#wellson v fiske

[jocelyn-wellson]

( @kat-hawke / @quinn-varden )

#wellson v fiske #OOC #aesthetic #art

[jocelyn-wellson]

A FORTNIGHT PAST

“And Wellson,” said Director Hawke, “yer heroics were appreciated on th’ way out o’ Stormwind. Just be … careful. Yer on yer own.” She extended her hand.

“Ain’ nothin’ keepin’ me from get’in’ back, if’fn tha’s wot ya mean,” said the Operative, taking the proferred hand. They shook on it. “Two weeks, I’ll do me par’ in Elwynn, fer me bruv’s Estate, and the surroundin’s. Nuffin’ stupit,” she agreed, letting go. She dipped her head respectfully.

“Dismissed.”

TWO HOURS AGO

She was worried when she entered the shop. Exotic leathers and pelts still graced the shelves; empty drying racks lined the upstairs. She heard a rustling in the back and drew her sidearm — the same sidearm, she’d been told by Elunara, once wielded by her brother’s best friend, Justine, for over thirty years. She would keep Myz’s in her slingpack, just in case. She brushed the curtain to the back room aside. The rustling stopped. Silence. She knocked thrice on the wall — noise seemed to attract them, these Scourge.

“Show yourself!” a familiar voice shouted. It was a terse command, one she also recognized from before.

“Et’s me… Joci!” she replied, unclipping her SI:7 — Unit 8 badge from her belt, sliding it toward the voice. She did the same with her new sidearm.

Hoss, the cobbler she’d met just before everything went to shit, was still alive. He was filthy, like he hadn’t been able to bathe for weeks. He placed his Dwarven shotgun on the ground.

“You… you made it?” he asked.

“Wouldn’ be standin’ ‘ere if’in I din’t, yea?”

The man, who had lost several pounds since last they met, rushed over and gave her a tight hug. “S-sorry, I just…”

Joci smiled as she was embraced by the man. “Aye. I ge’ et. Bein’ ‘lone durin’ all this?” She pat his back. “‘ere. I go’ somethin’ ta set ya a-right.”

Hoss let go and looked the woman up and down. “You got it, di—“

Joci presented the man with the soft-sole shoe design from Mister Yellah himself.

“How—?”

“Do ya wanna know?”

“Was he…?”

She shook her head. “Long gone. Bones. An ol’, forgot’en camp. Took a couple days searchin’, bu’,” she chuckled. “I go’ low, stay out’a sight…” She paused, picking up her items. “‘e go’ a propah burial, ‘e did.”

“How can I … this was the last of his… what can I do?”

“Well ya kin make th’ shoes fer one,” she said, cracking a smile. “Ya wanna walk ‘ome? Let ya ge’ clean?”

The towering man looked down at the diminutive brawler, flabbergasted. “If you can take on the dead and live?” he chuckled. “Give me a sec. I’ll lock up.”

Joci beamed. She felt like she had done something right, not just through fighting, but by using her brain. She entered the back of the shop. It was fetid. He had hid amongst his own filth and the rotting remains of the Scourge to remain alive. She picked up the bodies and emptied his slop bucket into the sewer; the sound of the undead still skulking about explained why he hadn’t himself. She slid the heavy oak lid across it and weighed it with a few cinder blocks from behind which he’d been hiding. She entered from the back room.

“You didn’t have to,” said Hoss, mortified.

“I know,” she replied, softly. “Ya ready?”

The man nodded. And with that, the two entered a City transformed by carnage, war, death, fire.

“Where?” she asked, watching a raven pick at a bloated body in the Canal.

“Old Town,” he said.

“We’ll be there befir ya know et,” she said. She’d protect him just as she’d done for the Director and the young one, Nicole. Oh, she thought. Nikki. Gotta ‘member. Nikki.

NOW

“Where’ve ya been?” asked Kat.

“Yeah,” added Thea, drily. “Thought you died. Shame.”

Kat shot her a look. Joci did, too:

“‘elpin ou’, jus’ like I sai’.”

“Duskwind Patrol said they saw someone matchin’ yer description,” said Kat.

“I be five foo’ an’ one inch. Mebbe 105 poun’s. Plen’y o’ starvin’ people righ’ now…” she replied, thoughts drifting to Hoss, how he had changed. “Kingdom ain’ gonna ‘elp so, looks like I be a pop’lar person ta be now, don’ et??”

Thea crossed her arms indignantly. “You think you know so much, you little bit—”

“Thea!” shouted Kat so loud the rest of the Unit could hear. “Out. Now.”

The salty bureaucrat spun on her heel and stormed out. She slammed the door. Kat drummed her nails on the desk. “I’m going to ask you one time. Where were you.”

“Finding a dead man. Deadwind Pass.”

