under it, joining their minds and souls in communal reverie. They are joined in their shared trance by the deity of dreams, mystery and death, Sehanine Moonbow, who physically manifests amongst them as a mantle of silver light that they dissolve into, being lifted up to fly through the night sky (rematerializing where they began at the end of the night). Through this meditation some of the faithful find their way to deeper enlightenment in the mysteries she represents.

Kelemvorites hold the Deeds of the Dead, a high holiday when the priests recount the names and deeds of the lost so that they will not be forgotten. Priests use spells like speak with dead to allow the living and the dead to meet.

#hey some demihuman stuff #was not expecting Svirfneblin #what is the Festival of the Ruby Ed #WHAT IS IT #long post

[twstwonderlandstuff]

Can i request ace, cater, floyd and kalim trying to court (or befriend if u want) a introverted gn!reader?

anon, hi, hi! one thing. I DON'T write for cater~! he's cool, but I can't vibe with him, so it'll only be ace, floyd and kalim! but sure, of course daelin'! i'll be using befriending here, since i think it'll work better~

ace trappola

🍒 first glance, he probably wouldn't bother. eh, it's a shy kid, you don't catch his eye... until he catches you messing it up with riddle, then you do.

🍒 he'll approach with the aim to tease. 'pissed dear old housewarden, huh? be careful, it's only a few more wrongs until your head gets chopped!'

🍒 when you only nod at his words, he frowns. NRC students aren't normally like this, right? don't they usually bite back? this is where he gets a little more observant and notices your lack of want to talk and then it hits him like, 'ohh, they don't wanna talk.. m'kay.'

🍒 now he talks to you in questions that are easy to reply. he won't go so far as to research on stuff you like so you guys can talk, but he'll bring a few things up that might get you going, and when you do, you're met with a wide grin.

🍒 "so you can talk after all! heh, speak up man, or i'll be forced to talk your ear off!"

floyd leech

🍒 ooh, boy. what have you done to attract this man's attention? I mean, floyd gets bored a LOT, so you must've done something or acted in a certain way that gets him the urge to nag on you.

🍒 it'll be similar to how he talks to riddle. he'll go 'shrimpy~ hey, hey, are ya ignorin' me? you are, aren't you? looks like you want to get squeezed, huh? then, I won't hold back~' and proceed to chase you around NRC, laughing all the while.

🍒 it'll go like that for most of your interactions, but sometimes he'll settle down enough to just watch you and comment, either an insult or a compliment. he'll eventually but in and try to copy you, though, before getting bored and dragging you elsewhere.

🍒 floyd is honest with his words, always saying what's on his mind, so if you're somebody who wants someone's opinion without any sugar coating, he is your guy!

kalim al-asim

🍒 he's probably done this to many an Ignihyde student [i bet they have a group chat where they detail their experiences with #cinnamonroll]

🍒 he strolls up to you with the point on greeting you. 'hey, you're [name] from [class], right? nice to meet you!' and then chatter off about whatever's going on at the moment. it'll probably be brief, before he runs away to catch up with Jamil or something.

🍒 even though his conversations with you are brief, they're constant, so you'll at least get a minute or two with him everyday before he speeds off. that's just how he rolls.

🍒 he'll genuinely think you're a cool person and that's why he talks to you a lot!

#cherry picking #twisted wonderland #twst wonderland #twst #ace trappola #ace trappola x reader #floyd leech #floyd leech x reader #kalim al asim #kalim al asim x reader #gender neutral reader #gn! reader #gn reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst headcannons

[blue-eyed-banshee]

Sylvanas liked ground coffee from a unique land within azeroth in life.

In her undeath she preferred dark coffee, obviously.

This was all before she married Jaina. She now prefers Kul'tirian coffee, which she tried on their honeymoon in Tiragarde, and she fell in love with it!

They get their brand of Kul'tirian coffee shipped from their favorite coffee place in Boralus (for free, of course) since Cyrus offered to pay for their shipment while they enjoyed their time together as newlyweds.

When Alleria and Vereesa would come to visit, the two newlyweds always gave her coffee if Syl's sisters had to travel far to meet them. The youngest Windrunner isn't a fan of their coffee at first, but she grew to like it while Alleria fell in love with it instantly.

As per agreement to expand Boralus' shipping and travel; Quel'thalas would occasionally exchange goods with the fine people of Kul'tirias to show how much they see Jaina as one of their own people.

Lor'thermar always sneaks in an extra something within each crate of weekly shipment of goods as a token of his favor and respect Kul'tirias as a nation.

Kathrine would occasionally write to the two while they were away, as would Derek and Tandred. This goes double for when Sylvanas and Jaina sail together after the birth of their first child, Daelin Windrunner, which Jaina had decided to take Sylvanas' last name when they married.

Sylvanas would occasionally be welcomed in stormwind as an honor guest to Anduin, who had long since took the throne from her brother-in-law, who offered him his throne back upon Anduin officially returning his to self imposed exile after what happened in shadowlands.

When Sylvanas first visited Stormwind with Jaina, she initially got cold looks and the occasionally shout of unwelcome threats from its citizens which she gotten used to since the very same thing happened when she ventured to Kul'tirias so Jaina could announce her engagement to Sylvanas properly.

She was met the occasional death threat from both times within the two cities, but she couldn't blame them. After all, she did almost destroy both cities as Warchief as well as gotten Varian killed (as stormwind views it).

With enough time, Sylvanas proved herself to both lands that she had truly changed. But Genn was still occasionally glaring at her with such hatred within the union as well as banquets held to welcome Jaina and Sylvanas.

When the old wolf would privately threatened her away from the ears of Anduin and Jaina, she would all but take the words that he spat at her with sterness as well as watching her tongue (for once in her undead life..) if Anduin or Jaina came towards them, Greymane would act as if he was having a friendly conversation with her. Jaina, having felt Sylvanas emotions from a distance via necklace she had proposed to her with, she would know better when Syl tried to brush it off.

Upon learning what had transpired , Jaina was going to leave to put Greymane in his place, but Sylvanas would always lovingly hold her hand while whispering not to cause a scene.

The two would touch foreheads and speak in Thalassian to each other, which Jaina already knew how to speak fluently.

#sylvanas windrunner #goth mun speaks #jaina proudmoore #sylvaina #sylvanas x jaina #sylvanas musings » i deserved a clean death #greymane can go fuck himself! #he has a daughter yet he's so focused #on his son's death #let's go lesbians #sylvania #daily angst #brought to you by a even more gothic lesbian who loves women with fangs and magic powers

[eldridgecandell]

🕯️ Use a Ouija board

House Ashvane may have been near sent to ruins thanks to the machinations and work of their former lady Priscilla, but there's a curious thing about memory. It's only as long as the coin stays quiet.

Despite the set back of the initial months after the disgrace of their matron, the years had eventually regained the little power they were allowed to keep over the docks and yards. With the death of Priscilla, the younger members of the house rose to meet the challenges of regaining the honor they had kept for so long. The other houses had been less than keen to give it but they could not deny the power they still held over the trade that kept Boralus alive.

The party alone this fine Autumn eve was clear enough as members of Waycrest, Stormsong, and Proudmoore found rubbing elbows among the island kingdoms elite. To be clear you would not find Lady Proudmore or Waycrest themselves and most definitely not Stormsong himself. All had been plagued with dangers, traitors, and dark tides since the Fourth War but that did not mean minor nobles or family members would not jump at the chance to deal and shake hands to benefit each other's status.

It's just business.

"Hatch, you ol sea dog, you are not one I would have expected to see here tonight," came the gruff notes of a man in a fine seal skin suit as he extended a hand to another gentlemen in deep green.

Jerimiah Hatch, Captain of Daelin's Gaze, took the extended hand with an air of what appeared to be indifference but his eyes spoke warmer than his cold voice. "Master Finley."

"Pff, Master. Cut that carp, Phil does fine," Finley laughed as he shook with his massive paw of a hand, his other as was usual cradled a half full goblet of fine Stormsong mead. "How ya been there?"

Hatch would shake easily, accepting the strong grip of the Drustvar native before releasing it to stand at his usual ready with his hands behind his back. The captain unlike many of his fellow partygoers did not imbibe, choosing to his keep his focus much like his liver intact. "I have been very well, Phil. And yourself? I heard that your nephew had recently come into quite a cache of silver in the mines near Corlain."

"Kurt, oh aye the boy's doin wonders for the business. Wonders! Wish my own sons would be as much a blessing to our enterprise," Finley chuckled again loosely as he lifted his goblet to take a deepr drink. His thick walrus mustache twitched a bit before reaching up to wipe the crystal embers of the honey wine from the hair before speaking again. "How is my boy doin?"

"Geoff is doing quite well on the ship, he does our Lady's armada justice and your own house proud in his duties," Hatch informed the giant of a man, the conversation reaching the awkward lull when people go through the usual first greeting motions. Fortunately, rescue was only a loud gong away.

"My lords and ladies," a deep baritone rose above the final ringing of the gong as all eyes turned to the front of the parlor and what appeared to be this evenings host. A short man with a grey fringe of hair stood at the front, his suit black as an orc to match his rotund belly while the trimmings of red did little to hide his place among the 'upper decks.'

"Ashvane," Hatch practically spit the name as he adjust his stance, his voice low in his disdain.

Finley was hardly one to put much in the 'traitor' house, but he was not one to be an ungrateful guest. Giving an eye over to his companion with a soft shrug and whisper to follow. "Easy tha, Hatch. It's been years now, ol Kehvin was hardly involved with her too much."

A snort was all Captain Hatch would reply as he tried his damnedest to not break his own hand as the held them so tight behind his back.

"Thank you all once again for joining us this evening," Kehvin Ashvane continued, no longer a lord or master in anyone's eyes but doing his best to keep civil and accept his role as just Mister Ashvane. It was hard at first for the once wealthy and proud to accept their new place in the hierarchy of the isle. Luckily putting wealth before pride seemed to be suiting them at this point in time.

"We are so grateful that this olive branch has been accepted by our brethren of the island," Ashvane continued as he did his best to let his brown eyes lock onto each guest and give them his attention. Years of practice still paid off as he spoke more. "Our past has always been troubled waters, but it is our hope as much as yours I'm sure to sail into bright and calmer tides. Though we are far than more aware of how well wishes can be but time is still needed for all hurts. And we continue to be grateful for your forgiveness and trust in our patience of someday being fully accepted back into the court of Kul Tiras and that of our lady admiral."

Ashvane would raise his glass on high in a toast. "If you would all be so kind as to raise your glasses. To Lady Proudmoore, to Kul Tiras, and to the future."

Glasses were raised and voices repeated the toast in turn. Finley added his own cheer of 'here here' to the chorus of well wishes and oiled acceptance of Ashvane hospitality.

Hatch was silent.

"Now as for tonight's entertainment, we have brought an exciting spectacle all the way from our kinsman in Drustvar," Kehvin spoke again as he slipped back among the crowd who parted for him gingerly. Some with interested looks, many with distrust, and others just enjoying the free refreshments.

A curtain was drawn aside to a drawing room off to the side of the parlor, the red curtains pulled by bronze ropes by the housemen of the chateau. Already the crowd was beginning to file forward with interest at something from their 'spooky' cousins to the west.

The drawing was warm and inviting with dark stained floors to match the wood walls draped with curtains that for old visitors would remember of paintings of the previous matron of Ashvane. Kehvin was wise to dispose of them quickly if not for the basic decoration of his house. But the walls were not really of so much interest but of the large round table in the center of the room and it's sole occupant.

White, bone legs of driftwood supported the massive circle with emphasis of allowing the natural dried wood to be evident in it's creation. Odder than the bone white wood was the top of the table. Black, dull slate gave nothing of decadence of the house of Ashvane but it was the matching colored writing upon it's surface that made it all the more intriguing. Chalk lines had been drawn and crisscrossed about with letters mixing from old Alteri to common and what appeared to be elvish or troll. All built in a circle that if stared at in the right way almost felt like their were moving a stomach twisting nausea. Chairs to match the table sat open and cautiously inviting, a count of seven though one was already filled.

"Allow me to introduce, Louise Wincott," Kehvin continued now as he turned to the side offering his hand toward the sole occupant who now rose. Finley gasped softly beside Hatch, who in turn hadn't foggiest who the woman was at the table.

Louise Wincott was tall and willowy, her dark hair streaked with white much like the chalk on the table did not match the lack of lines on her face. Her hands were held in front of her in a docile manner of a young woman in waiting, but the line of her mouth did nothing to bring joy or comfort. Her eyes, much as the streaks of white in her hair matched the chalk, matched the dark black of the slate of the table. Her thin lips would part than as she spoke softly and directly to the small crowd. "Calm tides and pleasant nights to you all, please come in and have a seat. Welcome to my table."

Hatch frowned as the gasp of Finley finally registered in his brain as he turned to the once bawdry man. The red nosed face of a man deep into his cups was now pale as a ghost as he stared. "Finley, are you alright?"

A quick shake of his head as he downed his cup, already turning around toward the exit. "I'll have no part of this."

"What do you mean? You were just going on about the future and bygones," Hatch still confused as he began to follow the larger man, the main crowd already starting to edge into the drawing room. The captain grabbed the merchant lord by the shoulder to stop him as he spoke again in more of his captain voice than that of a friend. "What's going on? Who is she?"

Finley stopped and turned back to Hatch, though his eyes strayed beyond the sea captain toward the dark entertainment. "A Nightspeaker."

"A what?"

Finley leaned in close, his breath reeking of wine and fear. "A witch damn it. He brought a bloody witch here!"

#ask answered #ouija board #louise wincott #the wincott sisters #the nightspeakers #the coven #kul tiras #ashvane #waycrest #stormsong #proudmoore #world of warcraft #wyrmrest accord #moon guard #roleplay

[tidesages]

<<the truth about tropos>>

(a tale for sister pyre) (WARNING: body horror)

Everything hurt.

The pain fluctuated in waves and spikes, exacerbated if Marianne dared move a muscle. Still, it was constant and overwhelming. The only way she could tell time was from the healer sages and their words… something like a week had passed? Perhaps two? She drifted in and out of consciousness frequently, though even her dreams were tinted with the hazy discomfort.

Being bed-bound had given her time to think, between waves. She’d been stupid, assuming those who’d fallen were dead, and even more so when she hadn’t brought them in as well. If they’d all been locked up, perhaps the Shrine wouldn’t have had to bear its flooding at the hands of one angry sage.

Even now, the memory of that cold face made her want to get up and flee. Was this what the Tidemother could have looked like, if she were given form? Was this her punishment for thinking Taggin could be saved? The memory of Worth’s face was so associated with pain that her entire body once more throbbed with agony. It took a will of steel to remind herself that she was still in the infirmary and that the pain would pass.

Without her willing it, the face morphed into another. Bronze skin and curly black hair paled, turned fair with straight and greyed brown locks. Soft lines turned hard and cruel, staring down his nose in her memory. The words floated along with him, in Taggin’s voice.

Couldn’t make an example of him, so it’s on me now?

Marianne’s eyes were already shut, but she squeezed them tighter. Oh, she’d royally bungled that up, hadn’t she? Her resentment had gotten in the way of her duty, and she’d needled where she needed to be understanding. Not to mention that she had given in on some points where she hadn’t intended to, all due to her emotions being manipulated.

Maybe this was what had drawn others to Taggin, tides damn her. She had to pull them in by twisting her words, rather than by being any sort of good person. Doing good took effort and sacrifice, and that cultist had never experienced either.

And yet… Maybe I could understand, if you told me. Marianne gave a low groan into the air, one that held more pain than that which spiked in her bones.

Her mind was running in circles, and her body was a prison in which she stalked like a rat in a cage. Perhaps this was how Taggin had felt… but no, she was doing it again. Stop that, Marianne.

So consumed was she that the steps to her bed went unnoticed. At least, until the familiar voice spoke up. “I don’t know if you can hear me, Marianne.” Ah. That was Tobias. No one could sound as smug as him, even when he had no right to be. Especially when he had no right to be. “But I’d heard you had a bad run-in with the sage that flooded the lower half of the Shrine, so I had to visit.”

There was a little huff as he sat down in the chair beside her bed - not that she could see, she kept her eyes shut. It wasn’t like she could move, or even speak without pain, so what was the point. “I wanted to let you know that I made it back alright. They drove off that brute at Fort Daelin, and now I’m here.” He paused, and she could imagine him wiping sweat off of his neck. Probably what he deserved. Her thoughts weren’t very charitable right now.

“Given the losses, I’ll need to take some time to fortify the Shrine and work on finding new initiates. We may need to take on more mainlanders - of acceptable races, of course - in order to start filling things up again. The upside is that there’s less chance of unfortunate leanings, though they’ll have things to unlearn. The downside is that this will take a lot of work, and I’ll need to recall some monastery sages to help teach.” Tobias leaned back in his chair. “Once everything’s set up, I’ve got my plans for the cultist island. This shouldn’t take further soldiers or sages, though. I’ve got it handled, and Pike won’t need to know about that part, bless his soul.”

Finally, he stood up, and Marianne could have sighed in relief if it wouldn’t aggravate broken ribs. But the next words chilled her blood. “About Taggin and the others… I can’t really blame them for going after you, with the way you’ve been hounding them. I made a deal to not go after them, very kind I know, so they won’t be my problem. You’re on your own, so I suggest you do the same to prevent further trouble. We have bigger fish to fry with all those k’thir.”

“Make the right choice, Marianne. I know you’re a sensible girl who’ll see my way, won’t you?” With that, he strode off with the click of boots upon stone floors. All she could do was seethe motionlessly in her own bed.

Who was he to tell her what to do? They were supposed to be working together to cleanse the Shrine! How would any new sages be safe if there was always the chance that cultists like Taggin and her ilk could waltz in. Securing the Shrine like Tobias had mentioned would be impossible… the mountain was like cheese. It was full of holes, and possible friends who would help betray the Wake for their comrades.

There was no comfort in his words, and for a long and vengeful moment she wished he had died in his attack on Kraken’s Refuge. It wasn’t a feasible thing to wish for, but she could still dream if nothing else.

Oh, Marianne. Again, she’d been too preoccupied to hear any sound, but this one rattled in her head rather than in her ears. What have you gotten into this time?

Her eyes flew open. Nothing was visible, really… the private room in the infirmary ward was quiet and bare, with lanterns set up and the chair beside her empty. She was alone, wasn’t she?

Nearly beaten to death, and by Worth Farthing of all sages. That sounded almost unreasonably amused before it continued, And not only is Taggin gone again, you can’t even stop her. Not like this, anyway. And there’s no help from your partners on the council. Montague has his own plans, and Pike’s been… distant, to say the least. Finally, her searching eyes found a black slick sliding over the edge of the covers, rising up slightly into a smooth blob that watched her sightlessly.

The struggle of being unable to speak drew another fierce ache through her, one she couldn’t escape from as a tear formed in her eye. Don’t fret, Marianne. Just think the words, and I’ll hear them. I’m here to make things easier for you. The ink rose in place, slightly higher, to meet her eye level.

She was certainly good at thinking, but it was one thing to have thoughts flash across her mind like lightning and another to think with the intention of being heard. Why are you here? It couldn’t sound as firm as she liked to in her head.

Am I really so surprising? With a sinuous slither, more ink rose from beneath the bed to approximate a more human-sized shape with pits for a face. I told you I’d get back to you when you needed me more. I’d like for you to reconsider our offer, if you’re willing.

Bile climbed up into the back of her throat and made it burn. Another discomfort to add to the list. I have a hard time reconsidering if I don’t even know what the offer is, she thought bleakly. How awful was it that she was even entertaining the notion?

This drew the ink together, and it twisted in what was possibly contemplation. Seeing it threading around itself, and the ‘face’ moving in lazy circles, was a bit sickening, so she turned her gaze away. Essentially, what I’m offering is for us to form a little bond. There was a note of amusement at its wording there. I offer you my powers to their fullest extent… powers that make Farthing seem like the amateur that he is… and in turn I get the protection of being bound to you. That makes the two of us harder to kill, in fact. I can even heal you from this wretched state that you’re in, and help you get up from this bed today. 

This was a lot more tempting than it had sounded before. Marianne didn’t let the thought rise to the surface, though, struggling for that same level of skepticism. If you have that much power, you don’t need me. And how am I supposed to know that this power isn’t the very same as that which I’ve been fighting to remove from the Shrine? The latter question was definitely one she’d thought over in those passing months since the last time they’d met. Even if it was tied to a storied tidesage artifact, there had to be something truly wrong with it.

The ink slumped into formlessness as a mental sigh shook through her head. It drew out an answering twinge from her healing bones. You hold so much mistrust, Marianne. I’m not lying to you here. Something bubbled from within, slowly pulling more ink upward… until a glimmer of white caught the corner of her eye. She looked back, and a tooth had appeared from within the ink. A molar, buoyed up by the liquid.

Tropos was a fine fellow who wanted to know too much. The tooth slowly began to wander around the column of ink, followed by Marianne’s gaze. He asked for power from the Tidemother, and got more than what he bargained for. Because, my dearest, truth is really such a subjective thing. People don’t want to know the truth, because it can be so painful. Truth is the blade slicing away at the ropes and string that keep people together, the little lies that help them live with themselves. Her face must have twitched, because it added, You lie to yourself as well. If you hadn’t, you would have already come clean about why you want Taggin to suffer so much.

