#Northrend must get chilly

[necroarchy]

@windrunnerrs​

Icy blue that shines colder than her eyes had ever shone in life do not lack usual resent, the gleam of hatred that is so faithful mirror of her heart (heart; as if she still possessed one at all, as if it hadn’t long rotted and turned to dust, nothing left of her but the ancient bones of one long dead).

He enjoys playing with his food, is thought that occurs to her; a cat pawing at a mouse as if it were a toy, only to leave it battered and bruised and dying and decide not to eat it at all. Too much of a flair for drama, heralding end he shall bring as inevitable as words echo towards those that brave Northrend in attempt to breach his domain — if the Lich King won’t succeed, he is nevertheless not wrong in fate he sentences mortals to, for they are bound to find the dark of death and its chilly embrace sooner or later regardless.

There is no hope.

There was none for her, and she finds some grim delight in that there shall be none for them as well, even if she resents invisible chains that bind her to her master. The queen of the Frostbrood shifts behind him, an antithesis of anticipation and loathing all at once; it gets dull, hearing speeches (it is infuriating to be used as mere mount, as if she were but a common beast, but in the least there is death and destruction to relish on, and she is less displeased when sharp wind hits what is left of her winds). “Words are wind. They will not fear until true cold has a grasp on their hearts.”

|| what is this that I  C A N ’ T  S E E            with  ICE COLD HANDS  taking hold of me? ||

     GIVE HIM A MOMENT, if you will, to relish the chorus he’s stirred to life — listen to the woodwind trill of human throats screaming their last, the way they shred themselves hoarse from fear and fury, or fall into a wet bloody gargle when the blood bubbles high. The percussive beat of metal against metal as weapons clash, bodies collide, doesn’t it just get your BLOOD PUMPING through veins gone stagnant and cold?

     Ah --- of course.           A difficult sentiment to share, when your blood is but stains on the bones.

     “ Impatient. ” Her hatred is so lovely. All that churning wrath raging against the great chains that bind them together. Nothing but fondness affects his voice, amusement curling like a cat in sunlight. “ You may join now, if you so desire. As for myself... ”

     What man doesn’t pause in the face of all this vital violence? How worthwhile would divinity be if he could not breathe deep the reek of their muddy copper deaths? He can tear his heart string by string from his chest, but even that darkest hollow must be moved by the frenetic, fever pitch of mortals killing each other in the name of prolonging their scrap-yarn existences. There is little so beautiful ( yes, he remembers that word ) as a battlefield frothing crimson, so dark as to be nearly black.

    “ A moment more. ”

                                     || when  GOD IS GONE  and the  DEVIL  takes hold                                                          who’ll have  M E R C Y  on your soul? ||

#﹙ ʀᴇʟɪsʜ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ ᴛɪᴍᴇs ᴏғ ᴘᴇʀɪʟ. ﹚ battle for azeroth. #﹙ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀɴɢᴇʟꜱ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴅɪᴇ. ﹚ interactions. #windrunnerrs #// #sometimes people still come up to n.orthrend and it's like #why

[jaylhe]

     Sunlight streamed cheerfully past the glazed window of the Greywood’s front parlour, filtered through motes of dust which drifted lazily in the air. Absurd, for it to be so bright in the winter.  Jaylhe frowned at her breakfast, breaking the flakey crescent apart and scattering bits across her plate.  She wasn’t used to the weather in Dalaran anymore; when the city had sat over Northrend, it could be tolerably relied upon to be grey and chilly.  Now perched high above the Broken Isles, everything was different.  Light slanted in at odd angles in ways she didn’t expect, subtly changing the familiar home.

     There was a soft crinkle of paper across from her; the only sound to disrupt an unbearably still and silent morning.  Killian languished with one leg propped up on the cushions of a plush blue settee, browsing through a copy of the Royal Courier.  He hadn’t yet dressed for the day, still snug in his silk housecoat, and yet managed to look like he was ready to launch into town.  His pale hair was only slightly ruffled by sleep, little enough that it could have been intentional.  A roguish dishevelment for fashion. His sister envied him, tugging at her curls.  She didn’t look forward to taming them for the day.

     Jaylhe must have sighed, or made some other sound to voice her displeasure.  Killian flipped down the corner of his paper, peering at her with one lifted eyebrow.  She couldn’t see past his nose, but imagined he was frowning.

     “Something amiss, poppet?” His silvery gaze flickered from her face to the pastry she was mangling.  “Those are expensive you know.  And I haven’t seen any recent commissions in your correspondence.”  He dropped the newspaper to his lap, and suddenly all his attention was upon her.  She winced internally, bored expression closing.