Kat rubbed her brow. “Jocelyn, I—”

“Direc’or,” she said the word popping out as it had before. She kicked herself for it. “I know a man. He can be o’ ‘elp ta us… isn’t tha’ wot we need? People we don’t pay bu’ barter wit’? I ‘eard ya talkin’ ‘bou’ et. Back in camp. I ownt a business —”

“A brothel,” she corrected Joci.

“Fine. I was a fuckin’ cum dumpstah pimp whore. Wha’eva.”

Kat rolled her eyes. “Yer point?”

“Ya cannae ‘spect goo’ things wit’ou’ get’in’ yer fists bloody.”

“You don’t think I don’t know that?” Kat’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t think I don’t look for wealthy patrons every fucking day?”

“These ain’ th’ wealthy. These be th’ people ‘ho need jobs! ‘ho lost everythin’! Fuck th’ rich! They wan’ fer nothin’! Ya donnae see me asking me bruv’s estate for ‘andouts, do ya? Ya wanna protec’ Stormwind? Donnae le’ et become anothah Moonbeam, yanno… like Wes’fall!”

Kat perked an eyebrow. “Moonbrook.”

“So ya remembah et’s name. Ya wanna medal?”

“Wot’s got you so fired up, anyway?” asked Kat, more interested than annoyed. She’d seen a fiery streak in Jocelyn before, knew about her insubordination within the ranks of the Proudmoore Admiralty… “Is this wot ya do? Ya get too close to people?” The Director scoffed. “Seven hells, Wellson. Ya can’t save everyone!”

Jocelyn set her jaw. She reached for her badge and drew Myz’s 9mm sidearm from her slingpack. She set them on the desk. “I be out.”

The fine lines around Kat’s eyes twitched. “Take a minute, cool down…” she said.  

“Nah. I ain’ ‘eartless. Quinn, Nicole … er, Nikki … they be th’ only ones lef’ wit’ a warm ‘eart. Wit’ a conscience.”

“Ya think I don’t have a conscience? Ya think I’m heartless?”

“I fink,” said Jocelyn, “Ya los’ touch wit’ life when ya was gone. Ya ain’ th’ woman I met in th’ Park.”

“You’ve no idea wot yer talkin’ about, Wellson.”

The two stared at each other for a long time. The badge and Myz’s 9mm sat between them. The clock ticked as clocks do, marking endless hopes and lives slipping away. Finally Jocelyn spoke:

“I know ya play fav’rites. I know ya lef’ Tris ta die.” She cleared her throat: “Over’eard tha’ lil’ gem in camp.”

Kat’s self-confidence faltered for the briefest of moments.

Joci continued. “I know we make mistakes, yea? Lords I know… ya came ta me a’ me lowes’, when I was nothin’ bu’ guttertrash. Abandont. No way home. Death waitin’ there anyway. Couldn’t read a’tall. Me bruv… watched ‘im die…” She inhaled deeply. She sat in the chair Thea had been using. She exhaled. “I met an ol’ man, back befir th’ Scourge attack. A leatherworkah. A mastah leatherworkah. Defent ‘is shop from th’ Scourge, ‘e did. Walkt ‘im ‘ome today. He be smar’, an’ ‘e be goo’. Bettah, he be cheapah than th’ Crown, askin’ only fer materials.”

“Really?” Kat drummed her fingers on her desk, suppressing a cynical laugh. “That’s it? Yer willing ta forsake yer job fer one man? A cobbler?”

“If’fn I cannae ‘elp people, why di’ ya bring me in?”

Kat looked over Joci’s face. The scar just across her nose. The braid in her hair. Lines of sorrow and years of seldom joy etched like the broken sky. Kat slid the gun and badge across the desk. “This.”

“W-wait… Wot?”

“I swear ta fuck yer unbreakable. Ya got a heart. Don’t know how, after everything ya went through, but ya do…,” she said, trailing off. “Ya do. Come on then.” Director Hawke stood, gesturing for Jocelyn to do the same. “Take me to the shops ya know, that have crafted for ya. Let’s at least see wot’s left.”

“Aye aye, Director,” said Operative Wellson, tucking Myz’s 9mm into her sling pack. She clipped the badge to the backside of her belt. “Aye aye.”

(( @kat-hawke @tristanasneak @myzariel @nikkithorpe @quinn-varden // @justinegrotius @brian-wellson ))

#| storming scourge | #jocelyn wellson #unit 8 #unit eight #wellson v fiske #brass and glass #legacy #story #backstory

[jocelyn-wellson]