That’s truth I can ignore because there are real reasons to go after her, Marianne retorted without having to think about it. Why should I come clean about those feelings if they don’t matter, in the end? She wanted to squirm away - already it had dug into a part of her that hurt - but wasn’t that the point? If she was going to win, she not only had to hold onto enough power to defeat them, but she had to confront any lies that could cause complications. But I see your point. Go on.

The towering mass of ink quivered in silent laughter. You can say that I’m a separate part of that same power for truth. A bit twisted, true, but everything in life has at least a bit of shadow in it. The Tidemother made both the shallows and the depths, did she not? There is a place for darkness in the world, as long as there’s not too much. As long as it’s controllable. It let that sink in, as it continued to stain the blankets. It takes someone with a strong will, like you, to control that power and keep it from being misused.

Marianne involuntarily rolled her eyes. Another point, perhaps, but you might be laying it on a bit thick. And what about that protection you mentioned? Why would you need that? If this was even going to be something she could entertain, to accept as a bond, then she needed to know the answers to the important questions.

Taggin wields a dagger that can trap me… one that I have no guard against. It sure sounded reluctant there, she noted silently. Of course, with some flesh in the way to stop her, and my healing, it shouldn’t be a problem for us. But I have a feeling that your next work with her will be more successful than the last. Slowly, it swirled back into an approximation of a figure at her bedside. Those blank pits that passed for eyes stared at her.

The worst part about all of this was that the instant she started to consider, she knew she’d take the bargain. Not because she liked it, but because it was necessary. She’d run out of other options… in this hunt she’d be alone, without any sort of help to stop the worst criminals against the Shrine. And a lone sage, even as part of the council, stood no chance.

It rankled her. But it gave her hope, dangerously so, and she allowed herself to believe that she could win.

Ahhhhhh. The sound was accompanied by the hiss of sliding ink. Remember, I can’t hurt you when we’re one. Not only would it be counterproductive, I can’t destroy what is part of me. It knew it had her, really, before she could think an actual word. But it couldn’t act until she’d given permission.

Very well then. The thought was a sigh of its own, air given through her nose with a sharp pain in her ribs. How do we do this…?

Just leave it to me, promised the ink. I’ll take good care of you. Slowly, tenderly, it lowered down over the prone woman. A pitch-black tendril escaped the mass and traced down her cheek, the soft touch of a lover. Her eyes fell shut to anticipate the loss of pain. She couldn’t relax, but there was no fear. For a moment.

Then the ink pushed between her lips. It tasted metallic, bitter, with a hint of brine. This wasn’t what she’d signed up for, and Marianne’s eyes flew open. She couldn’t do more than twitch, though, and it slid in deeper to start sliding its way down her throat. Soon, her chest heaved with a retch, trying to expel the foreign material, but this only sent another white-hot stab through her bones. It didn’t deter the intrusion.

It was then that she realized that she was in trouble, as her mouth was filled with cold and sticky fluid that seemed intent on crawling its way into her stomach. The world turned hazy with the tears filling her eyes, and she shuddered uselessly in her fleshy prison. It was also sliding into her airway, and she choked uselessly. Of course now it would suffocate her, and she could only struggle to try to breathe past the sliding ink along her airways.

Don’t fight it, Marianne. Black crept over her vision, impossible to tell if it was from being without air or if the ink had also slid into her eyes. She could still feel dampness covering her corneas. You won’t die. Not yet. This was far from comforting.

As the ink burrowed its way deeper, she began to shudder without stop. Her body was moving without her permission, shivers running from head to toe and lighting up flickers of agony with each motion. She had to be dying, and when it was done there would be nothing left. Despite that, she could feel the sharp edges of something sliding down her throat washed down with ink. The Tooth. It hit the back of her throat and her stomach roiled once more in protest. This only forced the ink up slightly, and it continued to force its way down into her.

Where did it end? The thing had settled over her like a blanket and pressed down upon her… the trembling hadn’t stopped, though, and her back was arching against the restraining force. Oh Tidemother, it was everywhere. Everywhere it could touch, she could feel it trying to slide itself into her body like a hand pouring water into a pot.

Before she could contain all of the ink, the darkness enveloped her mind, and she passed out.

Even here, free from pain and terror, she wasn’t alone. I’d forgotten how little tolerance the body has for pain. Sadly, there wasn’t another option for what we need.

Have you done this before? At least now that she couldn’t feel the pain, there was enough time to be curious.

Tropos, or whatever its name was, felt… slightly apprehensive. The emotion echoed in her briefly, as if they had both been seated in a boat that had abruptly swayed. Once. There was a politician who sought the Tooth for his own gain. But he was an arrogant fool whose schemes took him down, and me with him. A man’s face flashed across her mind with the words, with solemn gnomish features and rectangular glasses. You… you’re different. We chose this, you and I. Our purposes are one.

Marianne’s unhappiness with the whole bonding bled through, met with something almost like sympathy from the ink. It won’t be long. In fact, I can probably wake you up now. You should be in far less pain. She hesitated at the answer… then agreed, silently.

I want to see who I am. If I’m still me.

When she woke, she could see. For the most part.

Colors had just a bit more tint to them, with odd little outlines that seemed to swim strangely. The glow from the lanterns sent fractal patterns along the walls that were almost enough to distract her from the rest of the changes.

Her body felt… longer. Perhaps that was a good way to describe it, as if it was scraped too thinly over what was contained within. Her feet hung over the edge of the bed, and when she glanced down, the tips of her toes looked far too black. With odd little points that lightly shone with the gleam of ink above the now-stained grey coverlet. 

Marianne sat up slowly, and her body informed her that pain was still an option, but she could tell that her bones seemed stronger. Stronger, but still healing. She could see more ink creeping into the coverlets, and her mouth was wet with darkness creeping in, but that didn’t matter so much now.

Looking down, she could see that her hands had lengthened as well, skin pulled tighter against extended bones. Her fingernails had been stretched and blackened in turn with sharp points curving slightly into a clawed shape.

Well, years in a dull sage robe had removed most of her hangups about her own appearance. Marianne gave a sigh, and murmured, “I wasn’t going to win an award anyway.” Her voice vibrated strangely in her chest, with an extra layer of something deepening each vowel and consonant. Were those her words still, or theirs?

Just as quickly, she could feel its thoughts as clear as her own. You look perfect, Marianne. She gave a small snort, then stood with some effort. Ink pooled in her marrow and the pain faded. The blankets and bedding behind her had been discolored from the bonding, leaving behind a black imprint of her body.

There was so much to do, she couldn’t bring herself to care about the infirmary now. She needed to wash and dress… then to draft up a new wanted poster.

The ink purred and swished inside of her chest as she set off, leaving a trail of damp black footprints in her wake.

#fiction #tidesage #sister pyre #inky #warcraft #THE NEXT PART of our inky adventures

[theoldlord]

In years past Unity Square and its Assemblage of Houses would have been packed. The bulk of all four major houses and their many vassals would have filled the floor and spilled out into the square, but no longer. Now only half of the assembly space was occupied and those standing were hardly lacking in space. The Fourth War had taken its toll on the kingdoms of the Alliance, Kul Tiras was no stranger to this.

“Lord Esmond. Your father served the Admiralty with honor for many years we do not deny that. I can personally speak to his skills and his ships safeguarded our kingdom for years. I know each and every one of us feel his loss. We do not forget."The speaker for the assembly stated, focused on a single man set apart from the crowd. He was young, in early twenties at best.

“Kul Tiras does not have the gold to lend you to rebuild a holdfast. The rebuilding of Daelin's Gate and our fleets take priority, I am sorry. The Admiralty will continue to provide lodging to displaced noble families for as long as we are able."

The young lord bowed his head, not out of respect to the decision given, but to hide his upset. Do not think little of me, father. I will fight to make sure Kul Tiras pays for what you gave..

“He can have my land." A single voice rose up from the crowd, interrupting the young lord before he could even speak and causing a wave of gasps to sound from the assembled lords and ladies. Moments later an elder paladin, the crest of the Silver Hand emblazoned on his tabard and warhammer in hand, stepped through the crowd to stand in the space before the speakers of the assembly. Right alongside the young lord Esmond himself. Despite his age he stood almost a head and a half taller. The mighty weapon he carried with him effortlessly lowered to rest its head upon the floor with a quiet thud.

“I am Araian Sunshield, Acting Lord of Saltwood under the good graces of this very assembly. The castle that stands there was built by the Grand Alliance, along with many others around Kul Tiras, to safeguard this kingdom from ruin. I have kept watch over the sea and kept the Lord-Admiral's peace from there for the past two years, and while it is a charge I carry out with great honor, it seems fitting that a man of Kul Tiras should take up that mantle in my stead. I would see them passed to Lord Esmond and his family here, this assembly of houses all witness."

“B-but my Lord.. Where will you go?" Lord Esmond asked, looking upon the elder paladin with disbelief.

"Where we are needed, Esmond." Lifting a hand to grip the man's shoulder. “The Light provides the path, my people and I have but to walk it." Looking to the speakers and the greater lords and ladies of the assembly upon the steps. “Saltwood shall pass to Lord Esmond. His banners shall hang from its walls by the next full moon."

[raffinit]

Sylvaina // 8. Regency AU - Person A inheriting Person B’s father’s estate and the only way to keep Person B’s family out of the poor house is for Person B to marry Person A.

I’M SORRY THIS IS SO TERRIBLE IT’S TERRIBLE I HAVE NO IDEA HOW TO REGENCY

I’M SORRY IT’S SO SHORT BUT IF I START IT, IT’LL NEVER FINISH

@saudadedreams

------

It was as bleak a day as one would expect for a funeral. Upon the shores, they gathered; the hanging clouds overhead wept as much as her mother, who clung to her arm with pallid fingers and eyes rimmed red. Her own eyes ached viciously with what precious little tears she had shed during the service, for she was a Proudmoore, and Proudmoores carried themselves with the dignity expected of their station.

She was a Proudmoore. One of the last few now.

The priest finished the rites; her mother detached from her side and reached for the torch held in his hand.

The torch flickered and flared as a wild gust of wind came with the tides, but the straw bedding lit. The fire rose into a roaring blanket heat in moments, and her father’s men heaved the boat from the shore. By the time the boat had sailed towards the horizon, it was nothing more than flames.

In the distance somewhere, the church bell tolled.

-----

That evening, a storm swept onto the shore with the tides. The darkened sky split open with a violence that shook the windows on their panes and rattled all that moved. The servants and maids scurried through the halls like the frenzied nest of rats from the larder, armed with candlesticks and oil lamps as they clamoured among themselves to nail down windows and shutters.

She sat with her mother by the hearth of the study, the fire blazing amidst great splits of wood. The smell of the sea crept in through the seams of the windows and the cracks of the doors; earth and brine and embers together. She sat and sipped on a toddy, warm between her cradled hands as she stared into the dancing flames.

She should have known, truly; what the storm would have wrought. As the servants bustled and shouted, and more feet thundered down the hallways to the main doors. She looked up at the doorway, apprehension curled tight like a boulder in her belly as the doors to the study creaked open.

“Deepest apologies, my lady,” their butler said, bowing low. “I do not mean to intrude. But the Lord Greymane, Esquire, has come.”

“Send him in,” her mother said wearily. “Bring him a towel, and perhaps a hot toddy the same. Quickly now; before the storm takes him as well.”

She frowned, and the warmth of liquor loosened her tongue to speak. “Can’t he leave us to grief but for a day? Surely the will can wait.”

“Jaina,” her mother chided. “Such things cannot wait for even the earth to settle on most graves. It cannot wait for your father’s body to turn to ash.” She watched her mother lean back into the chair and drink, watched the grief manifest in shadows. “Your brothers are dead, and now your father. We are all we have left in this world, my darling girl. You and I alone.”

Jaina reached out and clung to her mother’s hand with the same desperation of a child frightened from its bed. “Mother —”

Lord Greymane appeared then, with the chill of the outdoors nipping at his heels. He shook the damp from his hair and brushed it from his coats as a servant girl came to him with a towel. “You must pardon me for such rudeness, Lady Katherine,” he said, with a look of deep contrition. “For my appearance and appearance. I would not have pressed the matter had I been given the choice.”

“Sit, Lord Greymane,” Katherine Proudmoore replied. “Warm yourself. We must speak.”

Lord Greymane warmed himself briskly by the fire, hands outstretched against the flames. “I shan’t dither on the matter; you must already have a notion of why I am here.”

“Yes,” replied her mother quietly. “The will.”

There was a grimness in his face that unsettled Jaina; she set her glass aside lest she tumble it from her hands. “Which brother did he leave it to, then?” she asked, though her mother’s reproach was clear in the look she received. “Let us be frank, Lord Greymane. You have been my father’s lawyer for many years. You are but family now. We are in the privacy of our home. Let’s not stand of propriety where it isn’t needed.”

Sighing, the Lord Greymane turned to her with a saddened look of fondness she often saw in her own father’s eyes. “‘Tis true; I cannot bring myself to keep this from you for longer. My dearest Katherine, my heart aches for you, and my mind rages. But it is as it has been signed — Proudmoore Estate has been sold.”

Katherine gasped, though the sound itself was swallowed by a ravenous thunder from beyond the walls. “S-sold —”

“If it would ease your mind to know that your lord husband has bequeathed a generous sum to support you and your daughter —”

She could not comprehend it. There were words still coming from her father's lawyer's mouth — for she could certainly see it moving still — but there was nought that she took to comprehension.

Jaina shook her head incredulously. “I don't understand. This land has been in our family for years!”

“The laws of perpetuity are as such, my lady. As it is, the new landlord has proof of purchase and surrender of the estate and all its worldly possessions therein —”

“Oh, Daelin,” her mother moaned. “How could you?”

“That can't be right. M-my brothers —”

“God rest their souls —”

“They wouldn't have allowed it!” She rose from her seat and stared at Lord Greymane with a wild, frenzied desire to throttle the man. Were she of perhaps a daughter of lower birth; were she perhaps a daughter of the village grocer, perhaps she might not have a need at all to throttle him.

But she was not. She was a Proudmoore.

Lord Greymane gave her a chastened shrug, peering at her mother. “Unfortunately, Lady Proudmoore, the decision was beyond their control. Proudmoore Estate was signed by perpetuity only to your father's line...from your great-grandfather. In light of which, the Proudmoore line can no longer hold these lands to their family name. Proudmoore Estate has exchanged hands.”

She swayed on her feet and sank down onto the chaise, clinging desperately to anything that would keep her afloat. “Who,” she whispered. “Who is the new master of our home?”

“...The Windrunners.”

------

Amidst the weight of silence and storms, she spoke, no louder than a whisper. “What do we do?”

Katherine Proudmoore turned to look at her daughter, the seafoam of her eyes dim with grief. “What can we do?”

Lord Greymane reached for a stack of parchments tucked within a pocket of his coat. “I’m sure if we discuss this with Lord Windrunner, he would be amenable to having you as tenants —”

“Tenants?” Jaina cried. “In our own home? Preposterous!”

Sharply, Katherine said, “What would you have us do? Beg for our living in the slums? Die penniless with our family name buried at sea with your father?”

“How do I stop this?” she beseeched Greymane. “Surely there must be a way.”

Lord Greymane peered at her, shifting the weight on the balls of his feet with discomfort. “Well, there is, of course, marriage —”

She thrust out her chin defiantly. “Then I shall wed a Windrunner. If he be willing.”

“My lady —”

“I care not to whom I give my hand. Whether he be as old as the very earth this home stands, or whether he be crass and unkind and uncouth —”

“Jaina!” her mother cried.

She continued, no matter the tremble in her hands or the terror building in her spine. “I shall be a second wife — a third. A mistress. I care not. I shall bear him a hundred sons —”

“N-now —” Lord Greymane reached out a hand in the air between them. “That would be unnecessary —”

She met his gaze with a steely one, daring him to speak more. “So long as my family shall always have a place here.”

“It is a woman,” he blurted, and the room went still. “A daughter. Lord Windrunner bequeathed this land to his second daughter. His only heir worth the title now, with two daughters married.”

Her belligerence would not settle, no matter the shock. A woman would be easier to speak reason to, surely; and no doubt a woman of sound mind and logic, if this Windrunner is heir — “I would wed her regardless,” she said boldly. “I am my father’s last living child. I am, in God’s eyes if not the law’s, his only living heir. If she can inherit, then I shall do so the same. Whether it be by blood or by marriage.”

“You must surely understand the weight of your declarations,” Greymane murmured. “If I propose this, and she refuses —”

“She will not,” Jaina proclaimed. “I shall make it so.”

#word vomit #ask #saudadedreams #sylvaina #drabble #idk what this is???? #it's something vaguely regency but we're going to go with 'vague period piece' #i am guilty of never having enjoyed pride and prejudice or jane austen as a child

[roman-writing]

you search the mountain (5/6)

Fandom: World of Warcraft

Pairing: Jaina Proudmore / Sylvanas Windrunner

Rating: M

Wordcount: 21,557

Summary: The borders of Kul Tiras are closed to all outsiders. Sylvanas, Banshee Queen, hopes to use the impending civil war in Boralus to her advantage, and thereby lure Kul Tiras to the side of the Horde. A Drust AU

Content Advisory: horror, blood, gore, typical Drustvar spooky deer shit

read it below the cut, or you can read it here on AO3

On the road to Watermill Hill, it began to snow. Sylvanas could smell it before it arrived. The sky grew heavy and grey. The first flakes dusted the shoulders of the troops. They cottoned onto buff coats and helms, onto cuirasses and the curve of pauldrons. The fields were blanketed, and the boughs of trees began to sag beneath the additional weight. Slowly, the land went quiet and white, until the stamp of feet and horse's hooves faded to a shadow of itself, until the mountains to the west were utterly shrouded from sight, until not even the heavy carts pulled by teams of oxen could churn together the snow and mud, so that the world seemed pall-wrapt. 

It was deep enough that it cast a strange spell over Drustvar, but not so deep that it deterred their march. The long line of troops headed ever northward. They had left behind a garrison at Barrowknoll, but only as few as they could spare. Most of the troops were all they would have for the winter ahead and the battles that awaited them. Yet even the thunderous march of an army faded beneath the weight of snow in the air and on the ground, until they walked, ghost-like, through the pale haze of the earth.

By the time they reached the river south of Fallhaven on the second day, the snow had lost all of its charm. More often than not, Sylvanas could hear the grumblings of soldiers as they pitched their tents at night. They would rub their gloved hands together and stamp their feet, cursing the temperature which lowered with every passing day. 

In her opinion, it was an improvement on the constant rain. But it would not last that way for long. Soon, the snow would freeze. The icy winds would come racing down from the glacial spine of Drustvar. The horses would starve first. The living would eat them. And then the oxen. And then -- well. That was a gruesome thought. They were far from that point yet. And if Jaina were to be believed, they would not want for food. 

The river between them and Fallhaven was broad and deep and brackish. It washed directly out to sea due east. Through the drift of snow, Sylvanas could make out the shape of canvas sheets. The masts of Ashvane merchant ships modified for war raked against the pale grey sky. There were five of them anchored in the river, choking any relief to Fallhaven by water. More ships still were stationed at Carver's Harbour, controlling the inlet to Fallhaven. Where once there had been a bridge on the westernmost end of the river, there now was nothing but smoke-blackened stumps poking out of the fast-flowing water. Without ships of their own, they would need to spend more time going all the way around to find a suitable fording spot west of their current position. 

Had this been summer, Sylvanas might have been tempted to order a bridge to be built. But summer was a distant memory, now. The city of Fallhaven itself wasn't much of a city to begin with. Its most prominent features were its belltower commanding the city square near the river, and the squat stone walls that surrounded the city's entire perimeter. It had been built with a siege in mind, commanding the river and surrounded by rolling farmland for miles around. It was the breadbasket of Drustvar. Normally, shipments of grain would sail out to the rest of Kul Tiras from the river, but the Ashvane fleet had made quick work of that. The only ground near enough to threaten it was a rise to the northeast, which Sylvanas could just make out over the top of the city if she stood up in her stirrups and craned her neck.

"It looks so peaceful, doesn't it?" Lucille said, seated on her own horse not far off. "One could almost be fooled into thinking it wasn't under siege."

"Mmm," said Sylvanas noncommittally. 

She guided her skeletal mount along the road, while Lucille rode beside her. To Sylvanas' left rode Velonara on a dark horse that looked almost exactly like Lucille's but for its white-socked legs. The three of them traveled midway along with the army, neither front and center, nor bringing up the rear. A group of Forsaken soldiers trailed after Sylvanas, whilst Kul Tiran guardsmen followed in Lucille's wake bearing the banners of House Waycrest, emblazoned with a grey falcon. 

"I can remember the first time I came to Fallhaven. I was only seven," Lucille continued blithely on. "Even then, Cyril White was in charge. A Proudmoore man through and through. He had just left a position in the Navy serving under Daelin, and my mother endorsed him as Lord Mayor of Fallhaven as a show of goodwill between our two Houses." Lucille sighed, shifting her reins between her hands. "How times change."

"Hmm," Sylvanas said again. 

Velonara remained completely silent. She rode with one leg swung idly over the saddle as though sitting half cross-legged. A small glass vial of varnish was balanced in the crook of her knee. In one hand she was wielding a small brush, which she dipped into the vial and then stroked along her fingernails to apply a careful coat of blood red paint. How she managed to not smear herself with the stuff while she rode a horse was a complete mystery. 