     “It can’t be that the ‘Tor has no work.  There’s no shortage of missions being sent down below, and I know they need enchantments.  So where have your efforts been going, I wonder?  Or have you simply decided you don’t feel like working?”  

     A flash of guilt followed the accusation.  Jaylhe had been working… but not in a way that contributed to the household.  “It’s not like that,” she huffed, unable to keep her eyes on him when he stared.  “Anyway, there should be money left in the accounts, I haven’t taken much for materials since my last commissions were sent out.  That was barely more than a month ago.”

     “Three months,” Killian corrected.  “And that might have been enough - might have - but there have been… supply withdrawals.”  His mouth twisted briefly on that pronouncement, betraying his mood, and Jaylhe could guess where the money had gone.  Their parents had taken funds for their research efforts, then scattered to the winds. She wondered what they’d spent their own salary on, for it certainly hadn’t taken a sojourn in the Greywood family balance.

     “Did you speak to them…?”

     “Briefly.  A letter.”  Killian took up a mug of coffee from the table, steam still curling from the rim.  “They haven’t been in town since flight was established to the Suramar border.  They did wish us a happy Winter’s Veil.”

     “Ah.”  A surprise, and Jaylhe was a bit stung not to have seen it; but then, did she really have an interest in such a letter?  She assured herself that she didn’t.  The matter of their accounts was more of a concern.  The enchantress pulled a hand through her hair, puffing out an irritated breath.  “I mean… I’ve been busy.  But I’m sure I can fit the work in, if we need it.”

     “Pity you lacked the motivation over the holidays. They’re usually the best time to sell your beauty bobbles to the Noble crowd.  Such a revenue might have sustained us over the next few months, and you’d have plenty of time to be ‘busy’.”

     She collapsed a little further into her own chair, sinking against the pillows with the futile hope of blending in.  He was right of course.  Most years, she would have built up a tidy stockpile of jewelry, combs and other trinkets with useful cantrips sealed into them, offerings for the Winter’s Veil husband seeking a fabulous gift.  The money was good; she rarely had items left by the end of the season.  Her prices were on the high side of fair, but her designs were well received.  She’d simply given no thought to it as the month approached; in fact, she could hardly believe it was over.  Jaylhe had been having fun… to the detriment of family affairs.

     Killian’s expression abruptly shifted, and he leaned towards her, to compensate for her retreat.  Lips pulling in a sly smile, he took a long drink of his coffee before speaking. “Never fear, dearest, for as usual, your brother has a plan.  I do require your help for it.  If you have the time, that is.”

     “I have the time,” she leapt to reply, relaxing her shoulders back when he lost some of his intensity and offered redemption.  “Well I… the time can be made.”

     “Good.  I need one of your keys.”

     He dropped back into a lounge as swiftly as he’d moved forward, picking up the Courier once more.  As he scanned the page with apparent interest, one might almost be fooled into thinking that was that, but Killian Greywood was paying attention, waiting for her to agree. She knew better than to believe he’d let it go without confirmation.

     “A skeleton key?  What under the Light do you need that for?”

     “It will help me get what we need, poppet, and isn’t that what’s important?  Don’t worry much about it, you know I wouldn’t do anything that could get us into trouble.  I wouldn’t let that happen.”  Killian was supremely confident, and smiled at her with such warmth that she drew a little nearer, rising up from her cushions.  

     “Only you can do this for me, I know I can trust your magic.  Just the one key, and it needs to stand up to resistance… but once it’s taken the shape of the lock, it has to melt away within fifteen minutes.  It will be easy for you.  You’re brilliant.”

     He was pandering to her, but as usual it was working.  Her brother had continually supported her experiments with cryomancy; he’d been about the only one, as little as they saw their parents. It had always been the two of them, managing for themselves. For that reason alone, she knew she’d do as he asked. When he smiled and told her he trusted her, her defenses fell like sandcastle walls in the tide.

     “You’re not doing anything dangerous are you?”

     “Dangerous? Me?” Incredulity reigned across his features, artfully rendered. “You know I’m not the type. I must stick around to care for my dear sister after all. Now eat your breakfast and try not to look so dreary. It’s a lovely day. I say we head out and walk in the sun. We’ll get some shopping done; replenish your materials.”

     That was decided, and he returned to his reading, with the clear expectation that she would do as he asked. Jaylhe shook her head, falling against the back of her chair to plan her spell. It would seem she was destined for her workshop by tomorrow at the latest.

#jaylhe #killian #Jaylhe writing

[rasekstories]

The Wind that Blows Through Stromgarde

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

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

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

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

“We were.”

“But the keep isn't ours.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just read it.”

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

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

“This is excellent news, Anjuu.”

“Is it?”  She smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#wow stories #mop stories #gorwatha #killean kerrie #siabi au