The Onslaught

Something had changed in the hours since she had left Melody behind. There were people — people who seemed themselves from a distance, only dead. And they were vicious. After clambering out of the Sewers, Joci took to the rooftops, running as fast as she could toward base. She was terrified, watching as people in the streets below were being chased down and devoured. A ceramic tile slipped from a roof and struck one of the ... dead people? the undead? She had no idea. The ceramic slipped, clattering to the ground. The undulating mass of the dead stopped what they were doing. They stared up at Joci. They started to roar. She took cover behind a wall’s crenelation. Her stomach turned. They continued to make noises, unnatural, less-than-earthly. After five or so minutes they left. Someone had ridden by on a horse ... and then the horse went down. She didn’t wait. She shoved one of her cams into a wall joint, tied off the red rope, and eyed the parapet across the Canal. If she was fast enough... she dropped down from the wall, quietly picking her way toward the underbridge. She rigged a quick traverse line and pulled herself over the water. On the other side, she tied off the second rope at the waterline and scurried up the tower, up to the parapet. She still had the red rope tied round her waist and attached to the side opposite her. She set a second cam and ran the rope through it. She drew the line taut, locking it off. Secured, she ran along the rooftops of Old Town, scrambling to get to SI:7. She rigged a final line to the roof of headquarters and climbed across. She dropped through the skylight:

“Direc’or Hawke,” she said, panting. “Yanno et takes m-more than laps ta make me p-puke,” she said, stumbling over toward Thea Fiske’s desk. She looked around for a trash can, and — finding none — opened the former acting director’s bottom desk drawer. “D-dead people for fuck’s...” And then the vomiting. Into Fiske’s desk drawer. “Wot... th’ fuck... are those thin’s?”

( @kat-hawke )

#jocelyn wellson #wra rp #unit 8 #story #wyrmrest accord #wyrmrest rp #legacy #wellson v fiske #| storming scourge |

[jocelyn-wellson]

“Sounds like you were busy,” said Dr Hayes. She took her seat opposite the chaise, first pouring a glass of water for each of them. She crossed her legs.

“‘ow so?” asked Jocelyn. 

“Your file,” said the Dr. She opened it and set it on the desk. “Report notes meritorious nautical service and creative thinking.”

“Anythin’ else?”

“No mission specifics were passed along, no.”

Jocelyn rubbed her brow. 

“Should I be looking for something,” asked Dr Hayes. 

“N-no...”

“Is there something you don’t want me to see?” she asked, rephrasing. 

“Why’d ya fink tha’?”

“You’re stalling, not answering questions.” Dr Hayes closed the file. She set her omnipresent pen and paper on the coffeetable next to it, both unopened. “What happened, Jocelyn?”

The patient shifted about in her chaise. She took a drink of water, holding onto the glass. Her hand was shaking. “Kilt someone,” she said. 

“That was in the summary,” said the doctor. Her patient’s lack of reaction to the confirmation gave her pause. “What else happened?”

“Does et mattah?”

“You tell me — does it?”

Jocelyn chuffed. She set the water glass down. If’fn et ain’ in the repor’, why ya keep asking ‘bou’ somethin’ tha’ mebbe din’t happen?”

Dr Hayes frowned. She shook her head. “I’m not placing a bet on ‘maybe,’ Jocelyn. You’ve come too far to backslide.”

At this, Jocelyn grew visibly distraught. “Wha’ gives — ya wanna know thin’s, bu th’ Ac’in’ Direc’or donnae wanna know thin’s, an’ me par’ner....”

Dr Hayes glanced up. “Myzariel? What about her?”

Jocelyn shook her head. “Et donnae mattah.”

“Does this have to do with your ... pre-mission purchasing?”

“Wh-wha? Nah, tha’ was th’ righ’ call. Saved me life.”

“You want to tell me about that?”

“Gettin’ th’ righ’ ‘quipmen’?” She waved her hand. 

“Getting the gear you needed.”

Jocelyn stopped moving. Her lip twitched. She watched as Dr Hayes reopened the file. 

The doctor read from the file: “’Two full nautical suits, two sou’westers, waterproof hiking gear, full ship’s rigging’... the clothing alone came to 2,000 gold. Either you were taken advantage of, or...”

Jocelyn arched her brow. “...or...”

Dr Hayes studied her patient. She didn’t speak for a long while. She wrote a quick note. “What did she do to you?”

Jocelyn scoffed. “The saleswoman? She was lovely.”

“We both know that’s not who —”

“Myz—”

“Your superior, Fiske,” said Dr Hayes. Again, she closed her notebook and slide it across the desk. She gestured for Joci to open. Reticently, the illiterate agent did so. She took her time, focussing on the numbers. They were the same as the seamstress in the shop had drawn up. 

“Wot...?”

“Checking your figures. But I’m not stupid. And I know you don’t act out of rage, not really. You can lose your cool. This was different, personal. Your budget’s off by about 200 gold.”

“Why’d ya sign et....?”

“Can’t prove otherwise,” she said. “Your seamstress wouldn’t budge. Said you were nice to her and your business wasn’t her business. Besides, chasing down your expenses isn’t really my business, either, is it?”

“Cannae say et is...” she agreed. 

“So why’d you do it?”

“Doc...”

“You need to talk to someone.”

“Tol’ Myz... tried ta ge’ Fiske ta act like she did tha’ day when we me’.”

“And it didn’t happen.”