"Cyril's father's family are good sturdy yeoman stock," said Lucille. "Very popular with the demographic in this area. Primarily farmers, really. He made a good move by marrying into the White family, who are the local lords -- minor cousins of mine, in fact. Though more closely related to the Greys of Katherine's family, who hail further south in Fletcher's Hollow. Both of them share the same family motto, strangely enough. ‘Freely we serve.’" 

"Mmm." Sylvanas made a small gesture with her hand, a Ranger symbol to try to get Velonara's attention, but Velonara was too busy blowing on her nails to dry them. 

"So, of course, being rather politically ambitious himself, Cyril gave up his father's name and decided to adopt his mother's line for the titles and prestige. Though from what I understand he was a great success in the Navy through force of character alone. Titles tend these things, of course. One never goes beyond Captain without some sort of patronage." 

Ever since that night at Barrowknoll three days ago, Lucille had somehow gotten it into her head that she and Sylvanas were now close friends. This rather inconvenient liberty was only exacerbated by the fact that Katherine was cross with the whole lot of them, after discovering that both Lucille and Sylvanas had known about Jaina’s true identity without telling her. Where once Lucille would have ridden at Katherine’s side, now she haunted either Sylvanas or Jaina’s footsteps. After three days of unending lectures about Drustvar’s political families and constitutional climates, Sylvanas was just about ready to jump into the river. 

“Velonara,” Sylvanas turned to her Ranger. “Didn’t you say something about how the High Thornspeaker wished to speak with the Lord Admiral and Lady Waycrest?”

“Oh?” Lucille glanced over her shoulder, looking for Katherine. She had a sudden anxious air about her at the thought. 

Sylvanas nodded. “Yes. I distinctly remember it. I believe it had something to do with changes to land laws and ownership structures after the war.”

That certainly got Lucille’s attention. For all her nerves where the Lord Admiral was concerned, her expression hardened somewhat. She began tugging at the reins of her horse. “That sounds like it requires my attention. Excuse me. I will be back shortly.” 

Sylvanas waited until Lucille had ridden off, before she rounded on Velonara with a glare. “Why didn’t you save me?”

Velonara pretended not to have heard, and continued painstakingly painting her nails.  

“You are heartless,” Sylvanas accused in a complete deadpan tone. 

“Consider this your just reward, my Queen,” Velonara countered. She lifted her hand in front of her face to inspect her work, then lowered it back down to her thigh for another coat. “Now you know what I’ve had to deal with ever since you assigned me to watch her.” 

“I have learned the error of my ways. Have pity on me.” 

“Give it a few more days. She hasn’t even told you about her deepest darkest fears yet.”

“Which are?” 

“Being killed by her mother and raised to serve her in undeath. Which, I’ve been told, was a real threat at one point in time.”

“My my,” Sylvanas murmured, looking over her shoulder after Lucille. “It seems we have more in common with our dear Lady Waycrest than previously thought. What a horrifying concept.” 

Fortunately for them, Sylvanas had not been lying when she’d said that Jaina wanted to speak with Katherine and Lucille about land reforms. Lucille did not return for hours. As the army marched past the burned bridge, Sylvanas made a disgruntled noise. 

“This will add another three days to our trip,” she said. “What a nuisance.” 

Velonara had long since finished her nails, and was now looking utterly bored. “Don’t worry, my Queen. That just means there’s more time for Lady Waycrest to kindly regale us with local history. She’s a wonderfully thoughtful hostess like that.”

Sylvanas groaned. 

--

It was a long march around the river. Fallhaven faded into the distance, obscured by snow, until only the mountains to the west loomed. Sylvanas managed to elude Lucille for most of the day, slipping away when the army made camp to her own tent and staying there as night fell. The Forsaken kept the night watch, allowing the living to sleep. 

Sylvanas herself worked through to the morning. She did not bother with amenities in her tent apart from a foldable desk and a few chairs. She needed nothing else. When dawn began to inch over the horizon, grey and flecked with the promise of more snow, Nathanos entered her tent with a parcel of missives. Without comment, he crossed the space and handed them over. She took them, leaning back in her chair to begin perusing the latest reports. 

“Anything good?” she asked as she ran her thumb beneath the seal of a letter from Orgrimmar to break the red wax. 

“Second from the top,” Nathanos answered. 

She set the unread letter from Orgrimmar aside and turned over a small bit of folded up parchment. Unfurling the page, her eyes scanned the few lines hastily scrawled onto the note. With every sentence her eyebrows crept higher up her brow, and she sat a little straighter until she was resting her elbows upon the desk, reading avidly. 

“Well, well.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she set down the piece of parchment. “I must admit. I am impressed. Who would have thought our new Zandalari friends would be so efficient?” 

“I believe their Princess is rather keen to make an impression,” said Nathanos. 

“And she has succeeded.” 

Sylvanas tapped her finger against the parchment thoughtfully. The ships from Zandalar would be arriving at Fallhaven almost a week early. She laughed softly. “They might just beat us there, you know.”

“You always did prefer arriving to events fashionably late.”

A shadowy chuckle escaped her at that. “And they’re sure they weren’t spotted by Stormsong’s insurgents?” 

Nathanos nodded firmly. “Indeed. They are small force. Only five ships. And I understand they have a talented young shaman aboard one of them, who was able to shroud them in a fog as they sailed up the Sounds.” 

“I hope you have more good news for me,” she said, picking up the next letter.

Clearing his throat delicately, Nathanos gave a slight shake of his head. 

“Go on,” she ordered.

“As of last night the Ashvane forces have begun their assault of Watermill Hill.”

With a grunt, Sylvanas broke the seal of the next letter and began to unfold the parchment. Her eyes were already scanning the page. “As was expected,” she murmured. “I am amazed they did not begin sooner. I would have taken it a month ago.” 

“Not everyone has the resources or expertise you do, my Queen.”

“That much is clear.” She glanced at him over the top of the page. “Anything else?”

Nathanos shook his head. “No. Nothing of much interest. The usual. Trade deals. A Mak’gora was called in Orgrimmar to settle a border dispute between two parties.”

“Anyone whose death would be inconvenient for me?”

“No.”

“Good.” Sylvanas waved a dismissive hand at him, and with a bow he left.

--

The next few days passed without further incident. The army crossed the river at last, taking care not to freeze on the way, and marched back east towards Fallhaven until the city crept over the hills. The morning before they were set to arrive at Watermill Hill, both Anya and Nathanos entered Sylvanas’ tent this time, their expressions harried.

Sylvanas had her feet propped up on a corner of the desk. A light dusting of snow on Anya and Nathanos’ shoulders told her that it was already snowing again outside. Or perhaps it had never stopped, snow drifting lazily down straight through the night. She arched an eyebrow at the sight of them and said, “It is rare for the two of you to grace me with your company at the same time these days. Which means something’s wrong.”

“A new ship has arrived in Fallhaven’s river harbour,” Anya said.

Sylvanas waved her away. “That will be one of our Zandalari sloops scouting ahead of the others, I imagine.”

“No,” Anya said firmly, undeterred. “It is a Kul Tiran ship. Far bigger than a sloop. You would recognise it yourself, in fact.”

Scoffing, Sylvanas said, “I highly doubt that. You know I can’t spot the difference between naval vessels, Anya.” 

“You would remember this one, my Queen,” Nathanos said darkly. “We saw its ceremonial launch ourselves on the docks of Boralus.”

Sylvanas froze. Slowly, she lowered her feet to the ground. “Lady Ashvane’s ship is here? Right now?” 

“That’s what we’ve been trying to tell you, yes.” 

Straightening in her seat, Sylvanas looked down at the detailed map of Fallhaven, all her copious scribbled notes of Windmill Hill, and the open ledger filled with rows and rows of supplies and troops and costs. Then abruptly she pushed back from the table and rose to her feet. “Have you seen Jaina this morning?” she asked Nathanos.

He shook his head. “Still in her tent, as far as I know. Unless she took a portal from the tent itself. I wouldn’t put it past her.” 

Somehow Sylvanas could not imagine Jaina fleeing from a battle. Especially not one like this. Jaina had not shied from battle at Barrowknoll, and Windmill Hill was supposed to be a skirmish. If Lady Ashvane’s ship was here though, that might have just changed. 

"Nathanos, find out exactly who is aboard that flagship," Sylvanas ordered, already ducking from her tent and striding in the direction of Jaina's tent with hasty steps.

"Using what?" Nathanos asked. 

"Your imagination, preferably," Sylvanas drawled. She did not slow down or look over her shoulder as she spoke. "Bribe someone. Kill someone. Impersonate someone. I don't care. Just get me eyes on that flagship."

When Nathanos and Anya started trailing after her, she gestured for them to be elsewhere. Nathanos frowned and Anya huffed, but they both did as they were told. He veered off, already heading towards the river. Sylvanas paid them no heed. 

There was no raven or sabre cat guarding Jaina’s tent. Sylvanas looked around for any sign of Arthur or Adalyn, but neither were to be seen. Slowly, she approached the tent’s entrance. Her fingers parted the heavy canvas flap, and she peered in. There was motion and darkness, but she could hear nothing within. The cloying taste of magic settled in the back of Sylvanas’ mouth, but it always tended to do that whenever Jaina was nearby. Dim lamplight did little to illuminate the tent’s interior, where outside the glare of the morning sun dazzled against the snow. Sylvanas squinted, but the contrast made spots appear in her sensitive vision. 

“You might as well come in,” Jaina’s voice said, sounding exasperated. “You’re letting out all the warm air.”

Stomping her boots free of snow first, Sylvanas ducked beneath the tent flap and entered. It was indeed far warmer inside than out, though she could see no brazier. A rune had been scorched into the ground at the centre of the tent, glowing faintly. Whether that was the source of heat, or simply a ward against prying ears, she did not know. 

Most of Jaina’s personal things had been packed up into a traveling trunk at the foot of her foldable cot. The bedding had been rolled up, revealing the wooden cot frame. Jaina herself was bent almost double on the far side of the tent. She stood peering into a tiny scratched mirror that was propped against a nightstand and a few books. Sylvanas blinked in surprise. In lieu of her usual druidic robes, Jaina was wearing dark high-waisted breeches and white stockings tucked in at the knee. Her boots were gone, and instead she wore shiny black shoes with gold buckles. A greatcoat and waistcoat were slung over a chair, leaving her in nothing else but her shirtsleeves and suspenders. The skull mask and staff were nowhere in sight.

She did not turn around when Sylvanas entered the tent. Instead, she continued to fiddle with a long strip of white cloth, which she was trying to wind around her neck to form a cravat. When the cravat refused to cooperate, she straightened slightly and swore vehemently under her breath, “Oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Ears quirked at a curious angle, Sylvanas wandered across the tent until she stood behind her. “I assume there’s a reason why you’re wearing this instead of your usual robes?” 

Grumbling, Jaina undid the messy cravat knot with jerky impatient movements. “It is part of the plan. My mother thinks I ought to be seen wearing the uniform instead of -- well, you know.” 

“The horrible deer skull, and some leaves you found on the forest floor?” 

“Yes, exactly.” 

Jaina started tugging up the stiff collar of her shirt once more, trying to get it to stay in the right position so she could try tying the cravat again. Impatiently, Sylvanas watched her struggle and fail to wrap the cloth around her neck properly, before she finally interrupted. “Do you need some help?” 

“No.”

Sylvanas lifted an incredulous eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

With a sigh, Jaina fully straightened and turned away from the mirror. “No,” she said again, this time holding out the fabric with a defeated expression. 

Eyes fixed on Jaina’s face, Sylvanas slowly reached out for the cravat. When Jaina had been angled away from her, she had not been able to get a good look at her. Now it was apparent that the clothing wasn’t the only thing to have changed. She had never seen Jaina wearing cosmetics before. They had been tastefully applied. Kohl lining her eyes, and rouge darkening her lips to a sinful shade of red. 

Smoothing out the length of silk between her hands, Sylvanas said, “You could have just asked your mother for help. I’m sure the Lord Admiral has worn enough cravats in her lifetime to know how to tie one.” 

Jaina’s brow furrowed in a thunderous scowl. “I would rather eat a rusty old horseshoe.” 

With a snort, Sylvanas said, “Lucille could have shown you, then.”

Jaina shifted her feet and her cheeks were tinged slightly pink with embarrassment. Finally she admitted sheepishly, “I thought I could figure it out on my own. I mean, how hard can it be?”

Giving her a pointed look, Sylvanas held up the long narrow length of silk and said, “Lean down for me.” 

Jaina did so without question, and Sylvanas began to wrap the cravat around her neck. She had to reach around Jaina, rising up onto her toes to be able to do so. 

“Why are you so tall?” Sylvanas grumbled under her breath as she moved Jaina’s braid out of the way.

“I think a better question is: how do you know how to tie a cravat?”

“I thought the answer to that was obvious.” Now that the ends of the cravat were doubly wrapped back around Jaina’s throat and hung down her chest, Sylvanas was able to sink back down to the flat of her feet to finish the job. She tugged lightly at the ends of the cravat to tighten it, and quipped, “All elves are snobs and slaves to fashion.” 

Jaina laughed softly. The corners of her eyes crinkled when she smiled. She kept her head slightly bowed while Sylvanas straightened the upturned collar beneath the wide strip of fabric. “That makes sense,” Jaina said with faux solemnity. “Though I do wonder what that says about all the skulls and spikes you wear.” 

Sylvanas clucked her tongue in admonishment. “Skulls and spikes are all the rage in the major cities these days. Very chic. I wouldn’t expect a human from a backwater like Kul Tiras to understand.” 

“Of course. My mistake.” 

Sylvanas was far too concerned with the dimple that appeared when Jaina’s smile broadened. Her hands slowed in tying the cravat, and her fingers lingered against the warm skin of Jaina’s pulsepoint. The rope scar was a raised band of tissue looped around Jaina’s neck. Sylvanas pulled the cravat material a little higher to hide it from view. 

Jaina noticed. Her eyes flickered down to where Sylvanas’ hands rested beneath her chin, then up again to her face. “Thank you,” she murmured. 

Sylvanas’ only answer was a hum. That heartbeat quickened, fluttering like a bird’s wings under her thumb. Jaina was watching her very closely, as though waiting for Sylvanas to speak. The air felt far too warm for a Kul Tiran winter.

Sylvanas bid her hands move again. Her fingers made quick work of the last knot. She took an extra few seconds to pull the knot a little tighter before lowering her hands. That seemed to break whatever spell had settled over them. The air did not feel quite so heavy when Sylvanas was no longer touching her. 

“I should really learn how to do this myself someday,” Jaina sighed, tugging at the knot so that it was arranged just so beneath her neck and loosening it in the process. “Since apparently I’m going to be wearing this outfit quite a lot.” 

“I would offer some instruction, but I am a terrible teacher. Never had the disposition for it.”

“Too used to giving orders instead?”

“Something like that, yes.” She swatted Jaina’s hand away, and scolded her softly, “Stop that.”

Jaina huffed in annoyance, but lowered her hands and allowed Sylvanas to fix the cravat and tighten it again. When Sylvanas stepped away, she reached for the waistcoat slung over a chair and handed it over. Jaina took it with a murmur of thanks, shrugging into it. Sylvanas had to tamp down the urge to move forward again and do up the row of small dark buttons. Instead, she clasped her hands firmly behind her back, watching Jaina button up the waistcoat and tuck the ends of the cravat away. 

Swinging the Admiralty greatcoat over her shoulders, Jaina next fixed a green sash into place before fussing with the wide sleeves of her coat. She tugged at them, rolling her broad shoulders beneath the fabric and muttering curses to herself about how it inhibited her movement. In this outfit, she looked uncomfortable. She also -- Sylvanas had to admit silently -- looked incredibly good. It was a far cry from her usual druidic rags. Instead, she appeared sleek and polished. Perhaps it was the unprecedented kohl lining her eyes. Perhaps it was the red lipstick that made her mouth appear brighter and more alive. Or perhaps Sylvanas really was just staring, now. 

Jaina glanced up with a worried frown. "Do I have something on my face?" she asked, and ducked her head to gaze at herself in the tiny mirror again. "I thought I'd done the makeup all right? I'm not very good at this. I think this eye is uneven. Does it look uneven to you?"

"No," Sylvanas said. "You look fine."

Still, Jaina took a finger and carefully tried to correct the dark kohl around her blind eye. She swore to herself again. "This would be a lot easier if I could see properly."

"If I tell you that you look very striking, will that convince you?"

Jaina straightened and turned. "That depends," she said. "Are you being honest? Or just kind?"

"When have you ever known me to do something purely out of kindness?"

"That's a fair point." 

"You look very striking," Sylvanas said, more firmly this time. "Apart from all the lint on your back."

Eyes widening, Jaina tried to peer over her own shoulder. "What? Where?"

"I am joking. Your outfit is faultless."

Jaina glowered. “You are an ass.” 

“So I’ve been told,” Sylvanas drawled. “And stop fiddling with the cravat. You’ll make it come undone.”

Jaina continued her fidgeting with the fabric wound tight around her neck. “It’s suffocating. I don’t like it.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Sylvanas broke off her next sarcastic remark. Her ears twitched, hearing approaching footsteps outside, and then a hand pushing aside the tent flap. 

"Am I interrupting something?" Katherine asked, her voice cool.

Immediately, the warmth in Jaina's gaze vanished, as though poured out onto the ground. She glanced over Sylvanas' shoulder at her mother, then turned back towards the mirror to straighten her lapels. "Nothing at all," Jaina said. "What do you need?"

Sylvanas was not bothered by cold weather -- apart from the unpleasant wet -- but it was very chilly in the tent all of a sudden. She took a step towards the tent entrance and murmured, "Excuse me. I will go and come back in just a -"

"No. Stay," Jaina said. Then she added a little more softly, "Please." 

She was caught. She could make some excuse to leave, but Jaina shot her an imploring look. And it was probably better if both Katherine and Jaina received the news. So with a sigh, Sylvanas stayed put. 

For a brief moment, Katherine hesitated at the entrance to the tent, before ducking beneath the flap and stepping fully inside. The bright morning light dimmed when the flap swung back down, enclosing them all in the tent. Katherine's pale gaze took inventory of Jaina's appearance, roving over the golden bands of rank at the sleeves of the greatcoat, and the shining tasselled epaulettes. Finally, she said, "I'm glad to see it fits well. Sylvanas is right. You look very good."

Jaina's reflection in the little mirror frowned, and she turned around to face her mother fully. "I sense a 'but' coming."

"But -" said Katherine gamely. "You are missing a few things. May I?”

Reaching into her pocket, Katherine pulled out what appeared to be braided cords made of thick gold threads. It took Sylvanas a moment to recognise them for what they were. Aiguillettes did not feature often in elven military uniforms, if at all. They were a uniquely human trimming.

Jaina hesitated, then gave a stiff nod of consent. Katherine limped closer, but paused when she stood before her daughter. She looked between the aiguillettes and her cane. Silently, Sylvanas reached out a hand.

“Thank you,” Katherine said, giving the cane to her. 

The chased silver falcon’s head retained traces of the warmth of Katherine’s hand. Sylvanas placed the tip of the cane onto the floor and leaned her weight upon it while she watched. Katherine worked quickly and efficiently, tying the complex braiding into place so that it hung from one of Jaina’s shoulders and was pinned with a silver anchor fastener right over the green sash. Jaina was absolutely still throughout the entire affair. She looked like a statue made flesh. A figure of Kul Tiran myth carved for public appreciation. 

Katherine stroked her thumb over the pin. "This belonged to your father," she said, then stepped back. "I thought you should have it." 

Something darkened across Jaina's face, then was gone again, like a cloud passing between the earth and the sun. "How thoughtful of you," she said, though she sounded less than thrilled at the idea. 

"Yes. Well." Katherine cleared her throat as though trying to clear the chilliness in the air. "More importantly, other people will remember it as such."

Jaina’s expression soured. "Of course, they will."

"I mean this as a favour."

"I'm sure you did."

"Enough with the act, my dear. We are all very tired of it."

"Act? What act?" Jaina smiled thinly. "This is very real."

To that Katherine had no reply. She and Jaina seemed to be having some sort of silent conversation featuring nothing but hard glares and unyielding stubbornness. Eventually however, Katherine relented with a sigh and held out a hand for her cane. Sylvanas gladly took this as a sign that the awkward moment was over, and handed it back to her. 

"Now, if only you walked like you didn't have a stick up your ass, you might be a bit more convincing in that outfit," Katherine said. 

Sylvanas had to bite back a snort of laughter. Jaina fumed quietly, and gave her a warning look. 

"She has a point, though," Sylvanas said in her own defense. 

"You try wearing this stupid outfit," Jaina growled. She was tugging hard at the cravat again. "I feel like I'm hog-tied and on my way to be butchered at market."

It finally dawned on Sylvanas, then. Why Jaina was so preoccupied with the cravat. Why she did not like having things tied tightly around her neck. How foolish of her to have not noticed before. Especially since she had just been touching the very scars on Jaina’s throat not a few minutes ago. 

It was one thing to hide the scars with a bit of loose fabric. It was quite another to emulate their making. 

Katherine sniffed. “You’re being overly dramatic. As always.”

Sylvanas’ coal-bright eyes darted to Katherine, then to Jaina. Neither of them were paying her any attention. They were too preoccupied with one another's presence, like two wild cats meeting in a dark alleyway. Not for the first time, Sylvanas wondered what exactly had transpired back at the Church in Barrowknoll. The two must have discussed a great deal of things, but that had clearly not included a full reveal of exactly how Jaina came to be in the position of High Thornspeaker. 