“No’ really, nah. Some commen’s an’ stuff bu’ nothin’ like wha’ she was befir. Made me look like an ass ta Myz...”

“How’s ... what?”

“On th’ boat, I tol’ Myz ‘bou’ our mee’in’... ‘ow Fiske mock’d me fer no’ knowin’ ‘ow ta read. Tha’ I ain’ worth much til’ I kin read.”

“You know that’s not true, your worth.” She pointed to the file. “You do good work. Your partner says so — reading or not. She says you saved them both on that ship.”

Joci picked at her nails. 

“And your assault, using the captured Alliance military.” Dr Hayes reached across the coffee table. “That doesn’t sound worthless to me, like a stupid person thought these things up. You saved lives, Jocelyn. You and Myz — you both saved lives. That means everything.”

Joci took the outstretched hand. She squeezed it. “If’fn et does... an’ I believe ya when ya say tha’... then why do I feel like I ain’ done anythin’?”

( @myzariel / @kat-hawke )

#jocelyn wellson #unit 8 #story #wellson v fiske #[ bitter-sweete profiteering ]

[jocelyn-wellson]

Transference

“Ya di’ real goo’ in th’ storm,” said Joci, packing her duffle, delicates last. She listened while Myz continued to pack. “I know ya say ya ain’ a seaman, bu’ yer on yer way,” she concluded. 

“I didn’t do anything,” said Myz. “Nothing that someone who can’t take orders couldn’t, anyway.”

Joci stopped packing. She held her head in her hands for a moment. Breathe in. She listened as her teammate continued to stow items. Breathe out. “No’ e’eryone kin keep their ‘ead togethah in a storm like ya di’.”

“Blame it on the hat.”

At this, Joci turned about. “I ain’ e‘spec’in’ th’ same from ya, bu’ et’s true. Yer goo’. I’m gla’ I ‘ad ya as me mate — an’ I be always ‘avin’ yer back. Good ‘r bad, yea?”

Myz continued to pack. She wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so she changed the topic. “We drop him off tonight, Sweete. Plans?”

Joci shrugged. “Ask ‘im thin’s mebbe. Come a’ ‘im ‘ard, ge’ some info on this ‘Trask’ ‘e says knows ‘bou’ —”

“No... what are you going to do. Plans after we hand him over. After we leave the building.”

“I donnae.”

Myz chuckled. “You sure?”

“Why? Wha’ ya finkin’?”

“Back in the City. Probably won’t be on duty...”

Joci frowned. “Yanno I like things othah than drinkin’.”

“Never said you didn’t.”

“Bu’....”

“But what?”

Joci shook her head.

“Jocelyn,” said Myzariel in a rare full name address. “We all have problems. But they don’t define what we love, who we are. They don’t.”

“Oh yea? What’re ya gonna do?”

“Probably get a plate of bacon.”

Jocelyn chuckles. “Soun’s nice...”

“Doesn’t it though?”

“Aye...” 

“So what’re you thinking?”

Jocelyn peered out of their quarters into Sweete’s makeshift cell. The prisoner was still bound, blindfolded, gagged, and had ear-coverings in place. She glanced toward her teammate before tying off her duffle. “Gettin’ some dick.”

Myz started laughing. “Wh-what?”

“I ain’ bin fuck’d propah fer months. Yanno. I’mma fin’ a lit’le guardsboy an’ show ‘im why et’s bettah ta let me take control fer an hour than ‘im fer three minutes.”

Myzariel chuckled. She stopped. She looked her partner up and down. She paused, grabbed a pair of cuffs for her belt and tossed them to her. She started laughing. “Hands behind his back, let me know how long he lasts.” She broke back into laughter. “Keep the cuffs.”

Joci snatched the cuffs out of the air. “A bot’le o’ 20-year Gilnean brandy says less than ten minutes th’ firs’ time. Powah-‘ungry boys, all o’ ‘em. So ready ta show a woman ‘ho’s ‘ho. Nah: give ‘em a real woman ‘n’ they learn righ’ quick.”

They both had a round laugh at that. 

Myzariel asked. “And the second time?”

“If ‘e’s cute ‘nuff? Four if’fn I’m lucky. Tha’ fucker ain’ goin’ anywhere til th’ sun come up an’ he cannae walk straigh’.”

“You sure you need the cuffs?”

Joci snorted as she tucked them behind her belt. “Nah,” she said, glimmer in her eye. “Jus’ makes et more fun.” She tossed her duffle into the hallway. The heavy thunk made Sweete jump in his cell. “I carry th’ gear, you push ‘is ass ta Fiske?”

“Uh... aye...?”

“Aye,” confirmed Joci. She handed over the sidearm loaned her by Myz. “All on th’ up an’ up. Ya was righ’ earlier, yanno? Ya was righ’ ta ge’ me ta stan’ doon.”

Myzariel took the gun. She nodded. They finished packing. Soon, both duffles were topside. Joci unlocked Sweete’s cell. Myz grabbed them profiteer by the arm and led him out. They walked down the gangplank and onto the dock. 

Fiske was waiting. 

( @myzariel​ @kat-hawke​ )

#jocelyn wellson #unit 8 #[ bitter-sweete profiteering ] #shore leave #wellson v fiske

[jocelyn-wellson]

“Do ya 'ave anythin’ more ‘ard?”

Fiske stared at Jocelyn, who was red and sweating from exertion. “More difficult than...?”

“Yer...” she waved toward the back courtyard. “...uh, runnin’ course.”

“'Obstacle',” said Fiske. She snickered. “The word is obstacle.”

“Obst’cle. Like yer bein’ righ’ now, no’ answerin’ me question.”

Fiske set her jaw. “Our obstacle course is perfectly fine. Covers the rudimentaries for someone like you. If you want to do something more difficult, I'd suggest doing it under 4 minutes.”

“Go’ et already. Three an’ fifteen.”

“Bullshit.”

Jocelyn rolled her eyes. “Wha’? Do I nee’ ta show ya?”

“Do you think?” asked Fiske. “I mean, what do you think?”

“Fine. Le’s go.”

“I’m busy. Work to do. You know, that thing you should be doing—”

“Trainin’ ain’t work?”

“Well, yes, but,” the interim leader of Unit 8 stammered. “...real work.”

“Real work,” echoed Jocelyn. She started toward the door, pausing to grab a pair of cotton gloves. “Sorry ta bothah ya.”

Fiske waved her hand; she had looked away long ago. Idiot, she thought as the door shut. 

Joci stuck the cotton gloves in her back pocket. She took a deep breath. She pressed her fingers to her neck, taking her pulse. She moved quickly down the stairs and out into SI:7’s front courtyard. She took her bearings based on landmarks. 

“Real work,” she muttered. She started to jog. A couple of bandits catcalled her; she flipped them off and started to run faster. The bandits started to chase her. She stopped and ripped off one of their shemagh. They were not impressed. She kicked their legs out from under them and broke into a run. She needed a rain spout. The two roughnecks were gaining — full sprint. Rain spout, there. She leapt toward the spout and scurried up it, gaining access to the roof top. One of the bandits gave up. The other made it halfway before falling back to the cobblestones. She turned and didn’t look back despite the crash.

The dash along Stormwind’s rooftops was revealing. She, like most poor folk, rented the top-most apartment: hot in summer, cold in winter. As she leapt from rooftop to rooftop, she could hear the occasional shout, but more often than not, it was exceedingly quiet — well, for Stormwind. She snagged a light grey linen cloak from a clothesline, wrapping herself in it.

Ahead, the roofs gave way to a bridge across the Canals. She dropped down, rolling over her left shoulder, inertia carrying her forward. She sprinted across the bridge, scurrying atop the rail to avoid pedestrians. Even still, a boastful Light-something-or-other Drænei was leaning against it, blocking her path. He was yammering about serving the Light, battling for someplace called Argus. She didn’t care. She did care about his plate armour, however. She leapt, placing both hands on his head, pushing off a obscenely large pauldron with her right foot, springing toward the stone architecture at the end of the bridge. 

The leap was a wide one, but she made it. Awkwardly. She climbed hand over hand up four stories, feet kicking the whole time. From what she could hear, the Drænei never missed a beat. She popped over a rooftop rail. Several ceramic tiles fell while she ran along the peak. She could hear the ceramic shattering to the sidewalk below, and people shouting. She found her target. A nondescript building. Of course. Bland. Of course. Perfect. She jumped the narrow alley way, rolling to a stop on someone’s terrace. She stopped, wiping the back of her hand across her brow. 

“Real work,” she scoffed, dropping to the street. She walked like the rest of the crowd, donning the shemagh, linen cloak, and cotton gloves she had pilfered. She found the building. There was no one in the lobby. Good. She scanned the mailboxes. “F-i-s-k-e,” she spelled to herself. "Guess readin' be useful, too." She eased her way toward the back stairwell and went to the correct floor. Fiske's flat wasn’t hard to find. The exterior matched the stand-in director's personality — and the mailbox's label.

“‘ere’s ta trainin',” she said. She withdrew her lockpick set. She counted the lock’s pins. Seven, she thought. Less than 30 seconds later, the door was unlocked. She stowed her tools and pushed it open with a cotton hand. She glanced around the apartment, was highly unimpressed, and decided not to enter; she opted to leave the door ajar less than half an inch. 

“Fanks fer th’ ‘elp, Fishke” she muttered. She made her way to the back stairwell. She ran up to the top floor, picked the lock, and found herself outside. She took her bearings. A small park — there. She ran a half block along the rooftop of Fiske’s building before sliding down a drainpipe, interrupting an intimate picnic. She didn’t wait for them to react to the masked woman running past. She stripped off the cotton gloves, passed them along to a homeless man who was fishing. She dropped the linen cloak into the Canals, watching it sink. She flipped the man a silver and walked toward the Memorial Park. She sat in the same spot where she had met Kat so many months before. She undid the shemagh she had stolen with a smirk. It was nice to be sore from the best workout she’d had in years.