“I have worn my fair share of uncomfortable military outfits,” Sylvanas said before Jaina could fire back a retort at her mother. She carefully kept her tone smooth and light. “You get used to them. Eventually.” 

For a brief moment it seemed Jaina was still inclined to a fight, but she lowered her hand and left the cravat alone. “Yes,” she said, sounding tired now. “Yes, you’re right.” Then she shot Sylvanas a puzzled look. “Why did you come here, anyway?”

“I received news from one of my Rangers,” Sylvanas said delicately. 

“Good news, I should hope,” Katherine said. 

“That remains to be seen.” Hands clasped firmly behind her back, Sylvanas announced, “As of early this morning, Lady Ashvane’s flagship has arrived in the harbour.”

That certainly got their attention. They both glanced at her sharply, their movements and expressions terrifyingly identical. 

“The LAS Integrity?” Katherine asked as though she had misheard. “Here?” 

“Is it really a Lord Admiral’s Ship if she’s rebelling against the Admiralty? And with that kind of name?” Jaina asked. 

“Yes, we all appreciate the irony of the situation. Thank you, my dear,” Katherine said, her tone bordering on waspish. Then she said to Sylvanas, “Do we know if Priscilla is aboard the ship?” 

Sylvanas shrugged. “I cannot say for sure. But I intend to find out.” 

“She is,” said Jaina.

Both Sylvanas and Katherine blinked and turned to look at her. 

“How do you know?” Katherine asked.

“Did one of your druids fly over it already?” said Sylvanas.

But Jaina only shook her head. She reached over to the chair, where a pair of white gloves were neatly folded. One after the other she began to tug them into place, the last of her ensemble until she appeared every inch the Lord Admiral’s Heir. “No,” she said, pushing the finely stitched quirks more firmly between the webbing of her fingers. “I just know.” 

Katherine shot Sylvanas an exasperated glance, as though seeking some sort of solidarity. Sylvanas offered none, keeping her gaze fixed on Jaina. 

“Vagueness helps nobody,” Katherine said. “Especially not in times of war.”

Jaina’s only answer was a shrug. Garbed now in the full military dress of the Navy, she strode past them both and pushed open the flap of the tent. “Shall we begin the march? I want to reach Watermill Hill as soon as possible. I have a good feeling about today.”

“Again with the vagueness,” Katherine sighed, though she followed her daughter out without further question. 

Once outside, Sylvanas took her leave, making her way towards the cavalry and reserve units. Katherine and Jaina did not speculate on her absence. They had already discussed the plan the night before. They swept off in one direction already calling for their horses, and the march began anew. 

When Watermill Hill came into sight, Sylvanas perked up a bit in her stirrups for a better look. It was one thing to hear about something in reports, and quite another to see it in person. Where she had expected a meagre fortification, there stood a small castle in its stead atop a hill overlooking Fallhaven and commanding the surrounding terrain. The eponymous watermill was stationed with a small village nestled between the hill and the river. 

More importantly however was the Ashvane army attacking it. A large force was assailing the southwest gatehouse, trying to seize entry to the west bailey. From this distance Sylvanas could see the occasional tuft of gunpowder from either side, as they returned fire on one another. Hayles and his men had already run down a number of Ashvane scouting groups on their approach to Watermill Hill, but they could not catch all of them. The ascent to Watermill Hill was a narrow road that sloped up to the main gate. All around the rest of the hill, the earth was too steep to assail without building further groundworks. The Ashvanes had funneled themselves onto this road to assault the castle. By the time the combined forces arrived to pin their quarry against the castle, the Ashvanes had raised the call of harried trumpets and were attempting to reposition themselves. It was all far too late. In a matter of moments they would be surrounded and trapped like prey in a snare.

Had Sylvanas been alive, she would have felt the hunter’s itch under her skin. As it was, she tamped down the urge to kick her skeletal steed to a faster pace and shout commands for double time. Strictly speaking, this was not her fight. Jaina was supposed to be leading the charge. And indeed, Jaina, Katherine and Lucille were all riding at the fore of the main body in order to make a symbolic statement with their presence. Which left Sylvanas restlessly commanding the left flank and bringing up the rear of the procession. 

Seated high atop her horse, she frowned over the ranks, her gaze roving in search of a particular cluster of officers. From this position she could barely make out Jaina in her stiff Admiralty greatcoat. Sylvanas saw her white-gloved hands make a sharp gesture, the motion followed by the blaring of a horn. Immediately, the troops increased their pace, the stamp of their feet like a thunderous heartbeat through the snowy fields. 

“Finally,” Sylvanas grumbled under her breath. 

Beside her, Hayles glanced up from his conversation with Anya. “Something wrong, my Lady?”

Sylvanas answered with an irritable wave. “Your future Lord Admiral is rather slow on the uptake.”

He shot her a puzzled look beneath his helm, but made no further remark. Meanwhile, Anya’s ears tilted at a curious angle and she said, “I’m not so sure about that, my Queen. Two minutes too slow isn’t bad for someone without a few centuries of experience under her belt.”

“A lot can happen in two minutes,” Sylvanas said with a warning slant of her own ears that Anya would understand but which would have left Hayles even more bemused. 

Anya bowed in her saddle and murmured, “Of course.” Her words and tone were deferential, but everything else was mocking. 

Sylvanas narrowed her eyes. “Anya, take a scouting party and bring me back the latest report on the walls,” she ordered. 

With another low bow, Anya did as commanded, leaving Hayles riding in uncomfortable silence at Sylvanas’ side. He made no attempt at small talk, which she appreciated. Nor did any of the other officers trailing in her wake, awaiting their commands. She craned her neck back to look up, spying a raven wheeling slowly overhead, its broad black wings a spot of black against a backdrop of white. A few minutes later, Arthur flapped down through the gentle sprinkling of snow, landing atop the bony neck of Sylvanas’ horse. 

“They’ve engaged the Ashvanes just now,” he reported, shuffling a bit on the exposed vertebrae in an attempt to find better purchase with his talons. 

Sylvanas nodded. “Good. And the Ashvane guns?”

“Still pointing to the castle. They couldn’t turn them around in time.” 

“You and your men are to be commended, Hayles,” Sylvanas said without looking in his direction. “The scouts you ran down could not give away our advance.” 

He shifted his weight in the saddle and knuckled his forehead beneath the flat brim of his helmet almost bashfully. Ever since their encounter with Captain Ashvane last week, when Sylvanas had lost her temper, he had been remarkably more docile when she presumed to give orders.

Some time later, Anya’s horse loped easily towards them. She pulled back on the reins, slowing to a trot, and then finally a stop before them. Her horse’s dark coat was spotted with snow. When it snorted and shook its head, small plumes of white steam trailed from its nostrils. 

“Anything?” Sylvanas asked.

But Anya shook her head even as she reached forward to pat her horse on its neck. “Nothing yet.” 

With a resigned sigh, Sylvanas leaned back in her saddle. “Then, we continue to wait.” 

Whereas Hayles and the others seemed perfectly content to do so, Sylvanas did not share in their leisure. They formed a separate little group a few paces away from her. Anya chatted easily with the others, joking about her latest conquests over cards the night previous with the group of officers. Sylvanas ignored them, keeping her eye upon the main body of their forces, watching the toil of a fight beginning. She did not begrudge Anya’s ease with the others. Far from it. Her orders had been for Anya to endear herself with the locals, to make herself a crux of information. And judging by the way a number of the officers laughed at one of Anya’s crude jokes, she was doing an excellent job of it.  

“Not like that,” Sylvanas muttered to herself as she watched Jaina’s movements from a distance. She made a disgruntled noise in the back of her throat and tightened her grip upon the reins. 

Arthur was preening himself, still perched on the neck of her horse. “Did Jaina do something wrong?” 

Mouth pursed to a thin line, Sylvanas shook her head. Jaina hadn’t done anything wrong. It just wasn’t exactly how Sylvanas would do it. She was not suited for sitting in the wings and watching. The last time Sylvanas had done this had been when her mother was Ranger General and given her young daughter a colonel’s command as a learning experience. 

The snow was deepening. As the afternoon dragged on, flurries of white drifted from the sky like flour through a sieve. Hayles’ cavalry and the infantry battalion of the left flank stamped their feet in an attempt to warm them. The soldiers huddled as close together as they dared without breaking ranks. Sargents rustled along the lines, keeping calm and order while they waited and watched the main force continue to fight. At least Sylvanas wasn’t alone in her restlessness. 

In the distance a rallying cry went up along the Ashvane ranks. Sylvanas straightened in her saddle, and she could hear Anya and the others do the same. She opened her mouth to give a command, but stopped and frowned in confusion. Rather than begin pushing against where Jaina’s combined troops had pinned them against the castle, the Ashvane’s right flank surged forward towards the eastern walls.

Rounding on Anya, Sylvanas snapped, "Get me vision on that area.” 

Anya tugged at the reins of her horse, but before she could urge her mount forward, Arthur said, "I got it! It'll be faster if I fly over."

With a flap of his wings, he flew off into the air. Sylvanas kept an eye on him for as long as she could, but he was soon lost through the veil of snowfall. Various other reports from scouting groups trickled in while she waited for his return, officers in drab Forsaken uniforms giving detailed accounts of the front lines’ actions. 

By the time Arthur returned, she had set her horse to pacing, her crimson gaze trying to pierce through the snow. The sunlight filtering through the clouds reflected across the blanketed ground. She had to blink away the blinding glare. She did not want to think of what this would be like if she had still been alive and her oversensitive eyesight had been exposed to the glare.

Arthur landed on her shoulder. "There's some Fallhaven soldiers caught outside the westernmost walls," he said. "They're fighting with the Ashvanes over a little door in the walls."

Sylvanas' eyes widened. "A sally port?" 

In reply Arthur shrugged his wings. 

Swearing under her breath, Sylvanas yanked on the reins. Her skeletal horse bounded forward. Snow was cast about by every heavy fall of its hooves. “All troops march to the western walls! Double time! I want us there post-haste!”

The group of officers went scurrying about in her wake. Flags were raised, standards waving signals to relay orders to the regiment, as well as to alert their allies of their actions. 

“How many did you see?” Sylvanas asked.

“A few thousand Ashvanes?” Arthur said uncertainly. “Far less Fallhaven soldiers, that’s for sure.” 

Hayles was urging his horse to catch up to her. 

“Screen our left flank!” Sylvanas said to him. “And if the enemy try to run, chase them down!”

“Yes, my Lady.” And with a salute, he began shouting orders to round up his men. 

She only pulled back on the reins and sat firmly in her saddle to stop her horse when she had reached the foremost ranks of Forsaken infantry. Anya shadowed her movements rather than stay with the cavalry; her bow was already drawn, expression wary as though expecting an attack on her queen at any moment despite the fact that the enemy was still a good distance away. For their part the Forsaken infantry seemed emboldened by Sylvanas’ presence. Their ranks bristled like a wall of spears and axes and ranks of muskets six deep. 

As they advanced, a few junior officers kept sending daunted glances in her direction. It seemed to get even worse when the cluster of higher ranking officers found her again and gathered to her side, waiting for any other orders she might give. 

When they drew closer to the enemy, a cavalry company broke away from the Ashvane flank. They rode forward, skirting around the hill further west. Already Sylvanas could see Hayles riding out to meet them, screening their flank and keeping the Ashvane cavalry at bay, allowing them to advance. Pistols fired, their shots muted across the snow and distance so that they sounded less like a volley and more like the patter of rain. Meanwhile the Ashvane infantry were caught. Most of them had turned to face the attack, but Sylvanas could still see skirmishing near the walls just behind them. 

Ahead of her, the first line of Forsaken infantry dropped to their stomachs, the second kneeling behind them, and the third remaining standing. All three aimed down the sights of their muskets, awaiting the command to fire. Officers roared out the order, and gunsmoke tinged the air a dirty grey. The three ranks shuffled back as quickly as possible, while the three behind them stepped forward to do the same. 

Slowly they advanced up the hill towards the enemy position, exchanging fire. If the Ashvanes had been better equipped and had a larger force, they might have been able to stave off the attack until they could retreat back to the safety of their main lines. But whatever they sought at the sally port was too valuable to give up so easily. They held their ground even as the Forsaken crept ever closer, close enough that the rows of pikemen could step forward and stab at one another. Blood sprayed across the snowy hillside. The Ashvanes’ red coats hid most of the gore, while the Forsaken bled black and sluggish. 

For every Undead that fell -- pinned by spears, or chopped at with axes, or shot -- three more Ashvanes fell before them. From her position near the front ranks, Sylvanas could see the fear on their faces as they realised exactly what kind of enemy they were facing. She heard panicked cries go up -- some nonsense about Drust ghouls -- and the enemy line began to falter. A musket ball went spinning past her, near enough that she could hear it whistle through the air, but she did not flinch. She could hear Arthur give a great squawk of protest and launch himself into the air with a hurried flap of wings. 

Well, if the Kul Tirans were squeamish about the Undead, she ought to give them a show to remember.

Kicking her horse forward and pulling her bow from her back, Sylvanas barked orders at the group of officers behind her. “Push forward! Drive them against the walls! And make it look rabid! The rest of you, with me!” 

A few of the humans appeared puzzled at these commands, but the Forsaken officers’ eyes glowed a keen and sickly gold. The orders swept quickly through the ranks, and the fighting reached frenzied heights. With a company of soldiers at her back, Sylvanas leapt from her horse and strode to the right flank to cut off the enemy’s route back to the west bailey, leaving only one retreat. Every arrow she fired into the enemy’s flank shrieked as it soared through the air, streaking with veins of black energy. When they struck into the sensitive exposed flesh of a neck or shoulder, tendrils of dark necrotic magic would lash along their bodies so that they fell, twitching and bloated as though they had been drowned in a fetid lake. 

It did not take long for the Ashvane line to break. They were outnumbered and pinned against the castle walls on a steep slope. Soon, they were routed and scrambling down the hill towards the snowy western fields, where Hayles and his cavalry would chase them down. Sylvanas fired a few shots after them, her arrows arcing through the air and finding their targets with deadly accuracy. Red-coated soldiers stumbled to their knees, choking on blood and falling into the bank of snow.  

“Anya, get your horse and join Captain Hayles. Take Arthur with you. He can help track down anyone who runs,” Sylvanas said. She did not need to look over her shoulder to know that Anya had been beside her through the thick of the fight, ensuring her safety. “If the Ashvanes even think about regrouping, kill them.” 

With a silent bow, Anya darted off through the snow in search of her horse near the base of the hill. Overhead a black speck in the sky soared after her. Sylvanas shouldered her bow and turned back towards the castle. Her soldiers had surrounded a group of grey-coated Fallhaven troops near the sally port while the Ashvanes fled. Her ears twitched when she heard raised human voices. Frowning, she rose up on her toes to see over the warren of tall Forsaken soldiers, but could only catch glimpses of steel and snow and grey stone walls. 

Rows of undead soldiers parted before her like a wave, making way for their Dark Lady as she walked towards the ruckus. A cohort of Fallhaven infantrymen held their rows of pikes at the ready, aiming down the sights of their muskets, ready to fire should any of the undead get too close. They were gathered round what appeared to be their leader, a greying man with a bushy mutton-chop beard and fierce pale eyes, who had one hand clenched around the handle of a gilded silver pistol and the other around the hilt of a fine sword. 

“Get that bloody door open, already!” he roared over his shoulder. His cocked hat was silver-trimmed and dark. When Sylvanas stepped forward from the ranks of the Forsaken, he pointed his pistol at her, his expression hard. “Not another step!” 

Lifting her hands to show she was unarmed, Sylvanas continued walking forward. “I mean you no harm. Are you the garrison commander?”

He pulled the trigger, firing a warning shot at her feet. A plume of snow burst up around her greaves and she froze. 

“I said -” he snarled, “- not another step.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I have just helped drive off your invaders,” Sylvanas said. She kept her hands up; it would be easier to reach for her bow and quiver if this turned messy.

Flinging aside his pistol, he held out his hand and an officer near him gave him another, which he again levelled at her. “I don’t know who you are, or why you’ve helped us. But I do know you lead an army of ghouls, and you yourself are no living creature.”

“Oh, good. You have eyes. I was beginning to wonder.”

With his thumb he cocked the pistol. She arched an unimpressed eyebrow at him, though her hands were ready to snatch up her bow. Before he could shoot her properly this time, the heavily fortified gate swung open behind him with a great groan, and four men stumbled out in its wake. “Lord Cyril!” one of them cried, “You must come to the battlements at once! The -!” 

“Quiet, lad!” he snapped, not once looking away from Sylvanas. 

Sylvanas’ hands lowered a fraction. “Lord Cyril, did you say? Cyril White?” 

“And what of it?” Cyril growled.

She remembered that name. She remembered Lucille’s local history lessons, and the utter boredom that had come with them. Finally she said, “I have come with your cousin. Perhaps you remember her?” 

His bushy brows furrowed in bemusement. “My cousin? What are you talking about -?” Suddenly his eyes widened. “Wait. You’re here with Kath?” 

“I am.”

The moment of hesitation vanished, followed by suspicion. “And why should I believe the Lord Admiral would be here? Let alone with the aid of -” He waved his pistol at her overall appearance with a disparaging look. “- someone like you.” 

Sylvanas’ mind raced. The fact that he still called Katherine ‘The Lord Admiral’ even after she had technically been deposed by Lord Stormsong was a good start at least. She thought back to every inane thing Lucille had told her about on the march north, trying to scrape together any information that might be useful. Cyril’s frown was deepening with every passing second, and she said quickly, “Freely we serve.” 

It was the first thing that she could think of, and it was just enough to give him pause. Cyril blinked at her, though he did not relax a whit. 

“If I tell you that she takes her tea with milk and no sugar, will you believe me?” Sylvanas said. “What about if I said she can beat anyone at a game of whist? Or that she enjoys needlework? Or that her grandfather used to tell her stories of the Old Bear that haunted the Crimson Forest?”

Cyril’s face screwed up in confusion, but his stance relaxed. Slowly, he lowered his flintlock. “Who the bloody hell are you?” 

Lowering her hands fully now, Sylvanas said, “I am a friend. And I am here to reinforce Watermill Hill, along with Lady Waycrest, the Lord Admiral, and the Lord Admiral’s Heir.”

“Heir?”

Behind him one of the soldiers who had burst through the sally port from before said, “That’s what we’re telling you, my Lord! It’s not Lady Waycrest leading the army!”

Momentary flummoxed, Cyril stood there without speaking or moving until with a shake of his head he sheathed his sword and tucked his flintlock away into his belt. “Get everyone inside!” he ordered his own men, then turned to Sylvanas. “What role would you play in all of this?”

“Let me and my soldiers in, and we will help you man the walls,” Sylvanas said, already giving a significant look to a nearby officer of her own, who bowed and trotted off to relay her orders.

Cyril looked less than pleased at the prospect of letting in her and the other undead. When he pursed his lips and scowled, the resemblance between him and Katherine was far more pronounced. “Very well,” he said, already turning and ducking through the sally port. 

The sally port was small enough that she had to duck as well to pass beneath it. Inside, the narrow stone corridors of the castle were a hive of activity. People rushed about, carrying munitions, carrying gunpowder and arrows, their arms filled with gauze for the medical wing or other supplies. Everyone had to press themselves against the walls to pass one another, soldiers hugging their weapons and shuffling sideways until they could reach the mustering grounds. 

Most took little notice of Sylvanas. A few puzzled frowns were cast in her direction. Her Forsaken infantry garnered more attention. Some people swore, startled, when they saw an undead soldier looming beside them. A fight nearly broke out somewhere behind her. Sylvanas heard shouting and people shoving one another, until a sergeant roared at them to cease the kerfuffle. She paid them no heed, trailing close on Cyril’s heels.

The castle mustering grounds were a small square of churned mud and snow. Cyril lengthened his stride and trotted up a set of narrow stairs leading to the nearest parapets. His sword clanked against his greaves. When they reached the top, it was a struggle to even get to the crenellated battlements. Archers and musketmen were clustered along the walls, firing from their positions down into the amassed Ashvanes at the gates. Every now and then a cannon would boom out, and bits of rock would be knocked loose from the walls while men crouched down and covered their heads, shrinking away from the blast. 

Cyril shoved his way to the front to get a good look at the battlefield below. “Where?” he demanded of the soldier that had opened the sally port and followed in Sylvanas’ wake. “Show me.”

Before the soldier could answer, Sylvanas pointed. “There.” 

Cyril squinted, shielding his eyes with the flat of his gloved hand. True enough, just behind the Waycrest lines rode Jaina beneath the standards of House Waycrest. Somewhere along the way, Katherine and Lucille had managed to procure a gold-tasseled, anchor-stamped standard of the Admiralty, which waved proudly beside the dull gray banners bearing the falcon of Drustvar. Even from this distance Jaina was impossible to miss, her pale braid a stark contrast to the dark wool of her greatcoat, surrounded by officers in their glittering finery, Katherine and Lucille riding behind her like personal guards. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Cyril muttered under his breath, slowly lowering his hand. 

Another boom of cannons crashed through the air. This time the massive iron-bound doors to the castle shook. Pieces of wood splintered and buckled beneath the concentrated barrage. 

Immediately Sylvanas turned and snapped at one of her Forsaken officers, “Get all of our reserve troops onto the mustering grounds and into formation! Prepare for a breach!” Then she turned her attention back to Cyril. “Do you have any cannons of your own?”

“We do, but we ran out of shot yesterday afternoon. We’re under-resourced, and we’ve already had to repel two attacks on Watermill. Everything else we have is in reserve in the city, should we have to fall back.” 