( @kat-hawke for Fiske & ... Kat )

#jocelyn wellson #unit 8 #wellson v fiske #brass and glass #story #wyrmrest accord #wyrmrest rp #wyrmrest roleplay

[jocelyn-wellson]

“Time, Ms Myzariel,” said Jocelyn, locating several key navigational spots in the sky.

“Three... two... one... mark!” shouted Myz, deck lamp burning bright behind her.

Joci finished adjusting the dials and knobs on her sextant. She called out the numbers, which were duly noted in the ship’s log. “Las’ reck’nin’ fer...” She did some math in her head. “Eigh’ hours.” She collapsed the instrument and put it in its case. “Can ya rea’ th’ las’ six sightin’s?”

Myz did as requested.

“Whaddya fink?”

Myz reread the numbers she had been taking. She worked through the math in her head — that part had been easy enough, it was all of the other crap she didn’t quite get, so she left that with Joci. “Uh... east-south-east at...” — she checked the log book — “...18 knots an hour?”

Joci clapped her on the shoulder. Her hand, darkened by the sun and damp from its heat, glimmered against Myz’s skin. “Aye. Tha’s goo’,”’ she said. “Tha’s real goo’.”

Myz beamed — or, well, the equivalent of a Myz Beam, which was a more-happy-than-not frown. “So I’m right?”

“Aye, aye,” said Joci. She dug around through the footlocker, bringing up a chart. “We done ‘ave a choice tho’,” she said. “Keep yer ‘and on th’ tillah... I’mma no goo’ wit’ plannin’, jus’ naviga’in’ ‘n’ drivin’.”

Myz raised a long, thin eyebrow. “Planning?” she muttered. She watched as her partner laid out a coastal map of Dun Morough; weight each corner down with a stone; and take off her charm bracelet, using it as a marker for their nautical position. Myz could see what she met. “Shadow’s sake,” she said to herself. “I had no idea...” She stared at the work she and Joci had done. We got us here? After everything???

“When I wen’ ta th’ seamstress,” started Joci, “I ‘ad her make ‘r cussomize our gear fer two thin’s: th’ sea an’ th’ moun’ains.” She made a few gestures at the map. “We know we be where th’ brac’le’ be, an’ we know where Swee’e be,” she said pointing toward a very deep and sheltered cove toward the Wetlands border.

“You’re saying the problem is how we get in,” Myz said. She ran her hand along her jaw. “We can’t really go in guns blazing... the boat can’t keep up that kind of volley for more than a few reloads... we could try a ruse, but we don’t have colours... and it’s my ship...” she pinched the bridge of her nose. And then it hit her, just like Joci had said: everything had more than one use. “Or,” Myz said after a minute, pointing toward the uppermost part of Sweete’s fjord just across a large, tall moraine, “we walk in the back,” she said.

Joci snapped her fingers. “Donnae wha’ th’ guar’in’s like back there tho’,” she said before adding, “an’ it’ll take an ex’ra two days. ‘ow long ya fink?”

Myz studied the map. “If we landed tomorrow night, set up camp, and weather’s on our side,” she said, “We could be at Sweete’s by Thursday.”

“Aye,” said Joci, agreeing with the assessment. “Cannae go wit’ a lo’ o’ goo’s. Got’a be col’ camp fer th’ mos’ par’, unless we fin’ a cave. We smoke th’ fish o’ernigh’.”

Myz considered the options. “...we’ll need the boat for extraction. We can anchor it upcoast, get out via dinghy, lock Sweete in storage, and —”

“— go straigh’ ta Menethil,” finished her partner.

“What are you more comfortable with, Joci?”

She shook her head. “I be a seaman. I go’ us through th’ stor’. Kep’ th’ ship togethah. I be thinkin’ ya know I can clim’, yea?”

“Yes ... er ... aye,” said Myz, looking closer at the map.

“We go’ th’ clim’in’ gear. We go’ th’ lines.”

“True...” said Myzariel. The monster hunter looked closely at the map. The walk down the glacier didn’t look so bad, it was the way up the moraine that worried her. This map, at most recent, 20 years old, and she knew it did nothing to account for the Shattering. Myz took a deep breath.

“You bought us some climbing gear?”

“Fiske did, a lil’, yeah,” Joci conformed. “Say like boo’s an’ a change o’ clothes an’ thing’s like tha’. Plus we go’ ex’ra lines, pi’ons, an some beenahs.”

Myz used their protractor to take a few more measurements. She wrote expected topographic features and heights into her notebook. “When can we hit the coast, north of the compound?”

Joci consulted them log book. “Stayin’ ou’ o’ range o’ th’ small ligh’ they go’... I be sayin’ ‘bou’ 30 hours give’r take. Usin’ only main sail, I can ge’ us there, secre’-like, precise.”

“So tomorrow, sundown.”

“Aye. If’fn th’ win’s be stayin’ fair. My wor’.”

Myz nodded. She took a few more notations. “Miss Myzariel off the tiller,” she called before starting belowdecks.

“Aye, Miss Myz. Miss Joci takin’ th’ tillah.”

“Thank you, tiller!”

“Where ya goin’?” shouted Joci.

The response took a fair bit of time. Jocelyn listened to the rustle of fabrics and the shifting of barrels belowdecks. She was just about to shout the question again, when Myz replied:

“Can’t go into the wilds unprepared, Operative,” she said. She popped her head topside and slid a semiautomatic pistol toward Joci’s feet. Joci stepped on it. Myz continued: “Once we’re ashore, you follow my lead, ok?”

Joci took up the pistol. She flicked a lever. The magazine dropped to the deck. She cycled through the action, and caught the chambered bullet as it popped from the chamber. “Yea, Myz. I ‘ear ya,” she said.

Maybe we won’t die after all.

( @myzariel / @kat-hawke )

#wra #world of warcraft #jocelyn wellson #wra rp #the dun morough job #[ bitter-sweete profiteering ] #Wellson v Fiske #Unit 8 #story #boosting

[jocelyn-wellson]

“What did you do to my boat?” asked Myz. 

Jocelyn couldn’t tell if she was upset or not. “Re’ung th’ riggin’, yea. Eigh’ millime’re hemp.” She wiped her brow with a black kerchief tied round her wrist. “Over’auled yer whole yawl: sewed up th’ sails, started ta work on yer tillah —”

“B-but... I...” stammered Myz. Her jaw dropped lower the more that Joci went on. “Where’d you get this kind of money!?”

Jocelyn had already returned to work, finishing off a knot to one of the aft turnbuckles. Her back shimmered in the hot afternoon sun, and her skin was already beginning to tan. “Aw, yanno,” she shouted over her shoulder. “The boss.”

Myz blinked. She couldn’t believe it. She walked down the short gangplank, tapping her crew mate on the shoulder. Jocelyn briefly stopped what she was doing. She wiped her face and looked at her partner. 

“There’s no way Fiske would authorize all of this,” whispered Myz. She sounded more upset than Joci had expected, and looked far more irritated. “How’d you do it?”

Jocelyn sighed. She moved toward another line set, tying a bowline on a bight. “Told th’ ven’ors ta bill ‘er,” she said. She finished the knot with a half-hitch. “When I ‘ad mah girls, tha’s ‘ow we bough’ things fer th’ 'ouse, yanno? Expense accoun'.”

The shock on Myz’s face continued to intensify. “Expense account? What...? I always pay for my... did you say vendors, with an 's'!?”

Finally, Joci stopped moving. She faced her friend. “Aye. Why ya so su’prised? Ain’ no one tol’ me no rule ‘gains’ et.” She snapped her tactical top, basically a sports bra with puncture-resistant, malleable armour covering her upper torso. It was quite tight for her frame and she was still adjusting. "Seems ta me ta be th' bes' way ta ge' thin's done fas'."

“What else did you buy!?” Myz asked, sincerely hoping the answer wasn’t going to be the one she was about to receive:

“We cannae go inta the sea ‘n’ moun’ains wi’ou’ propah gear, yea?” She gestured toward a box, tied with a silk ribbon, from the boutique she had visited yesterday. “So I go’ us wha’ we need’. Made cus’om.”

"Oh, Jocelyn..." she said, walking over to the box. She undid the ribbon. A full set of rain and hiking gear, sailing gloves, and a sou'wester were inside. She looked at the box top. Her eyes widened. "...you went here!? This is the most expensive shop in the city!"

"Is et?" She shifted uncomfortably. "Only th' bes' fer th' bes'," she said, voice weak and small. "An' tha's you, chasin' down th' monstahs and tha' Zoth ya tol' me 'bou'."

"Thank you?" she said, not quite sure where to put that comment. "But back to the point... that's where you got your new, um..." she waved toward Jocelyn's top "...where you got that?"

"Aye..."

Myz set the box top down. She ran her fingers over the gear. "How much did you pay?"

"...well..." she began, voice trailing off. Her posture shrank and she flushed pink from embarrassment. "I ain' payin'," she said. Silence sat between them for a moment; the waves lapped against the side of the yawl. "...Fiske is."

"How much total —"

"Do ya really wanna know?"

Myz frowned. She took the leather sailing gloves out. They were a supple grey leather with black palms and fingers. Notably the thumb and forefinger tips were open. Ok, they were nice, she may have thought. "Is it worth it? Did you get what she’s paying for?"

Jocelyn looked up, smirk on her face. "Oh, aye," she said, eyes flashing as she moved toward the tiller, intent on finishing her overhaul before eight bells that evening. "An' then some."