Swearing in Thalassian, she glanced over the parapets. The Ashvanes were scrambling to reload their cannons. Everything they had was facing the castle gates. They had already taken the bailey and set down planks to cross to the main motte. This castle was old. Its walls were flat and tall, neither sloped nor angled. It was not built to withstand more modern artillery fire. 

“They need to break through and take the keep to regain a defensible position, otherwise they’ve lost,” she said. 

Cyril nodded. “I will bring everyone I have to the mustering grounds. We will hold them off as long as we can.” 

Sylvanas reached over her shoulder and counted the number of remaining arrows in her quiver. “Bring me as many arrows as you can spare. I will stay on the battlements.” 

He barked an order at someone nearby, who scurried off to do just that. Then with one last parting glance in her direction, Cyril strode back down to the grounds to gather his men in the courtyard and wait for the worst. 

The soldiers along the walls gave her odd looks but said nothing to her as they continued to fire down into the mass of the enemy. Sylvanas drew back her bow and fired alongside them. Someone brought her another large quiver bristling with arrows, which she placed on the ground at her feet. When her own quiver ran out, she exchanged the two. The Ashvanes would return fire, and musket balls would go whizzing past her. She along with the soldiers beside her would duck behind the crenellation. Several of the others slipped in the snow gathered along the walkways, and they would scramble to press their backs against solid stone, holding their weapons over their heads in an attempt to protect themselves. Chips of stone would scatter from the old walls like shrapnel as the barrage peppered the battlements. 

Peeking carefully back over the walls, her hands were already drawing back on the bowstring, the fletching of a fresh arrow brushing against her fingers. Then she paused. She blinked through the glare of light against the snow, and tried to get a better look through the constant flurry drifting from the sky. 

New sails had appeared in the distance. A group of ships were sailing in formation towards Fallhaven.

“Who the fuck are they?” said a soldier beside her.

“No idea,” said another. “More Ashvanes, probably. Look at them red sails.” 

“Those aren’t Ashvanes,” Sylvanas said, startling them though she did not raise her voice. A dangerous fanged smile had spread across her face. “Those are mine.” 

A distant boom sounded out and a puff of smoke trailed through the air. The Zandalari ships were engaging the Ashvanes, going right for the throat and aiming for Integrity with a boldness that bordered on madness. The Kul Tirans may have been a seafaring people, but the Zandalari were just as formidable on the waves. And the Ashvanes were traders at heart. This was not the pride of the Great Fleet of Kul Tiras. These were merchant ships that just so happened to be outfitted with guns. 

Their only hope of winning relied on the fact that Lady Waycrest could muster no ships of her own in time to contend with them. They had not expected to test their mettle against battle-hardened Trollish warships. 

“Not a moment too soon, either,” Sylvanas muttered to herself. 

The soldiers beside her were watching avidly. A few of them gave whoops of excitement and slapped each other on the back, their grins fierce and broad. One of them even patted her on the shoulder in a comradely fashion. She slowly turned to fix him with an incredulous glare, and he snatched his hand back as though suddenly afraid she would bite it off. 

“Celebrate later!” she snapped at them. Rising to her feet, she shot another arrow down onto the invaders. “Keep firing!” 

Immediately they straightened their backs and leapt to do as they were told. The roar of cannons filled the air once more as the Ashvanes fired off another desperate barrage directly at the gate. Wood splintered and chunks of the door rained down with the snow. Ashvane soldiers thundered across their makeshift bridge, pushing and shoving at the gap that had been gouged into the iron-banded wood. Above them, Fallhaven troops manning the walls strained at the handles of enormous wrought-iron bowls heated over coals. They turned the bowls over, tipping their contents through slits in the stone at their feet and pouring hot oil onto the invaders. Below Sylvanas could hear a muted splash followed by hair-raising screams. 

A cry came from somewhere along the walls. “Damn your eyes! Are you blind? Lower the portcullis already!”

Two men sprinted for a windlass. They heaved their weight against the spokes of the crank, and the stones beneath them groaned and creaked as the mechanism began to slowly turn. The heavy portcullis shuddered in its place and crept lower. Then there was a grinding snapping sound, like that of a tree being felled, and the windlass turned no more. 

“It’s stuck!” one of them shouted.

Two more people raced over and began hauling on the spokes of the windlass, but the mechanism was as old and rusted as the castle itself. Below them, Sylvanas could hear the sounds of fighting breaking out in the courtyard. Leaning over the walls as far as she dared, Sylvanas peered down at the mouth of the gate. Red-coated soldiers boiled like an upended nest of ants, shoving at the gates, hacking with axes and swords to widen the breach and get inside as quickly as possible. Behind them, Jaina’s troops were breathing down their necks, trapping them into place.

Reaching over her shoulder, Sylvanas counted only three arrows left in the spare quiver that had been brought to her. Resolutely she shouldered her bow, squared her jaw and hauled herself up so that she crouched atop the crenellation. It felt all too familiar. Standing on the edge of a frozen keep, flecks of ice and snow drifting around her as she stared down the long steep drop. 

“Ma’am!” one of the nearby soldiers called out to her in a panic. “Ma’am, what are you doing? You are going to fall!” 

“Yes, soldier,” she said calmly without glancing over at him. “That is the point.” 

And she stepped off the ledge. 

The castle walls were not perfectly smooth and uniform. They were far too old for that. Bits of stone stuck out at odd ends, dislodged by time and the slow shifting of the earth beneath them. And somewhere along the way, the owners of this castle had repaired the arrowslits staggered along the walls, and they had done a poor job of it. Blocks of stone created little ledges like steps at various points. Nimbly, she dropped atop the nearest arrowslit. She did not stop to take a moment and steady herself before leaping to the next. One of her hands kept touching the wall, ready to cling to a bit of stone should she need to dodge any incoming fire. But none came. 

The Ashvanes were now so preoccupied with what was before them, they did not think to look up. Swiftly and silently, she picked her way to just above the gates, and then leapt down. She drew the bow from her back midair, and fired two shots onto the ground below. The arrows snapped with black necrotic energy and their impact was accompanied by a blast like cannon fire, flinging soldiers back. Landing with a lithe roll, Sylvanas did not stop. She continued towards the gate until she was between it and the portcullis which guarded the outer section of the wall. With the last arrow, she pointed her bow not at the incoming Ashvanes, but up. The arrow struck the mechanism that locked the portcullis into place, and blasted it into a mess of splinters and frayed rope. 

With a great clanging groan, the portcullis was released. It slammed down onto the ground, its spiked ends landing atop a row of red-coated soldiers and impaling them against the floor. A few of them were dead immediately. Others writhed, coughing up blood or pulling at their pinned limbs in a futile attempt to free themselves. Already the Ashvanes locked out were trying to move the portcullis, but it was a web of thick dark iron. They would need to batter it aside with more than just the strength of their arms and backs. 

Over a dozen soldiers were trapped between the gate and the portcullis with her. They turned, pointing their swords and flintlocks in Sylvanas’ direction. They formed a crescent shape, bearing down upon her, their faces hard. She was outnumbered and completely out of arrows. So, Sylvanas shrugged her bow back over her shoulder and reached for the only weapon she had left.

When she pulled the silver hunting knife from her boot, they laughed.

It took her less than two minutes to kill them all. Calmly, she tugged her knife free from the last one’s chest. It caught against a rib, and she had to yank. She took a moment to clean the blade on the dead man’s coat, bodies strewn on the ground around her in various states of disassembly. The men outside the portcullis that had watched the whole affair were staring at her in silent horror. Sylvanas ignored them and strode towards the half-broken gates. Without glancing back, she hauled herself through a fractured gap in the wood and into the courtyard on the other side. 

The moment she had climbed through, a staccato of shots fired in her direction. She felt the sting of one find its mark in her thigh. Gritting her teeth and hissing, Sylvanas raised her hands and shouted, “Cease fire! It’s me, you idiots! Cease fire!” 

A few yells echoed her command, and the volley stopped. With a vicious glower, she stalked forward, her stride completely unimpeded by the musketball now lodged in her femur. She could feel the cold sludge of her blood oozing down her leg. Soldiers were arrayed in various sections of the mustering grounds, her Forsaken guarding a ramp that led up the walls, but most of the human soldiers positioned along the walls to fire down into the enemy if they managed to break through. Those that had shot at her from the walls shrank back, cowed, when Sylvanas aimed a baleful glare in their direction. 

Cyril waved her over with his hat. When she approached his position, he eyed her over. “Are you quite all right?”

She waved his concern aside. “I am fine.”

“I could have sworn they hit you.” 

“They did,” she said. She would need to see the Apothecary again. What an absolute pain. “I have managed to buy us a bit of time, but not much.”

Jamming his hat back onto his head, Cyril nodded. “When they break through, we’ll be ready for them.” 

“I don’t suppose you have any more arrows, Lord Mayor?”

Rather than answer, Cyril reached behind him for a musket that was leaning against a crate along with a series of other firearms. He tossed the musket at her, and she snatched it from the air. Sylvanas wrinkled her nose at the weapon, but took it regardless. It was heavy and cumbersome, but she would have to make do.

“Place yourself where you like,” Cyril told her with a gesture towards the castle at large. “I’ll be staying here.” 

Sylvanas turned to walk away, but paused. “Why are you stationed here instead of a garrison commander?” she asked. 

Cyril had already pulled another flintlock from the pile behind him and was inspecting its sights. “She died. Last night, I’m told. So, I sallied forth from Fallhaven with a small force in the hopes that I could give Watermill a fighting chance. Thank the Tides you lot came when you did, otherwise we’d be buggered six ways to Tuesday.” 

With a grunt, Sylvanas strode off towards the nearest steps that would lead her to the wall-walk above. She made quick work of the stairs, the pain in her leg having faded to a dull ache by now. After a few curt questions and pointed fingers, she found the squad that had shot at her. 

“Gentlemen,” she murmured silkily when she drew up beside them. 

They shuffled their feet, their faces alternatively pale or flushed with a mixture of fear and apprehension. A few of them touched the brims of their hats. None of them wanted to meet her eye. 

“Which one of you shot me?” 

A series of nervous coughs and clearing of throats followed her question. Nobody said anything. Eventually, a young man was shoved forward, the others backing away as though he were a sheep placed upon a sacrificial altar to appease the wrath of some god. He clutched his musket like it was a buoy keeping him afloat in a storm. His hands shook so badly she thought he might drop the weapon. 

“Congratulations,” Sylvanas said blandly. “You are the only one here who can aim to save their life.” 

“M-Ma’am,” he mumbled, touching the brim of his hat and quailing under her scarlet gaze. 

“Do not shoot me again.”

“N-No, ma’am.” 

“And fetch me more muskets. As many as you can carry.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

There was a beat in which he did nothing.

“Now,” she hissed. 

He started at the dark and slithering echo of her voice. Kneeling down slowly, he placed his own musket at her feet like an offering. And then he scrambled away, sprinting off to bring her more. 

“The rest of you!” Sylvanas said, lifting her voice to be heard even though the squad was already hanging off her every word. “Get into formation! We are going to have a lesson in trigger discipline! If anyone fires without my command, I will have you flogged!”

There was very little chance that she could actually make good on that threat -- Lord Cyril was lenient letting her loose in Windmill Castle as it was -- but they certainly did not know that. Sylvanas spoke with the weight of centuries of military experience behind every syllable. A squad of only twelve men, most of whom looked like they had just come off the farm, did not have enough wherewithal to question her. Even the corporal, who was supposedly in charge of this squad, scurried to do as he was told.

There was a banging and crashing from the walls as the Ashvanes attempted to batter down the portcullis. The young man who had shot her returned, puffing up the stairs with his arms laden with muskets and extra bags of shot tied at his belt. He started arraying them all before her so that she could fire them in rapid succession, when the portcullis finally gave way with a squeal of warped metal and a clang that reverberated through the stone ground. 

Picking up a musket, Sylvanas shooed the young man away until he stood beside her, ready to hand her a firearm when she needed it. “Ready!” she yelled.

Everyone checked their weapons. A row of soldiers were kneeling on the wall-walk, while behind them another row stood to fire over their heads. The sounds of Ashvanes battering down the door to the courtyard grew louder. 

“Aim!” 

They shouldered their muskets. Their faces were pale but determined. In a snap of wood and iron, the gates caved inwards, and red-coated soldiers poured into the courtyard below them. Sylvanas waited until they were within range, carefully gauging the distance. 

“Fire!” 

The kick of the musket punched into Sylvanas’ shoulder, but her shot flew true as any arrow. A volley of musket fire showered the enemy, and a row of Ashvane soldiers staggered to the snowy ground. Puffs of smoke trailed from the long muzzles of the muskets into the air. Sylvanas roared out the order for them to rotate and reload, watching the squad’s actions carefully even as she cast aside her single-shot flintlock and reached for another. The young man passed on to her without question, taking the used musket and reloading it for her so that she could continue to shoot. For every one that a Fallhaven soldier fired, she fired three, her movements smooth and rapid.

The Ashvanes never made it further than the courtyard. The moment they set foot on the ramp, her Forsaken troops bore down upon them, shoving them back into the killing zone, where they were shot at from every angle. Red was painted in slops and sprays along the snow-strewn earth. Soldiers littered the ground, their corpses piling up with a blanket of white as snow continued to drift down from the sky. 

Overhead, a loud caw caught Sylvanas’ attention. She paused in swapping out her muskets, craning her neck to look up. The dark form of a raven flecked the sky, circling high above her and then careening off towards the gate. When she glanced down, the Ashvane soldiers had been driven to the point of exhaustion and were beginning to throw down their weapons and kneel in the snow. 

“Cease fire!” Sylvanas called out, and not a single trigger from her section of the walls was pulled further. All of the soldiers tucked their weapons against their sides, looking tired but elated. Some of them glanced in her direction as though seeking a pat on the head for their good behaviour. She rolled her eyes and drawled, “Yes. You can obey simple orders. Very good.” 

Despite her dry tone, they beamed. Shaking her head, Sylvanas turned her attention back to the courtyard.

Cyril and his men had begun the process of capturing the enemy soldiers and gathering their weapons so they could not pose a threat. A tired cheer went up throughout the castle at the sight of red-coated soldiers being lined up along the side of the courtyard to await their fate. Sylvanas did not join them. She was watching Cyril. A Fallhaven soldier had rushed up to him and was now making excited gestures towards the castle entrance. Cyril straightened his hat and said something she could not hear, before moving to stand in the centre of the courtyard and facing the entrance. 

The sound of a horn sang a single high note that shivered through the air. The cheers died down, and everyone turned to the castle entrance. At the fore of a procession through the gate rode Lucille and Katherine, and ahead of them both, like the centrepiece of a painting, was Jaina astride a white horse. Her coat was scuffed. There was a bloody tear in the sleeve from where a musket ball or sword had grazed her in the fray. A streak of blood rested high upon her cheek, as though a man had clawed at her as he died. She sat straight and tall and poised in the saddle. 

"Lord Mayor," Jaina said to Cyril, her voice carrying across the stone walls. She tugged back on the reins so that her horse stopped in the middle of the mustering grounds right before him. "I heard you were in a bit of trouble."

Cyril stared between Jaina and her mother, realisation dawning in his eyes. He nodded and replied, “Your arrival could not have been more perfect, Lady Proudmoore. You have my gratitude.”

She tilted her head to the side. Beneath her the white horse stamped its hoof and she rocked easily with the motion. “I hope I have more than that. Times are changing, Cyril, and we have much to discuss.”

Slowly, he swept his hat from his head and placed it over his heart. When he bowed, a hush fell across the mustering grounds and extended all across the walls where onlookers watched en masse. Cyril straightened, but kept his hat clasped over his chest and said firmly, “I am your servant, madam."

--

The castle interior was as damp and old as its exterior. As far as Sylvanas was concerned, Windmill Castle was a perfect reflection of the country itself. Sturdy. Defensible. Outdated and out of touch. By no means a jewel in anyone’s proverbial crown, but reliable nonetheless. 

After hours spent rounding up what remained of the Ashvane forces and getting the combined Waycrest and Horde soldiers settled, Cyril had led them to a side chamber that had turned into a command centre for the now deceased garrison commander of Windmill Castle. The hearth was cold and dark. A long wooden table was positioned in the centre of the room, strewn with maps and inkwells and quills and candlesticks dripping with hard pale wax. The walls were hung with moth-eaten tapestries that had seen better days and probably ought to be thrown into the tip, truth be told. Likely it would cost more to remove them than to simply leave them be. Whatever scenes they had once portrayed were long since faded from both sight and memory. 

Upon entering the room, Sylvanas had fully expected Jaina to cross over to the hearth and light it with a snap of her fingers. She did not. Instead, Jaina conversed in low tones with Cyril and her mother, while Sylvanas, Velonara and Lucille went over the latest figures from the field. Casualties. Injuries. Stock reports. 

“Hayles and Anya are still rounding up stragglers,” Sylvanas told them.

Lucille nodded, not at all surprised by this news. “Yes. Arthur told us.” 

Two soldiers trotted into the room. One carried an armful of ice-dusted firewood, which he dutifully began stacking in the hearth and coaxed a spark to life with flint and tinder from his pocket. The other was carrying a piece of parchment, which he gave to Jaina with a bow, as though offering her a great treasure. Sylvanas could hear Jaina’s murmur of thanks as she took the long unfurled scroll, and immediately set it on the table for later. 

Slowly the room began to warm, but a chill lingered along the stone walls and floors further away from the fireplace. The soldiers took their leave. Outside, the snow was coming down thick and fast now. If they had been delayed any further, their army would have been in serious trouble. Sylvanas would glance at the windows every so often and dwell on unpleasant memories of wintering with an army through unpleasant conditions. Their quiet conversation was broken up by the arrival of a few familiar faces. 

Nathanos was striding towards them. Behind him, flanked by two tall Trolls in gleaming golden finery as though they were an honour guard, was Lady Priscilla Ashvane. She was not bound in any way, but the Zandalari kept a careful eye on her movements, preventing any escape. Their hands rested against the pommels of their cutlasses with an ease that belied how carefully they were monitoring their captive. Lady Ashvane herself walked with her head held high. Her eyes glittered darkly. She wore nearly as much gold as the Zandalari, whose gilded tusks and various piercings gleamed in the lamp light. 

When they had reached the table, Nathanos bowed. “May I present, Lady Priscilla of House Ashvane, whose ship has been claimed as a prize by the Golden Fleet of Zandalar.” 

At the mention of the fate of Integrity, Priscilla’s lips pressed into a thin white line and her hands clenched at her sides in silent anger. Nathanos escorted her to a free seat at the table, pulling out the chair like a butler. Jaina, Katherine and the others watched her like hawks. Priscilla did not flounder beneath their gazes, shoulders back and head held high as though she were being escorted not to a chair but to a gallows. 

“How good of you to join us, Priscilla,” Katherine greeted coolly. “I trust your travels were uneventful?”

Priscilla gave a snort of derisive laughter. “Quite. Thank you.” 

Offering her a thin smile, Jaina gestured to the table and said to the others, “Shall we begin?” 

Meanwhile the Trolls stood aside, waiting. Rather than sit with the others, Sylvanas stepped forward to greet the Zandalari. “Which one of you fine gentlemen is the -?” She paused for a moment, thinking back about naval ranks and which one would apply here. Finally she said cautiously, “- brigadier?” 

The Troll to the left bowed deeply to her, before straightening to his full height once more. He was staggeringly tall like all of his kin. What she had previously thought to be an angular gold necklace across his partially bare chest was actually a series of detailed tattoos carved into skin the colour of a sea at storm. 

“Commodore Issoufu,” he said by way of introduction. “It is an honour to meet you in person, Warchief.” 

“I can say the same of you, Commodore,” she replied, offering him a small rare smile. “From what I’ve been told, you and your shaman are personally responsible for our victory on the river today. You are to be commended.” 

He shook his head, his own smile wide and revealing sharp teeth. “The crew of the Rhunok did the real work.”

“And you should all be proud. I shall remember you to Princess Talanji.” 

With another low bow, Issoufu clasped his hand over his heart then gently touched his forehead at the mention of his princess’ name. “May she live forever,” he murmured. “I would be most grateful, Warchief.” 

“Of course.” Sylvanas made a quick Ranger gesture with her fingers at Nathanos, who had returned to her side after Lady Ashvane was seated. When he answered with a silent nod of understanding, she then said to Issoufu, “You are to scout Carver’s Harbour, but do not engage the enemy. I doubt further action will be necessary. In the meantime, I will write to Dazar’alor of your valour. I hope it is not too much of an imposition for you to take Nathanos aboard one of your ships? He will be there to report back to me only, I assure you.” 

Issoufu laughed, the sound deep and short and booming. “No imposition at all. We will have plenty for him to do. There are no idle hands on my ships. I will put him to work.” 

She smirked, ignoring Nathanos’ flat glower in her direction. “Very good. You are dismissed.” 

He left, taking his men with him. Nathanos waited until the Trolls had gone before he growled, “Put me to work?” 

“I hear life at sea is very bracing. Good for the spirit. Besides, you heard the man.” She patted him on the shoulder. “There is always work to be done on a ship.” 

“He can hire enough sailors to sink a first rate with the prize money he’s getting from Integrity alone.” 

“And I am sure the good Commodore deserves every copper piece.” 

When Sylvanas had turned back to claim her seat at the table, conversation had already been struck up between the others. She sat down as quietly and unobtrusively as she could, content to watch events unfold from the sidelines for now. 