( @myzariel / @kat-hawke for Fiske )

#jocelyn wellson #the dun morough job #story #unit 8 #wellson v fiske #[ bitter-sweete profiteering ]

[jocelyn-wellson]

I.

“Ahoy there,” called Joci, hand raised as she approached the small cottage. “Missus Stanley! Et’s me!”

Mrs Stanley looked up from the table at which she was kneading bread. She broke into a smile, the crow’s feet tugging at her eyes. “Jocelyn, dear!” she shouted in return, ushering her down the path. “And ... oh, my, would this be Miss Melody?”

Melody blushed profusely. “Yea... er, aye,” she replied, extending her hand, only to be taken into a warm and tight hug. She was surprised; Joci had said she was nice, but not so ... welcoming. She returned the hug. “Hi...”

“Now. Let’s look at you,” said Mrs Stanley. She broke the embrace, watching as Melody took Joci’s hand. She smiled. “Aren’t you a sight?”

“Mum?” asked Joci.

Mrs Stanley pointed around the two of them. “You are too adorable. Reminds me of my own kiddos when they visit, you know.” She leaned in toward Jocelyn: “She’s much cuter than my daughter-in-law,” she added.

Joci stifled a chuckle.

“What can this old lady do for you today?”

“Well...” started Joci. Mrs Stanley’s eyes went wider as the woman continued. When Joci had finished, she excused herself and returned with two bottles.

“These are priceless, dearie,” she said, handling the Sunnyglade Furmint with all the care she could. “I’d wrap them for you, but I don’t have paper nice enough, I’m afraid...”

Jocelyn dipped her head. “Yer kindness is all tha’ mattahs; no paper needed. ‘ow many bot’les are lef’?”

Mrs Stanley did a quick count in her head. “17 — five loose, and 12 in an unbroken case.”

“Keep three. Two fer you, one fer Zeehva. Ok?”

“Jocelyn Wellson—” she started.

“Please, mum.”

Mrs Stanley looked the couple up and down. “Can I at least pack you two a picnic lunch?”

II.

“You sure I can come in here?” asked Melody. She started SI:7’s daunting façade, adjusting the picnic basket under her arm. “It’s... so official...”

“Fishke ain’ go’ no beef wit’ ya,” said Joci. She squeezed her hand. “Jus’ me.”

“Why’re we here, Joci?”

“Ta say ‘ello,” she said, eyes twinkling.

They stepped across the threshold. Joci produced her badge and signed Melody in at the front desk. They left the basket with the guard. They walked up the stairs to Unit 8. Joci opened the door:

“Actin’ Direc’or,” she said boisterously.

Fiske looked up. She side-eyed Melody. “Break into her place too?”

“Donnae wha’ yer talkin’ ‘bou’,” said Joci. She feigned a yawn.

“Ah,” said Fiske, returning to her paperwork. “Another of your whore friends, then. Understood.”

Melody remained silent. She watched Joci close her eyes and breathe deeply.

“No, ma’am. She ain’... she ain’...” She composed herself. “Nah, I came ta ‘pologize,” Joci said through gritted teeth, “ta you.”

“Me?” Fiske scoffed. She looked up from her desk. “What do you want, Wellson.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Joci could see a shape move into the room, a familiar one, one she had waited months to see. “Well,” she said, eyeing the shape. She broke into a smirk. “I know I said somethin’ wrong soon as I go’ ‘ere.”

“Everything you say is wrong,” countered the cantankerous bureaucrat. “Go on. Spit it out.”

“I ain’ known fer spittin’,” she said. “Et ain’ lady-like. Bu’ I guess we all learnt somethin’ ‘bou’ you today, hey?” Jocelyn crossed the room, chuckling. She pat Fiske on the shoulder; her ‘supervisor’ recoiled. “‘eard ya ain’ Actin’ Direc’or anymore. I jus’... I jus’ wan’ed ta say sor’y — sor’y I called ya tha’: ‘Actin’ Direc’or.’ Must’ve ‘urt. So. I’m sor’y, Agen’. I ‘ope ya kin forgive.” She turned the bottle of Sunnyglade Furmint over in her hand, just long enough for the former-Acting Director to catch a glimpse of the 75-year-old label. “Enjoy yer papahs,” Joci said, approaching the shape she’d seen earlier, carrying her head high.

For the first time, she’d left Fiske speechless and her mouth, agape.

“Jocelyn?” asked Director Hawke, stepping into the light.

Jocelyn beamed. She handed her the bottle of Sunnyglade Furmint. “Aye, Director,” she said, crisply. Melody had helped her practice that word for days. She straightened her posture: “Welcome ‘ome. We be bettah fir et.”

( @kat-hawke / @zeehva )

#jocelyn wellson #jocelyn v fiske #unit 8 #legacy #something good #story #wyrmrest accord #wyrmrest rp #wra rp