Jaina sat at the head of the table, with Katherine at her right and Lucille at her left. She had her hands clasped calmly over the page the soldier had brought to her earlier. Her hands were bare, her white gloves tucked into a pocket of her greatcoat. Somewhere along the way, she had found the time to rebraid her hair so that it did not look so messy as it had after the battle. The smear of blood had also been wiped away, though it did little to make her appear less foreboding. 

Priscilla sneered at her. "You can't honestly expect me to sign that."

Jaina's stare was unflinching. She tapped her clasped hands against the parchment. "I can. And I do."

"Why on earth would I even entertain the thought? This isn't over."

"In case you haven't noticed," Lucille said from her seat. "We captured your flagship. You are our prisoner."

"And I still have a dozen more ships at anchor in Carver's Harbour. Not to mention the hundreds of merchant vessels fueling the Kul Tiran economy." Priscilla folded her arms and sat back in her chair. "What do you have? A few ragtag Trollish frigates and a prayer. Fallhaven will starve before the winter ends, and the city will fold like a house of cards."

Jaina turned a questioning look to Cyril. He cleared his throat and nodded. "It's true. We barely have enough food to feed ourselves for the next four weeks. Damn Ashvanes burned the crops a few months ago right around harvest time. We're already tightening our belts as it is."

"That won't be a problem," said Katherine smoothly. She nodded towards Jaina. "We have a solution to that."

Cyril turned a curious gaze upon Jaina, who sat at the head of the table. In her fine waistcoat and her shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, she appeared every inch the Heir to the Admiralty. When everyone at the table gave her their full attention, she made an abortive motion with her hand, as though about to scratch her face only to think better of it. Her fingers closed into a fist and she placed it deliberately in her lap. 

She was, Sylvanas realised, trying not to tug at the cravat still tied tightly around her neck.

"Have you given shelter to the farmers in the area," Jaina asked.

Cyril nodded. "Of course," he said. "As many as could safely be housed in the city."

"Good. Bring as many of them as you can to the fields north of the city tomorrow morning."

Face screwing up in confusion, Cyril said, "Might I be so bold as to ask what for?"

"To harvest crops," Jaina answered in a very matter-of-fact tone.

Katherine appeared startled. She leaned closer to her daughter and lowered her voice to a hushed whisper, which Sylvanas' keen ears could still pick up across the table. "This isn't what we agreed."

"No," Jaina said firmly, not bothering to lower her voice at all. "It isn't. But it is what will happen nonetheless."

"We should bring them after you've -" Katherine made a fluttering gesture with her fingers, trying to hide the movement from Priscilla's keen eyes.

Jaina's expression was chilly. "Say it."

Blinking, Katherine leaned back in her seat. "What?"

"Say it," Jaina repeated, and now her words could have been carved from ice. "Say: 'after I have used magic to make the plants grow.'"

Lips pursed in a thin line, Katherine sat ramrod straight in her seat. In spite of her affected poise, her pale eyes darted to Cyril and Priscilla, then flicked back to Jaina. "We talked about this," she said her voice hushed and hurried, as though explaining something to an unruly child. "Kul Tiras has never had a Lord Admiral who was also able to use magic before."

"Magic is part of who I am. I will not hide it."

Before Katherine could retort, Sylvanas interrupted calmly, "She couldn't, even if she wanted to."

Now every pair of eyes swung towards her at the opposite end of the table. 

"What do you mean?" Katherine asked. "If she just didn't use it in front of people, then -"

But Sylvanas shook her head. "I do not think you quite understand. Most people might not notice, yes. However, others will only have to stand in her presence to know. Powerful magic users cannot hide what they are."

Katherine scoffed. "And I suppose you can sense her presence, or some such rubbish?"

"Yes." Sylvanas caught Jaina's gaze across the table and held it. "She reeks of arcane. Like a thunderstorm in summer. It is very distracting, truth be told."

Jaina appeared taken aback by the odd confession. On the other hand, Katherine wrinkled her nose -- more in distaste than in disbelief -- an expression that was shared by Lady Ashvane. 

"So, it's true. I thought Alfred was just spouting some Tidesage bollocks about the Drust, but he was right. You’re a witch." Priscilla shook her head and leaned an elbow heavily upon the armrest of her chair. She spoke to Katherine, now. "I thought we had finally rooted out this damned Drust infiltration when Meredith died, but now it has hooked it's claws into the Admiralty itself. You ought to be ashamed, Katherine."

Jaina's face darkened. Her eyes blazed. When she spoke her voice was wintry. “You have nothing, and you will sign this treaty or reap the consequences.” 

“You can’t hang me.”

“I don’t need to hang you to win.” 

An ugly look crossed Priscilla’s face, and she hissed, “I haven’t lost, yet. My people will ransom me back. I will buy the rest of your army. You have nothing.” 

Leaning back, Jaina drummed her fingers against the page. Her fingertips created a dull staccato rhythm against the solid wood. For a moment Sylvanas thought Katherine or Cyril might interject and take charge of the conversation, but then Jaina spoke, "It was obvious you could never attempt to invade western Drustvar until you had secured Fallhaven and the east. It would be too difficult to supply your army when the pass at Arom’s Stand was inaccessible during winter. To say nothing of what would have happened if your men had dared come into the Crimson Forest. From there it was only a matter of time. You have money, yes, but nothing else. You're not the Navy. I can break any siege with food. But most of all, I knew I could always depend on you being as untrusting as you are untrustworthy. So, of course, you came here personally. Because war is expensive. Because you believe your officers are incompetent fools. Because you wanted this over as quickly as possible. The moment you sailed to Drustvar, you lost. All I had to do was wait."

Silence fell over the room. Priscilla glared at her, but the effect was dampened by the way she darted her eyes towards Katherine and Sylvanas, as though weighing up her chances. 

Jaina cocked her head to the side, considering Priscilla with an unblinking gaze, as if looking right through her. Then, she reached out and slid the paper across the table closer towards Priscilla. "Sign it."

Priscilla's throat bobbed when she swallowed thickly. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, as though she were cornered. Slowly, she lifted the page and began to read it more closely. Her brows furrowed darkly as she scanned the lines of flowery script. By the time she reached the bottom, her cheeks were flushed with incredulous anger.

"You can't be serious," she snapped, though she did not push the treaty aside. "Severe munitions limitations on merchant vessels? Removing the press and running the Navy on volunteers alone? Giving Drust the ability to own land? And opening the borders to the likes of -?" She suddenly pointed towards Sylvanas and spluttered, "- her?"

Sylvanas bared her teeth in a smile, but remained silent.

Meanwhile Jaina said firmly, "The borders of Kul Tiras will open whether we like it or not. By force. By attrition. By choice. It will happen. All we can do is choose how."

Even Lucille and Katherine looked a bit uncomfortable at that declaration. No one at the table said anything to the contrary however. Cyril shifted in his seat but nodded with a small resigned shrug. 

Priscilla narrowed her eyes. “What else is there? Surely this can’t be everything?”

“No, you’re right. It isn’t.” Jaina’s face was a cold unwavering mask. “I want you to travel with me to Boralus as soon as this is all over. We will call a meeting of the Great Houses, and I want you to vote for me to become the next Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras.” 

“Any why would I do this?” 

“I can offer you incentives.” 

“Which are?”

"You will vote for me, and not only will I permit you to keep your life, you will keep your station, your name, your wealth -"

"But not my pride," Priscilla sneered.

"No," Jaina murmured. "Your pride belongs to me."

A log slipped in the hearth and the fire popped, casting a cascade of sparks onto the soot-blackened stones before it. Outside it was beginning to grow dark. Night came early to Drustvar in winter. Priscilla worried a corner of the parchment between her ringed-bright fingers. Then she sighed. Her shoulders slumped and she gestured for Jaina to pass her the quill. Wordlessly, Jaina slid the inkwell and quill towards her. The rest of the table seemed to hold its breath -- apart from Sylvanas and Nathanos -- as Priscilla scratched her signature onto the bottom of the document with an angry scribble. 

Jaina rose to her feet and pulled the document back towards herself. “Cyril,” she said, “Would you be so good as to witness this for us?” 

“Certainly, madam.” 

“Good.” 

She signed the document herself, then passed it to both her mother and Lucille in turn. Eventually it made its way into Cyril’s hands, and he checked that everything was in order before he picked up a quill and signed beneath all their names. 

As if not believing his own words, Cyril said, “I hereby witness that all present parties have sworn that this document shall be observed in good faith and without deceit, given by our hand, and so pass the Treaty of Windmill.”

“Jolly good,” Lucille said, sounding relieved. 

Priscilla was pinching the bridge of her nose. “I need a stiff drink. Or five.” 

--

By the time they rode into Boralus, the snow had faded and it was -- predictably -- raining. Sylvanas had almost grown accustomed to the rugged terrain of Drustvar, so that the countryside of Tiragarde Sound felt tame in comparison. Here there were no vast and wooded forests, no plains of dun and purple heath as far as the eye could see. Instead the snow-capped peaks dwindled on the horizon. 

People had stared and pointed when they had entered the capital. Word had quickly spread that Katherine, Lucille, and Priscilla had all entered the city together. There were confused murmurs at the sight of Jaina, speculation running wild. 

Meanwhile, Sylvanas, riding at the back of the procession, had her cowl drawn low over her head. She remained as inconspicuous as possible and garnered very little attention. No Forsaken or Tauren accompanied her, and she was trailed only by the three Rangers she had first brought with her to Kul Tiras. As soon the Treaty of Windmill had been signed, she had ordered her Horde troops to begin their travels back to Kalimdor. The last thing they needed was for Jaina to be seen riding into the city with the Horde at her back. 

Not yet, anyway. But that would come later. Sylvanas was greatly looking forward to seeing a Horde banner flying on the docks of Boralus. Or perhaps even from Proudmoore Keep. She hadn’t decided yet. 

Proudmoore Keep itself was as draughty and incommodious as ever. She could not tell who looked more uncomfortable being there: Jaina or Priscilla. It was a close match. Whereas Lucille and Katherine strode through the halls, chatting idly, Lady Ashvane grimaced at a butler who came to take her cloak. On the other hand, Jaina just looked like she was going to be ill. 

A steward was speaking in low courteous tones to Katherine, “Lord Stormsong arrived just before you, madam. I took the initiative of escorting him to the audience chamber.” 

“Very good, Bernard. Tell him we’ll be there shortly. And bring some tea while you’re at it.”

The steward bowed. “Right away.” 

Jaina’s face seemed to lose a bit more of its colour. “Lord Stormsong is already here?”

“Of course, my dear,” Katherine said, already striding off in the direction of the audience chamber. Every alternate footsteps clacked as her cane contacted the stone floors. “Alfred always was a stickler about being on time.” 

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Priscilla said, her lip curling just slightly. “For the leaders of the Great Houses to meet so you could rub your victory in our faces?”

Jaina scowled at her. “No.” 

“Well, if you’re getting cold feet, you could elect me Lord Admiral instead.” 

At that, Lucille said firmly, “Not to be crude, Priscilla, but I would rather vote for a shit-farmer from Dampwick.” 

Ahead of her, Katherine snorted in amusement. 

Jaina wrung out her braid while they walked, sending drops of water splattering to the floor. “I just thought I would have time to change into something dry.” 

“Welcome back to Boralus,” Sylvanas muttered under her breath.

Just outside of the audience chamber, Lord Stormsong stood flanked by two Tidepriests with their faces deeply cowled and their eyes blazing. The shadows seemed to cling to them, and the lanterns strung from their belts glowed with a faint blue light. Lord Stormsong himself was a tall man with dark eyes. His height was only accentuated by the mitre of office he wore. He clutched a scrolled staff in one hand and glowered as the group approached. 

A butler was trying to serve him tea, but he waved the man away irritably. “No, thank you,” he said.

“A cup for me, please,” Katherine said, drawing up to the butler and hooking her cane beneath her elbow so she could take the tea. “Hello again, Alfred. You’re looking as cunning as ever.” 

Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Katherine,” he greeted. “I thought you’d died when I sunk your flag off the coast of Tol Dagor.”

Katherine sipped primly at her tea. “And give you the satisfaction of having killed me? Never.”

His only response was a sour grunt. 

Sylvanas watched this interaction from the sidelines with a muted kind of glee. She had spent the last few years enduring the politics of Orgrimmar, most of which involved a great deal of fisticuffs and beating of chests. This veiled cutting back and forth however, was far more similar to what she had grown up with back in Silvermoon. She almost felt a touch nostalgic. It was difficult to keep her expression neutral.

Alfred’s dark eyes moved to Lucille. “You look even younger than when I last saw you.” 

“And you’re just as insufferable as I remember,” Lucille said cheerfully. She held out her hand to the butler bearing a tea tray and said, “I think I need one of those too, if you please.” 

“Tides,” said Priscilla. “Can we just get this bloody thing over with?”

Alfred turned to her. “I don’t know what you mean. A meeting of the Great Houses has been called, and so I have come as summoned. But so far nobody has deigned to tell me why.” 

With a contemptuous sniff, Katherine said, “Don’t play dumb. It really doesn’t suit you.” 

Alfred opened his mouth, but stopped when Jaina cleared her throat to get everyone’s attention. All eyes swung towards her, and she straightened her shoulders somewhat. “I called the meeting.”

His eyes roved over her from head to toe. “And who are you?”

“That’s my daughter,” Katherine answered before Jaina could speak. “Perhaps you remember her. Though the last time you would have seen her, she was about yea high.” She held a hand up to her waist to indicate Jaina’s height as a child.

Some dark expression flickered across Alfred’s face. “The child you sent to be raised by those wood savages?”

Sylvanas could see Jaina’s jaw tighten, though she said nothing in reply. 

“The very same,” Katherine murmured into her cup of tea. “I’ve named her my Heir.” 

"If you really expect me to vote for a Drust witch, then -!"

"I don't," Jaina interrupted him. "In fact I fully expect for you to vote against me, and lose anyway. I have already secured a majority. You are only here as a courtesy."

His face went pale, then red, then an unpleasant shade of purple. He rounded on Lady Ashvane. "If you'd just listened to my proposal, then we never would have been in this situation."

Priscilla's lip curled, and she snapped, "Oh, go hang yourself, Alfred."

“Well,” said Lucille. “This is getting off to a wonderful start. Shall we go in?” 

“Please,” Katherine sighed, setting aside her finished cup and saucer onto the butler’s silver tray.

Two Proudmoore guardsmen flanking the large double doors to the audience chamber moved to push the doors open. The old hinges groaned beneath the weight. Still bickering, Priscilla, Alfred, Lucille and Katherine began walking inside. The Tidesages did not follow after their master, instead taking up residence in the shadows of a corner of the hallway to mutter amongst themselves quietly, their murmurs like the lap of waves against the shore.  

Jaina took a step after the others, then paused. She turned to Sylvanas and said, “I’m afraid outsiders are not permitted to watch the proceedings. You may wait outside if you wish.” 

“I think I would prefer to change into some dry clothes,” Sylvanas replied. 

“I am green with envy.” 

From inside the audience chamber, raised voices could be heard. Jaina winced. Sylvanas glanced over her shoulder to see what was going on. It appeared that Alfred and Priscilla were already getting into a heated argument, while Lucille was mournfully gazing into her empty cup of tea, and Katherine rubbed wearily at her brow. 

Jaina made a face, scrunching up her nose. “I’m going to be here a while. I don’t suppose you would make a distraction for me, so I can flee back to the Crimson Forest?” 

“And ruin all my hard work?” 

“You’re evil.” 

“You’re not the first person to tell me that.” Turning on her heel, Sylvanas gave a little wave over her shoulder. “Try not to have too much fun without me.” 

Behind her she could hear Jaina sigh.

-- 

The last time she had been in Proudmoore Keep, the butler had escorted her around with a leery glance at her weapons, as though she might attack its inhabitants. Now, warm quarters had been provided for her and her Rangers. They were a far cry from the sumptuous amenities of Silvermoon -- or even Dalaran, for that matter -- but they were some of the best Kul Tiras had to offer foreign dignitaries. 

Hours had passed. Night had washed over Boralus. And still the meeting of the Great Houses had not finished. Velonara was lounging on a couch with her feet up, filing her fingernails to be repainted. Anya sat at a table, practising sleight of hand tricks with coins and a well-worn deck of cards. Meanwhile, Nathanos paced before the fireplace. He would wear a ditch into the carpet before long. 

"You look troubled, Nathanos," Sylvanas remarked. Her fingers were laced behind her head, and she had her feet propped atop a cushioned footrest before a blazing hearth. For the first time in months, her clothes were completely dry. It felt like heaven.

"I wish I had your confidence," he said.

"You don't trust that they will open the borders to us?"

"All I know is that I have no idea what they are discussing in that chamber."

"Are you telling me you don't have spies in the room?" She tsked, tapping her tongue against the back of her teeth. "For shame."

"I tried," he growled, continuing to pace. "But there are two very powerful magic users inside. They don't want to be overheard."

“And they needn’t be.” When Nathanos opened his mouth to retort, she waved him away. “Relax. Or haven’t you realised yet?”

His pacing slowed. “Realise what?”

Sylvanas smiled, and her fangs glinted in the firelight. “We’ve won.” 

--

The ascension of the Lord Admiral's Heir demanded a ceremony before the citizenry of Boralus. Sylvanas kept out of the way during the preparations. Servants and guardsmen scurried about in Proudmoore livery, ordered to and fro by Katherine, who barked commands as though she were back on a flagship. Though she was not the only one to be kept busy. More than once, Sylvanas could spy Lucille fussing over decorations and ledgers. Apparently there was to be a large dinner at the Keep after the ceremony itself. More like a military ball than anything else. 

Lucille had even personally delivered an invitation written in her own flawless hand. Sylvanas had turned the cream-coloured cardstock over between her fingers before tossing it into the fireplace. She would have to attend, of course. It wouldn’t do to snub her new allies by not making her appearances. Especially not when everyone of name and worth in the city was going to be in attendance. 

If Lucille was put out by the way Sylvanas had discarded the invitation she did not show it. “There is a dress code,” she said. “Formal military, if you please.” 

In answer, Sylvanas gestured to her current armoured outfit. 

“Oh. Hmm.” Lucille reached out and touched one of the spikes on Sylvanas’ pauldron. “I don’t suppose you have anything a little less...er….lugubrious?” 

Sylvanas gave her a flat look and said, “No.” 

“Right. Of course. Would you mind if I sent over my tailor? She can whip something up for you in a jiffy. She is really very good, and I think a Kul Tiran tailcoat would look very fine on you indeed.” 

“No.” 

"But -!"

In the end, Sylvanas had to all but steer Lucille towards the door to get her out of her private quarters in the Keep. And to think that only just a few months ago Lucille had been too afraid of her to step foot in her personal space alone. 

“She’s right, you know,” Anya said from a chair by the hearth once Sylvanas had slammed the door shut behind Lucille. 

“About what?” 

“You would look good in a Kul Tiran tailcoat. And they’re very comfortable.”

“Not you, too, Anya.” 

Anya only shrugged. “Velonara made me get one with her.”

Aiming a glare at the two of them, Sylvanas said, “Wear what you like, but I shall be representing the Horde as Warchief.” 

At that, Velonara’s expression turned dubious. She shared a silent meaningful look with Anya, who shrugged and mouthed, “I tried.” 

“All right. I am leaving.” Sylvanas tugged the door back open and stalked out. 

It was a winding walk through the draughty halls of the Keep to reach Jaina’s personal quarters. A guard was stationed outside. He kept stealing nervous looks at the enormous bone and branch sabre cat that lounged just beside the door like a common house pet. Its tail twitched when Sylvanas strode forwards. 

Stopping before the door, Sylvanas spared Adalyn a glance before speaking to the guard. “Is she inside?”

The guard came to attention without needing to be prompted. “Lady Proudmoore is getting ready for the ceremony, ma’am. The Lord Admiral is with her.” 

“Oh?” Sylvanas’ ears cocked forward slightly. “I don’t hear any yelling.” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“Then they won’t mind if I intrude. Unless someone else objects?” Sylvanas said, looking at Adalyn again. 

The cat yawned broadly, revealing fangs that could shred her to pieces, and Adalyn lowered her head back down to her crossed paws for a snooze. 

Wordlessly, the guard opened the door for her, and Sylvanas walked inside. The door shut softly behind her. As the Lord Admiral’s Heir, Jaina’s personal apartments were sprawling with multiple rooms. The sitting room was empty, though there was evidence that people had recently inhabited it. A fire was crackling in the hearth. Two empty cups of tea sat atop a table beside a teapot. The spout still steamed faintly. A silver spoon was turned over so that it leaned against the saucer. The tip of a quill was balanced in its well, and ink was still glistening and fresh on a small piece of paper.

Sylvanas could hear the faint murmur of voices through one of the doors leading to another chamber. On silent feet, she approached, but did not push the door open immediately. She leaned against the wall beside it and listened. 

“...and whatever you do: don’t lift the sword above shoulder-height.”

“I know, mother. We’ve been over this a hundred times, now.” 

There was a momentary pause, before Katherine continued softly. “Yes. Of course.” The sound of rustling fabric followed, and then Katherine said, “Here. Let me.” 

“You don’t have to -”

“But I would like to. Please.” 

Jaina gave no verbal answer. The soft whisper of fabric returned, and then Katherine said, “You should have told me sooner.”

“I didn’t want to make that conversation at Barrowknoll any worse than it already was.” 

“All the same. I would’ve liked to have known about this.”

“It’s nothing.” 

“Jaina, you died.” 

“You don’t have to remind me. I was there. No, don’t. Stop. Please.” Jaina drew in a deep shuddering breath. “It’s in the past. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” 

A sigh, and then the sound of uneven footsteps. “Well, you certainly look the part of Lord Admiral, in any case.” 

“That’s all I have at the moment,” Jaina grumbled. “Appearances.” 

“You will learn.” 

“Hmm.” 

“You are not alone. The Admiralty is not without its resources. And you have me, as well.” The gentle tap of Katherine’s cane joined the fray, and her voice drifted as though she were walking about the room. “I may not have much time left in this world, but what time I do have is yours.” 

“Thank you,” Jaina said softly.

Katherine made a wordless scoffing noise. “Don’t thank me, my dear. It really is the least I can do.”

Jaina lowered her voice, and Sylvanas strained to hear it.

“I see,” Katherine said. Then, she said very clearly, “You may come in now, Warchief. I was just leaving.” 

Before Sylvanas could even touch the handle however, the door swung inwards and Katherine began limping through it. 

“Lord Admiral,” Sylvanas greeted.

“You won’t be able to call me that for much longer,” Katherine drawled without pausing. “Just ‘Kath’ will do. But never in public, if you please.” 

Sylvanas wasn’t sure she would ever call her that, regardless of whether they were in private or not. For her part, Katherine did not give her the opportunity to respond. She was already heading towards the main exit, leaning heavily on her cane with every step. Sylvanas watched her go until the door shut behind her. Then, she glanced into the room beyond. 

Jaina’s bedroom looked like any other bedroom in the Keep. There were no personal touches to it, as though she hardly spent any time here apart from what daily sleep her body required. The four-poster bed was ornately carved and canopied with green drapes. A trunk sat at the foot of the bed. A large wooden wardrobe was open, revealing a panoply of military clothes that could have belonged to any high-ranking Naval officer. 

Jaina herself stood before a narrow, full length, silver-backed mirror. She was tying a white silk cravat around her neck, except this time she was actually accomplishing the feat.

“The only good thing about being back here,” Jaina said while still studying the movement of her hands in the mirror, “is that I can ask a valet to teach me how to tie one of these wretched things.” 

“I see they’ve succeeded,” Sylvanas said. She stopped by the bed, crossing her arms and leaning her shoulder against one of the carved pillars. 

Jaina huffed with self-deprecating laughter. “Barely.” She continued fiddling with the cravat, tucking the ends away just so into her waistcoat. Her greatcoat was draped across the mattress beside Sylvanas alongside her gloves. "This all feels like it's moving so fast. Weren't we just fighting in Drustvar?"

"Three weeks ago."

"Like I said. Fast."

"Would you prefer to keep fighting?"

"Of course not." Jaina had finished with the cravat and now smoothed her hands down the front of her waistcoat. "I do wish I could vanish back to my little cabin, though. Life was simpler as the High Thornspeaker."

Sylvanas cocked her head to the side. “Is that a title you will retain?” 

“It is. Though I will be ceding many of my duties to the other Thornspeakers. I am not giving them up by becoming Lord Admiral. I am - I am ensuring their future.”

She sounded firm, like she was trying to convince herself. 

Without responding, Sylvanas continued to watch the way Jaina nervously fiddled with her clothing. Then she picked up the greatcoat from the bed and approached, holding the article of clothing up so that Jaina could slip her arms into it and shrug it into place over her shoulders. 

“Thank you,” Jaina said. She straightened the lapels of her greatcoat, but her hands slowed, and then stopped. For a long silent moment, she stared at her reflection in the long mirror, her face going strangely slack. 

When Jaina continued to stare and not speak, Sylvanas asked, “Is everything all right?” 

"I've - I’ve dreamed of this moment," she breathed.

"Really?" Sylvanas said dryly. "Because you certainly fought against it long enough."

"No. I mean: I've Dreamed of this moment."

It was only then that Sylvanas noticed the trembling in Jaina's fingers. Her shoulders were beginning to shake. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide, gazing at herself in horror. Her breaths grew rapid, turning into short sharp gasps.

Startled, Sylvanas reached out. The moment she touched Jaina's shoulder, the tension in the air went sharp as a whip and the mirror cracked. Jaina flinched. A long jagged line now ran down a section of the glass, exactly mirroring the scar down her cheek.

Shaking her head, unable to look away and slowly stumbling back a step, Jaina mumbled, "No, no, no, no, no -"

Sylvanas opened her mouth to speak, but froze when she caught sight of the mirror. Jaina’s reflection did not match. In the mirror, she still wore her Naval uniform, but there was a sword through her chest. She was bound and gagged, her face a bloodied mess, her eye gouged out, dangling by a rope from her neck. Sylvanas blinked, and the image was gone, replaced by a completely normal reflection once more. 

Beside her, Jaina was panting now. Her hands flew to her throat. She started tugging at the cravat, ripping it free and gasping as though struggling to breathe. Sylvanas tried to manoeuvre herself into Jaina's sight, stepping between her and the mirror so she could not look at herself again. Wary, she reached out and gently grasped Jaina’s shoulders.

“Listen to me,” she said, keeping her voice low and calm. “You are awake. You are alive and you are safe.”

Jaina flinched. 

“Do you want me to leave?” Sylvanas asked.

Immediately and fervently Jaina shook her head. She grabbed hold of Sylvanas’ arms as if afraid she might go anyway. 

“All right,” Sylvanas murmured. “I will stay.” 

Jaina’s breathing still came short and harsh and fast. Her fingers dug into Sylvanas’ forearms, clinging to her as though she were the only thing keeping her afloat. The cravat was a mess of silk hanging around her neck like a noose that had not yet been tightened, revealing the ropey scar tissue of her throat, bracketed by her high collar. 

After a few minutes where the only noise in the room was Jaina’s sharp gasps for breath, Sylvanas said idly, “You know, Lucille wants me to wear a tailcoat to this military ball you’re throwing tonight. She was very adamant, but I think I would rather die a fourth time than wear that drab. What do you think?” 

Jaina had hung her head, and now she lifted it to blink at Sylvanas in muddled confusion.

Sylvanas gave Jaina’s shoulders a comforting squeeze. “Shall we show them what it means to have real taste? You can wear the deer skull, and I, the foreign armour with spikes. We will be the scandal of the capital on your first day as Lord Admiral.”

At that Jaina gave a weak huff of laughter. She nodded, closing her eyes and trying to take a deeper breath. Her pulse was a rapid rhythm at her neck, fluttering beneath the skin, but her breathing began to slow. Finally she managed to say, “Keep talking.” 

“Now, that is an invitation you are going to regret.” 

Sylvanas spoke. She kept the topics inane and rambling. The latest news from Durotar. Some juicy outdated gossip about a few of the noble families at the old court of Silvermoon. A humorous war story about a lance corporal who was literally caught with his pants around his ankles during a night exercise. The last was a tale she had always reserved for dinner parties to make the more uptight people in the room laugh and relax. She hadn’t needed to employ it for years.

Jaina wasn’t smiling though. Over the last few minutes she had gotten her breathing under control. She swallowed thickly and rasped, "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can."

Jaina shook her head. She was staring down at their feet. "No. No, I'm going to be bad for Kul Tiras. These people deserve better than me. I can't. I'm not the right person."

"There is no other person,” Sylvanas insisted. "And you know what is bad for Kul Tiras? More conflict. More fighting. More death. You have already stopped that."

"I will make it worse again. I know I will. I've seen it."

"The ceremony is in just a few hours. They are waiting for you. They want you. They don't want someone else."

But Jaina's voice was watery and weak, like she was choking on the words. "I can't. I'm not - I'm not Derek. I'm not Tandred. I'm not good. Not like them."

"Look at me. Jaina."

When she did not respond, Sylvanas grasped Jaina's chin and nudged her face up so that she was forced to look at her. Jaina's cheeks were wet, her eyes red-rimmed and frightened. 

"No, you're not going to be good. You are going to be great," Sylvanas said vehemently. "I have seen it. Not in a dream. Damn the Dream. I have seen it here. In this life. The place where it matters. And I know it to be true."

Jaina was staring at her with wide eyes, utterly silent. It was only after she had finished speaking that Sylvanas realised she was cupping Jaina's face in both hands, tenderly stroking her thumb over one cheek. She tried to let go and step away, but Jaina slipped a hand to the back of her neck and tugged her gently forward. 

It was not at all the kiss Sylvanas had expected. Jaina’s mouth was soft and warm, and even a touch fearful. As though she wanted something to ground her, and this was the only thing she could think of doing.

Though Sylvanas would have been lying if she’d said she hadn’t thought of doing this before. Perhaps back at camp, or in that cosy cliffside cabin. When Jaina still did not know how to tie a cravat. When Jaina hadn’t been desperate and crying just moments ago.

Jaina broke the kiss but her hand remained on the back of Sylvanas’ neck. “I wish we hadn’t done that.”

“Why?” Sylvanas murmured. “Did you not want to?”

“No. I did.” They were still close enough that the words ghosted across Jaina’s mouth. Her eyes flickered down and she swayed forward. Sylvanas tilted her head to the side, but Jaina stopped before they could kiss again. Jaina bit at her own lower lip and said, “That’s what’s going to make this next part harder.” 

Moving her hands, Sylvanas smoothed down the lapels of Jaina’s greatcoat so that they rested flush against her collar. “I know I gave you some advice about your personal wants and the needs of your nation -”

Jaina chuckled weakly. “It was more of a speech, really.”

“A fantastic speech, I might add.”

“It was very poignant, if I recall,” Jaina agreed.

“I have had many years to practice. Just as you will.” Sylvanas could not justify keeping her hands on Jaina any longer -- her greatcoat was sharp and pristine -- but she let her touch linger nonetheless. “Kul Tiras cannot expect you to be a spinster.” 

“No. I imagine not. In fact, I think they’d want me to produce an Heir as quickly as possible.”

“I’m not sure I can help you there,” said Sylvanas dryly. 

Jaina’s answering laugh was exhausted. She shook her head. “Unfortunately for them, they’ll be waiting a good long while for anything like that.” 

Sylvanas toyed with a burnished button bearing a fouled anchor. “In which case, we are free to entertain ourselves in the meantime.” 

Jaina was watching her intently, as though trying to scour her face to memory. Her eyes dropped to Sylvanas’ mouth and fixed there. Her fingertips traced a hesitant line across the nape of Sylvanas’ neck. “I don’t think you’ll want me after I -” 

With a soft tug at the lapels of her greatcoat, Sylvanas brought their mouths together again. Jaina made a small noise into the kiss when Sylvanas lightly traced her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. Any hesitation vanished, and suddenly Jaina was gripping her close, one hand at Sylvanas’ hip, the other bunched in her long ashen hair. 

Sylvanas had to remind herself to take care, to not rumple Jaina’s outfit or her hair overly much. It was more difficult than it should have been. The slight brushes of Jaina’s skin against her fingertips burned like the noonday sun of her homeland, and the only thing Sylvanas could think of was wanting to reveal more of it, her hands already slipping beneath the greatcoat and settling on the warmth of Jaina’s sides. A heady sensation rushed sluggishly through her, and it took her a moment to give it a name -- it had been far too long since Sylvanas had felt desire like this. Years. Now, it prickled at the base of her spine, crawling up her back as Jaina held her closer. 

Slightly breathless, Jaina broke away. Her hand tightened for a moment and something flickered across her face. After a split second of hesitation however, Jaina stepped back, swallowing thickly. “I really ought to finish getting ready. Can we meet here after? We should talk." She gestured between the two of them. "About this. And other things."

Sylvanas nodded. "I will return here before the ball. We’ll talk."

--

A crowd was gathered on the main docks of the harbour. Banners of all the Great Houses swung in an icy breeze, most prominent among them the green flag bearing the anchor of the Admiralty. Citizens of every stripe huddled together, the gentry rubbing elbows with dockworkers and fullers from Dampwick Ward, finely clothed merchants and ash-streaked farriers, their leather belts draped with rasps and large pliers, fishermen and stevedores with the collars of their worn coats turned up against the chill. 

Sylvanas stood well in the back. She did not bother trying to get closer, preferring to remain out of sight, lingering in the shade of a shop awning, which had been abandoned by its owner in favour of watching the ceremony. A sleek frigate was anchored and lashed at the docks. The name ‘Restoration’ was emblazoned across its stern in gold. It was not, so Sylvanas had been informed, a flagship, but it was a perfectly serviceable first-rate. Which, of course, meant it was massive beyond compare, a veritable floating barracks filled to bursting with sailors, marines, and enough gunpowder and shot to blow away a small city. 

She did not take her eyes off the ship. Officers stood at attention in their glittering finery, while five figures were arrayed before them. Even had Sylvanas not known who they were, their silhouettes were impossible to misrepresent. Each of the leaders of the Great Houses and Jaina Proudmoore in the very middle of them all, like the focal point of an old painting.

This was not a ship blessing ceremony, but it felt exactly like the one Sylvanas had attended almost exactly a year ago in this very city. The only thing that was missing was the rain. For once, Boralus was merely overcast, pale watery sunlight shunting through a part in the clouds and illuminating the vast stretches of canvas sails. 

For all Jaina’s hesitation at the Keep, she stood straight-backed as a pillar now. Her hands were clasped behind her back, her pale hair stark against the dark fabric of her military greatcoat. Beside her, Katherine had a ceremonial sword buckled at her waist, and in a smooth motion she drew it, her gloved hand clenched around the wire-wrapt hilt. She passed the blade to Jaina, who took it without a word. When Jaina held the sword out before her, Lucille was the first to step forward. 

Lucille’s words were loud and clear, carrying across the docks as the onlookers watched in a silence broken only by the whistle of the wind and the creaking planks of the ship. “I, Lady Lucille Waycrest, head of House Waycrest, do truly and sincerely acknowledge, profess, testify, and declare in my conscience before the Tides and the world, that Jaina Proudmoore is the lawful and rightful Lord Admiral of the realm of Kul Tiras. I swear that I will well and truly serve the office of the Lord Admiral, and I will do right to all manner of people after the laws and usages of this realm, without fear or favour, affection or ill will. And I do make this recognition heartily, willingly, and truly, upon the Tides.”

After speaking she leaned down in a low bow and kissed the flat of the blade held before her. She stepped back, and Lord Stormsong stepped forward in her place. The same words and rituals were repeated by each of them, ending with Katherine.

Everyone on the docks seemed utterly rapt by this ceremony. Sylvanas tuned out the repetition after the second time they were said. She was too busy studying how striking a figure Jaina cut atop the stern of the ship. She was still thinking about resuming that kiss from earlier -- hopefully with less crying and self-loathing this time -- when she realised Jaina had pulled out a small folded piece of parchment and had started to give a speech.

“...a long road lies before us,” she was saying, her voice carrying too clearly across the chilly air. She must have been amplifying her words with a subtle spell. “And I know that I am not the leader you expected. And though you have had and will have many wiser and stronger Lord Admirals, you never had nor will you ever have one as grateful or as dedicated. There is nothing I hold in higher regard than the well-being of Kul Tiras and its people. Everything I do henceforth will be for you and you alone. This I swear.

“The times shift as the Tides, and in the shadow of adversity all we can hope to do is steer a course that sees us safe and victorious. Which is why, for my first act as Lord Admiral, I will ensure that this nation is a safe harbour for everyone.”

As Jaina continued to speak, Sylvanas could feel a satisfied smirk pull at the corner of her mouth. She did nothing to quell it. 

“Effective immediately as voted by the Great Houses, Kul Tiras will open its borders,” Jaina said. “No longer will we drown in our isolation beyond the waves, and instead we will become greater than we ever were alone. I have struck favourable deals with representatives abroad from both the Horde and the Alliance, which will make Kul Tiras a haven to all.”

It took a moment for that statement to register. Slowly, Sylvanas uncrossed her arms and stood straighter as she digested the words. The smile slipped from her face and she hissed, “What?” 

Jaina was still talking. She addressed the crowd, refusing to look in Sylvanas’ direction. With every word, the sensation of icy horror gripped at her stomach like a clenched fist. Standing there -- anger rising to rage, then to some ineffable emotion that sang in her jaws -- Sylvanas finally realised that she had been played. 

#jaina proudmoore #sylvanas windrunner #sylvaina #you search the mountain #roman writes #drust au #time for me to sleep for one million years

[captzexx]

Daily Writing Challenge

Day 1 - First/Explosion

Hammer blows echoed in the late afternoon air as the soft ocean breeze came in through the quiet ramparts of Fort Daelin. The smithy drawing to close of a work as the fires began to simmer to a low warmth for the night, sang its last songs of iron and sweat. A loud whistle would blow forth as cling and clangs of honest work silenced to be followed by the mortal words of workers. Upturned buckets, cries for ale, and the general milling of tradesmen gathering as they stalked out of the shop, their heavy boots thumping as they left for the evening. Trailing behind them all would come a fairly common pair, similar and different in the almost subtle and obvious ways.

A tall handsome woman with her hair held tight in a min shouldered a hammer with ease, her other hand deftly raising a dirty cloth to wipe sweat grime from her face. She was broad and strong, Kul Tiran as they come with thick arms for hoisting sail and the steady step of one born to sea. Sarasam Styrnlock was a woman born with an affinity for shaping metal as she was communing with the tides. An easy smile lit her face she walked with her companion, the easy banter common between the two. “Up fer a pint?”

Her companion was different in all kinds of ways, the most obvious being an elderly man with thick white mustaches and clean bald head that glistened with sweat and oil. A mass of scars, wrinkles, and manner of lines gave the impression of living history, in truth he was one of the few left with those memories. Despite time’s march his step matched hers easily, the gait they followed ingrained more in blood than friendship. Erlain Candell bore no hammer now but he did wipe his neck down with a similar rag, releasing a weary sigh. “Are you sure your old enough, Miss Styrnlock?”

“Pfft, blow it out yer arse, ol man.” Sarasam rolled her eyes at Erlain but smiled nonetheless as she stalked along with him. “Come on now, could use a beer after today. Wars cooled but damned if the orders don’t stop.”

“Your people need to rebuild their lives, Sara. It’s not easy.” Lain replies patiently as they walked out into the orange and red of the slow setting sun, their slowing as they reached the gate of the blacksmiths yard.

Sarasam once again rolled her eyes as they stopped to chat, shaking her head. “I know ya used to be a holier than thou type-“

“My faith has never faltered.”

Sara grimaced at being interrupted by the old man, who was doing his best to remain stern in the face of the younger woman. Blue eyes narrowing as she rolled her shoulders and set her hammer to the side. “Damnit Lain, can you just not interrupt me for once?”

There was no reply as she nodded to herself and began to speak again. “Like I was saying, you don’t have to lay on the sermons to me. I know we’re in quite a mess but we’ll come out of it. The Tidemothers with us and the fleets returned and the damn Dark Lady is gone. Can we have a moments peace? A moment to collect ourselves?”

There was silence again as Sarasam felt a weight on her shoulders that did not involve the weight of iron or the turn of steel. She had it on her for some time since she’d last ventured out to Drustvar and came into service with some Inquisitors heading off to Vol’Dun. She’d met a man, a man she suspected of being more than a comrade in arms to her. That man of course was linked to her friend here and if that was the case, then they too shared a bond beyond work.

“Lain something has been digging at me for some time, and I need to talk to you about it.” Sarasam lowered her eyes to cross her arms about her stomach, a nestling ache at what she suspected. “I need to talk to you about a man I met some time ago.”

There was silence still as she turned to look at her friend, the world tumbling as she felt an odd burn in her eyes and throat. “His name was Eld.”

Erlain was slumped on the ground, resting on his knees as if in prayer with palms open and knuckles in the dirt. His head was bowed and face hidden in his chest, motionless and silent in the waning sunset of a coming autumn night.

Sara stared speechless at Lain, her hands falling away from her stomach as fast as the earth was beneath her feet to bring her to her knees before him. By now the burning in her eyes had released a steady stream of tears as she reached a shaky hand out to his bent head. Rough fingertips touched the toughened skin and gently traced around his cheek to his neck. No response. No reaction. No beat.

Erlain Candell was gone.

@daily-writing-challenge

@erlaincandell @gatesofthetroupe @eldridgecandell

#dwc2020 #explosion #first #it starts with a funeral #erlain candell #sarasam styrnlock #eldridge candell #daily writing challenge #day12020

[cetologies]

6.24.2022 — how could i say no to 80 degree water

#my love #daelin speaks

[nocapsnospace]

Creation - Salaece

A young woman with a coal-blackened face opens the door to her home – a claustrophobic tenement on the 6th floor. She looks exhausted and stressed. She has just finished a 12-hour shift, and stayed out late with some friends at the ‘pub’. The Wife’s clothes and face are cacked with soot, her right hand bandaged, with a small splatter of blood on the overalls. Another industrial accident at work, but at least she has income. That’s more than can be said for most here in Graaden.

Her Husband, equally beaten by the day if less ashen, walks up to her. He informs the wife that their daughter is waiting in bed, dried tears on his cheeks. The daughter refuses to sleep until she gets a bedtime story, the husband states. Before the Wife goes into the bedroom, the husband stops her, and asks if she has been out with her ‘political’ friends again. They speak in hushed tones, for who knows if the MOX are listening? She says yes, but that she will not be going back. His reaction is mixed, suppressed. She walks into the other room.

The Mother greets her daughter, lying in bed, and begins to weave a tale. Her recounting is loud enough to wake not only the 6th floor, but the 5thand 7th as well. She is practically yelling. She begins recounting the tale of the Tyranny’s creation.

Long ago, she starts, when Kosai was young, the Folk live in Daelin, far to the west. The very land they stood on had just been calamitously birthed from the ocean in those long-ago times. The Folk had no way of reaching the land, but were assisted by an ancient god. This god, a single mind distributed among many beings, sought the help of the Folk. It said that it was being chased, and offered to give the people of Daelin a new lands if they helped to fend off the great gray dragon that was on its way. The Folk accepted this offer, and were placed in the fertile valleys of Salaece. These new Salaecians built farms, mines, cities, and soon became a new people ready to assist their god.

Soon the day came when the great gray dragon came for the god, but with the Salaecians’ help, the monster was fought and triumphed over. But the many-bodied god was nearly itself defeated, and left the land and what remained of their divine civilization to the Salaecians.

The mother, filled with jingoism bordering on parody, then describes how the Salaecians, with their benefactor defeated, soon found themselves absorbed into a great Dragon Empire to the east. The daughter asks if they have anything to do with the war with Hikakae, and the mother loudly congratulates her child for being so perceptive. She continues her tale.

This Empire was not to last, however, and after millennia of oppression, the empire fell, and Salaece was once again free. But the tricksy Dragons of the east were not done meddling with the Salaecian Folk, she continues. Almost 300 years ago, the Great Lai Liadon, in her mortal form, led a Salaece on the verge of collapse. In a foe-patriotic fervor, the mother insincerely yells of the inadequacies of Salaecian democracy, and how it was being corrupted from the outside, and how a strong iron hand is needed to keep the Folk safe from outside threats.

“But that’s not what you said last week, mommy?”

With one sentence, the mother’s face goes ghastly white. “Uhh, No… Sophie. This is exactlythe story I told last week, uh, darling.” Her eyes dart around the room. She begins sweathing profusely. As ash-polluted beads of sweat drip down Her face, she assures little Sophie that this was the story she told last week.

“But you told me last week that Salaece before the Tyranny-”

“IT WAS HORRIBLE!” she blurts out, scanning the room paranoid. “I heard from old man Grathe, he was, uhh… alive back then, you know. Yeah! He, uhh, always talks about how terrible that mob rule was. How easily the people were swayed by shapeshifters. How easily the Mortal Lai was lured to the trap at Dragonsback Peak.”

She grabs her by the shoulders, in the ravenous, rambling distress of cornered prey. Like a racoon chased up a tree, she hears the barking and knows she is running out of options. Tears start flowing from her face.

“Never forget, Sophie! The outside world is a terrible place! It will eat you alive! But the Tyranny is safe! The Goddess, the Military, the MOX, they will protect you-”

“You mean protect us?”

Her broken composure suddenly returns, the tears stop, her face glazed over. As if paralyzed, her ravings come to a sudden close. Sophie’s father has entered the room at this point, his eyes red and nose sniffling.

“Honey,” he starts, his voice breaking, “There is a visitor here for you.”

“Listen to your father and the police… I love you Sophie…”

“Love you too, mommy.”

“I have to go take care of this, you just go to bed, and I’ll see you again soon enough.”

The husband walks his wife to the door, in which is standing a tall man with a black hat and trench coat, orange armband on his left bicep.

“I’m sorry it came to this, Marie… It was you or Sophie. I know you would have done the same for her.”

“Thank you, Mr. Benedict,” speaks the MOX agent. “We will take it from here.” The agent hands Sophie’s father 4 gold wings, and takes Sophie’s mother away.

#short story #worldbuilding #ummmmm some third thing #writing

[earthbinder-a]

𝐖𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 ;; 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 @ilianchant​ asked :    ❛ It is hard to forgive. ❜ - lucille :>

                    ❝ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄   right, and i would not ask that of you. ❞   great head nods in firm agreement, arms still and curt at his side. while diplomacy is one of his strong suits, making a case to any of the kul tiran leaders is nigh impossible; the wound left by the death of DAELIN PROUDMOORE has not quite scarred over yet. if there is anyone to blame for this, it is warchief thrall ... but he is wise enough not to mention this. he’s been lucky enough to receive an audience at ALL, with or without jaina’s insistence.   ❝ you have your grievances with the horde, and especially MYSELF ― i do not seek to change your opinion. ❞

          thrall pauses, blue eyes thoughtful as he chooses each word he speaks.   ❝ but there is no room for faction disputes, now. sylvanas is playing with a greater power than ANYONE on azeroth has ever seen ― and if we do not work together now, i fear the consequences. ❞   deep breath, stern eyes.   

          ❝ i am not so foolish to believe you or your people would forgive me for what i have done, not even the LORD ADMIRAL. but we share this home ― and i ask you, lady waycrest, to fight for it. ❞

#// thrall knocking on everyones door like a girl scout handing out 'Sorry The Horde Stinks' pamphlets #// THANK U FOR THE ASK #// some shadowlands stuff i suppose?? ehehe i skipped over most of bfa so im kinda clueless #🍃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐘 ― ic. #🍃 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐎𝐍 ?? ― answered. #verse tbt #ilianchant

[merelliahallewell]

Drustvar and the Light (my desperate case for Kul Tiran Light worship)

A while ago I wrote a post for /r/warcraftlore (that got expanded into a forum post) that examined religion in Kul Tiras in each zone. Some new things have come out since I wrote it and so I wanted to update it and post it here. It mostly focused on the Tidesages and the new lore we’d been given with them (BfA had just come out), but also poked at Tidesage influence in Tiragarde. 

Drustvar, though, was interesting to look at. There’s no Tidesage influence to speak of anywhere in the zone- not a single NPC or building they use for their religion. this could be attributed to how most of the zone seems to be fallen to the Heartsbane Coven (and the Tidesages could be among those killed). Even in Fallhaven - which had yet to see any deaths to the witches and is close to the sea - there is no Tidesage. This one’s a doozy, continue under the jump.

On top of the curious lack of their presence in Drustvar, there’s also burial practices to consider- usually strongly tied to religion. In the Tidesage religion, burial seems to be less important than the collection of souls- to lay their dead to rest in Stormsong Valley, the Tidesages perform a ritual to let the souls flow through the Shrine of the Storm. There are no graveyards throughout the entire zone there, only tidesage markers for players to spawn at. Tiragarde Sound has some graveyards, but they are small and many of them do not even have stone grave markers, only wooden ones.

Drustvar, once again, is the odd one out. Not only does it have numerous graveyards, but it has Kul Tiras’ largest cemetery, Barrowknoll. In Barrowknoll, there is a small quest chain dealing with the Coven raising the strongest spirits of the dead (the Defenders of Drustvar) and putting them into wicker constructs. It seems that here, the souls and bodies rest together- meaning they are not released into the sea by Tidesages at all.

Overall, Barrowknoll is quite reminiscent of the places that Light-worshipping cultures lay their dead to rest, as shown behind Stormwind Cathedral, in Gilneas, at Sorrow Hill and Light’s Hope, and even the redone Arathi Highlands. It features the entrances to crypts (though they are blocked off by gates), and gravestones that are overall of high quality, unlike the simple wooden markers we see in Tiragarde. Most importantly, it resembles Forgotten Hill in Tol Barad- an island once under the control of mages from Kul Tiras.

One last curious burial bit is out in Corlain’s graveyard, on the other side of Drustvar. While most of the gravestones there are the standard models used in Whitegrove, one particular one stood out because paladin players walk past it in their class hall. It features a hammer and a libram- a statue that is meant to mark a paladin of the Silver Hand. Considering that Blizzard created brand new models for gravestones to use in both the Arathi Highlands and Kul Tiras, it strikes me as strange that they’d unintentionally place a single paladin’s marker in a graveyard in Drustvar. We may have had a paladin hail from Drustvar at some point and be buried in their homeland.

There’s more beyond simple burial practices, though. I mentioned the Defenders of Drustvar before, who were powerful spirits being raised by the Coven who had presumably been past heroes. Among them is a woman named Mercy Fairwater. She is one of the few NPCs in Kul Tiras to mention the Light expressly, saying “Light’s Peace be upon you, class.” She also bears the Greatstaff of Righteousness, a staff that features the symbol of the Church of Holy Light as a headpiece. This symbol is on various weapons associated with the Church, and Archbishop Benedictus even wielded these weapons in his fight underneath Wyrmrest.

Another NPC of significance is Inquisitor Erik, a mob added in 8.1. He is a member of the Order of Embers and spawns sometimes for Horde during their world quests. He is dressed in the garb of an Order of Embers inquisitor, yet his attack spells are Crusader Strike and Holy Smite. These are both Light-based attacks… could this really be just a coincidence?

Cleric Loriette is another 8.1 NPC, added from the outpost upgrades you can purchase from the 7th Legion vendor. She is added to Arom’s Stand, and can cast a buff on you called Blessing of the Order of Embers. Clerics are not an uncommon thing in Azeroth- there are the Clerics of Northshire as the most prominent ones, as well as Argent Clerics, Dark Clerics, Alliance Clerics… the list goes on and on. Nno matter what, these clerics are always religious in some manner, usually related to the Church of Light or the Cult of Forgotten Shadow. If Loriette is casting a blessing spell as well, something usually done in Azeroth by priests or paladins, it would seem that perhaps Light worship is implied. The spell effects seem to be orange and almost fiery, perhaps reminiscent of holy fire.

There are other NPCs too that seem to suggest some small level Kul Tiran Light worship, or at least ability to use it. While not based out of Drustvar, the Tol Dagor dungeon features Ashvane-aligned priests who perform the spells Inner Flames and Righteous Flames. The former has a healing effect, the latter is a damage spell. Inner Fire was a once a priest spell.

One last major point comes from Warcraft III: Reforged. While people expected some parts of Warcraft III to be “reforged” per Blizzard’s original word on it, there was also a lot of expectations that minor elements would also be changed to fit with recent lore- such as the Kul Tiran Chaplain unit from Daelin’s forces.

These light-wielding priests would have been perfect fodder to change into a Tidesage to fit with recent lore, yet the released models suggested a continued focus on the Light. The solar iconography of the staff’s head and the golden trimming of the gear makes it pretty clear that they are still using the Light. Since these models are unique and only meant for certain portions of WCIII’s story, there is no reason they could not have replaced them with Tidesages to fit with more recent lore. In my opinion, this is a pretty clear sign of at least some light worship being present. 

Overall, it strikes me as strange that a region that’s primarily mountainous would look to the sea for guidance like the rest of Kul Tiras. Tidesages often bring the rains for crops in Stormsong Valley, but Drustvar has a number of streams and rivers to provide freshwater to its farming regions, and a large amount of snowmelt to feed them. Drustvar’s fishing villages are in disarray for the most part, and so the other part of Tidesage functions (blessing fishing and monster hunting trips, saying where the fish are biting, etc) are simply not present, but that may be more due to Coven attack than them not being there. With water needs taken care of and little ability to fish in the sea save for on the coastal villages, many part of Drustvar just do not have need for those portions of a Tidesage’s duty.

Unfortunately, there are a total lack of religious buildings in Drustvar to confirm or deny the possibility of Light worship. Whitegrove Chapel features no priests to speak of and is overrun by monsters when we arrive. Even going back in time reveals a wedding officiated by Lord Waycrest, rather than a Tidesage or priest of the Light. ”It is my honor to wed these two in the presence of the land, the sky, and the sea” doesn’t particularly sound like the words of a Light worshipper. Since this seems to be a nonreligious ritual conducted on his authority as the lord of Drustvar, it’s hard to know either way. 

Given what’s been displayed between burial practices and NPCs, I’d like to think this post makes the case for some level of minor Light worship in Drustvar- it’s certainly nothing like Stormwind or Lordaeron, but I think that there’s some evidence it exists in the region. 

5/15/21 UPDATE:

Hey so there’s more lore. Also, I updated some grammatical errors in the post because I abuse commas.  All tiny, little snippets, but that’s sort of what Warcraft roleplay relies upon, right?  

This comes from the “Total Cairnage” quests in Drustvar or whatever that chapter is called where you help the thornspeakers and rangers. This lady says this. Not much to say here, it is pretty explicitly Light-related. 

This next piece is an interesting one I came across recently when looking up Arom Waycrest’s story. He would have been either a Gilnean immigrant or descended from them: the stories aren’t clear about how long the war with the Drust took, but it does seem to have been a long-running thing. Either way, the worship of the Light, per Chronicle 1 and 2, had begun long before the settling of Kul Tiras. However, what is important to mention is that the Church of the Holy Light did not exist for some time after the Troll Wars, several centuries.

The date of Kul Tiras’ founding isn’t entirely clear, but it relies on Gilneas existing and being established as a kingdom. Because of this, it’s entirely possible that the Gilnean settlers might have brought the early, pre-Church worship of the Light with them across the sea (but it is important to remember Kul Tiras was discovered by the Stormsongs, who were led there by the Tidemother). Arom, from this quote from a story about him, may have revered the Light. The Light being brought over to Kul Tiras without the Church element might explain why there’s no real organized reverence of it there.

But also, this is a story being told to kids from 2600 or so years ago, so who knows? Maybe it’s not true, and the narrator is unreliable. Also, “light” is not capitalized as a proper noun, but nobody really says “by the light” in this universe without the explicit reference being to the magic.

The last thing is not canon, but is an interesting follow-up to the Reforged Kul Tiran chaplains. This is a Kul Tiran Chaplain art piece from Hearthstone by Vladimir Kafanov. While Hearthstone isn’t canon, I found it interesting that this piece was done in March 2020, when BfA was almost over and Reforged had, uh... decided not to “reforge” elements of the lore because they abandoned the game. He wears Tidesage vestments and bears the mantle with the scrolls, which are very important in that religion. But he’s using the Light. Creative decision, blending of lore, or silly noncanon hearthstone thing? Who knows, honestly? 

I hope that this post and the new updates might have made enough of a case for a minor Light presence on Kul Tiras. The Tidemother is still the dominant religion, but I personally see enough evidence here to include it in my own roleplay and headcanons. 

#Drustvar #Kul Tiras #Light worship #please i need this to be canon #Warcraft #Lore deep dive

[lady-proudmoore]

@frostmourned (moved from discord, as requested. your last reply below) Arthas had endured much since the Plague of Lordaeron had passed, and the scourge had been removed. Even if his people were now safe, he could not help but think of how many lives had been lost before a solution was finally found. There were so many sleepless nights thinking back to the purge he had inflicted upon Stratholme, of how he should have arrived sooner, of how many innocent lives he could have saved from the wrath of the undead. It was better to save half the city than to let it all die, he told himself, though that held little comfort when the nightmares came, the faces of those he had killed speaking out to him, wishing there was a better cure. Perhaps it would have been better if he had died with them, instead of dealing with the pain such events had brought to bear on him.

His heart ached when she said she missed him, but even more so when she whispered his name again, knowing that all he wanted was to have her embrace him, to allow his feelings to be fully expressed just by actions rather that words. His eyes looked towards her hand, watching her reach out before pulling away, not wanting to lose herself in whatever feelings she still had for him. Her reservations at least told him something, that deep down, there was still the same Jaina he had loved, the one he regretted having brushed aside in his pursuit of the crown, the one woman he ever truly loved. She was here before him now, he could smell the same perfume she had always used, see that she had barely changed, but he wasnt the same man, for better or for worse. He only hoped she could still feel love for him, even in his broken state.

Their discussion turned back to his father, knowing that she was here to say her final goodbyes, and that it would likely be a matter of weeks, perhaps a month, until Arthas would be named king. "You can wait with me, you of all people should know that Lordaeron will always open her doors for you. It is your home as much as it is mine."

He didn't want her to leave, especially since she had just arrived. Although he didnt know she would come, he had always held hope that she would. "I can take you to your room, if you'd like, that way you can set down your bags." He spoke, hoping that seeing her again would lift his spirits. He couldn't help but wonder if their relationship could ever be rebuilt, after the rift he had opened at Stratholme. "You wouldn't disturb me in the slightest. It's good to speak to you, after so long. And it will be good to have someone I know I can trust, especially with all that's happened here. I don't know who else I could speak to as honestly as I could with you." 

He still held his tongue from the rest of the words he wanted to speak, though the contents of his letters would have been enough to ensure she knew where his heart and emotions lay. He opened the door to her room, allowing her inside, wanting to wait together for his father to be well enough to say his last goodbyes to her. He walked in behind her, taking a seat in a chair as he thought to himself, letting her unpack. The silence did not help him, as his eyes simply looked on at her, unsure of what to do or say. He moved his eyes back towards the ground, before standing up again as she turned towards him, and embracing her, unsure of what else to do. Even if she didn't return it, he simply felt compelled to do it. It was not one driven by romantic desire, although that was certainly part of it, but more out of the need to feel a caring touch, a small comfort he needed in the mess he was set adrift in. "Thank you." He whispered, not knowing what else to say.

~~~~~ Not wishing to be alone with her thoughts, Jaina was grateful for his company despite the awkwardness between them. Receiving another letter from Arthas had not been out of the ordinary, but the news of his father’s failed health had shaken her. Packing for the trip, her thoughts drifted between him and other somber concerns, dreading the moment she would be at the king’s bedside paying her final respects. What would she say? How awful would he look? The last time Jaina had caught a glimpse of King Terenas had been over a year ago and while age had certainly caught up to him, he hadn’t looked unhealthy. Her attention was suddenly pulled to the present as she caught his comment of Lordaeron being as much her home as it was his. The archmage shot him a doubtful look. Had it not been for his personal invitation, Jaina surmised her presence would have been far less welcomed. Her family’s friendship with the Menethils had deteriorated. The longer the Alliance continued to refuse Kul Tiras aid in Daelin’s war with the Horde, the more bitter and contemptuous her father became. He attended fewer and fewer council meetings as the island nation’s loyalty to Lordaeron hung by a thread. Tensions ran high between leadership, and in Boralus the words Menethil and Lordaeron were uttered in disdain. Her visits home grew infrequent as her own relationship with her family fragmented more each time she refused her father’s requests to join him in his vendetta. There had been no hesitation in Jaina’s eager acceptance the moment she was offered membership in the Kirin Tor. The choice to stay in Dalaran had been an opportunity to escape just as much as it was to continue advancing her skills. She wasn’t quite sure anymore just where home was. “That’s very kind of you.” Jaina smiled softly, nodding her acceptance at Arthas’ offer to lead her to her guest room. Soft footsteps trailed close behind his as she followed, listening to him speak. Her brow arched in curiosity at his claim of still having such trust in her considering….broken promises and all that. For her part, time had not quite healed the wounds, despite his many thoughtful, apologetic letters. “It’s...nice to speak to you as well.” Jaina’s tone was kind as she stepped past him into the room. She placed her bag on the bed before turning in expectation of the prince leaving her alone to unpack, only to find him making himself comfortable instead, apparently planning to stay. With a flicker of annoyance, her friendly smile wilted around the edges slightly, though It occurred to her that Arthas’ may not want to be alone. Given the circumstances, she couldn’t fault him. The irritation faded quickly as she unpacked, tucking clothes away in the armoire and stacking her books on the nightstand. She felt his eyes follow her but dared not meet them, afraid of getting lost if she looked too deeply. 

Thank you.

Jaina froze. Those two words carried a universe of sincerity from Arthas that she didn’t recognize. Turning to face him, their eyes met and Jaina found herself fighting hard to keep cracks from forming in the walls she’d built around her heart. 

Light, she hated it. The push and pull of longing to be near warring with fear and resentment. It was a pain upon a love that stubbornly refused to fade. But to have her love be discarded so callously left a tear that didn’t mend easily. The weary archmage took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reminding herself that she hadn’t accepted his invitation out of love, just compassion. Thinking of his father, and her own family’s pain at the death of her brother, her sapphire blue eyes glossed with tears as she spoke softly.

“Of course. I’m here to help in whatever way I can.”

#frostmourned #// AU: King of Lordaeron Arthas: Picking Up the Pieces // #moved from discord #so sorry for the delay

[warcraft-lore-archives]

Hi! It might be a little late into the death knight week to send in requests for posts but... if you happen to find anything about their relationship to the Shadowlands in current live content, I'd be very interested in a post about it. The Wraith Walk ability references them stepping in and out of the Shadowlands and theres' multiple Legion class hall quests where they go into the Shadowlands to take essences from dead major NPCs like Daelin Proudmoore but its not explained much as far as i kno

I’d actually love to do a post on something like that, but I might wait until closer to Shadowlands if only because I have a feeling there might be some relevant DK lore in either the pre-expansion event (since it's said to mainly focus on the death knights) or certain subzones like Maldraxxus where we find big lore characters who were death knights in life. 

If I can speak a little to it now, though, one thing to add is that one of the quests in the death knight starting zone requires the player to go into the “realm of Shadows” in order to acquire their death charger. (As a worthy side note, the NPC who gives you that quest disappears into the aforementioned “realm of Shadows” sometime during Wrath. You then later go and retrieve him during the DK class hall campaign. What’s interesting about that is he says it’s only been days for him since he last saw you but years for you, which plays into some comments lately about the passage of time in the Shadowlands!)

Based on all of that, it does kind of seem like death knights can kind of go in and out of the Shadowlands at will (might they all inherently be Maw Walkers?). I know the Lich King had a certain degree of power when it came to the Shadowlands, but as I said, more of that will be fleshed out when the new expansion is out.