World of Warcraft®

Moonglade. It was, Finnaeus mused, his haven in the world. Only in the verdant laziness of the Glade could he find the illusion of safety. The scent of the grass on the wind, the warm, soothing breeze, the songs of the birds and the rustling of leaves – these were the tactile sensations that could bring him close to tranquility. And in a rough world, close would have to be good enough. Only here could he find the time to just stop moving and settle. He would close his eyes, take one single, purifying breath, and become one with the land around him. It reminded him of the greater world, and it freed him from the prison that was his daily existence.

He could feel her approaching before he saw or heard her. With reluctance he pulled himself back into his own body. He did not open his eyes when he heard her soft footsteps on the grass. Nor did he acknowledge her when she let out a polite cough behind him. Instead, he kept his eyes closed and his back to her.

“Do not ignore me, Finnaeus.”

If he had achieved any sort of calm, her blunt and loud use of his real name crushed the life out of it. He could feel the fire burning in his heart again, that scalding anger that never abated.

“I’m meditating,” he responded.

“You’re doing a poor job of it,” she said again. He let out a huff of impatience. Being stranded in a troll body did nothing but degrade his manners.

“Aside from this distraction, I’m doing just fine.”

“On the contrary, you stubborn man,” she said. “Open your eyes.”

Begrudgingly he did so. In an instant he saw her point – all around him harsh bushes of thorny vines had sprouted from the earth. To the right of him a brush of nightshade had grown from the soil. The grass had turned a dark hue, a poisonous black that matched the night sky. So much for solace and tranquility.

“What about it?”

“You’re growing a fortress of plant life here. Thornbrushes? Nightshade? And last I checked the grass should be green.”

“I like them,” he said obstinately.

“Then you can like cleaning up the carcasses of the poor animals that have the misfortune of straying this way,” Narya responded.

“It’d give me something to do,” he replied back. He turned to look at her over his shoulder. She gave him that longsuffering look of a teacher saddled with an impossible student. Narya had a youthful look about her – as much as one could be youthful, being a Night Elf that had lived thousands of years – but when she gave Finnaeus that withering look she seemed old. A purple hand reached up and swept her green hair to the side of her head, and she raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll fix it before you go.”

“I always do,” Finnaeus said, nodding.

“You could save us both the time and stop sprouting things when you’re meditating.”

“But then we wouldn’t have these delightful chats,” Finnaeus said, curling what had to be an ugly smile around his tusks. Narya did not return the favor.

“My company is not a requirement,” she said to him. “You’re free to come and go as you wish.”

“Not that I needed your permission,” Finnaeus said, casual and light. She pursed her lips.

“Just because you look like a troll doesn’t mean you have an excuse to act like one.”

Finnaeus averted his eyes. He let his attitude get away from him. Among the members of the Cenarion Circle she was the only one who knew him for who he was. It was she that trained him in being a druid. She came to him in the days after Gilneas fell, showing him how to channel his rage into something constructive. On the days that the training came hard for him, her steadiness kept him grounded and focused. He owed much to her.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know,” she said, waving a hand and clearing a path through the thorny undergrowth around him. When she cleared a spot to her liking, she sat down next to him. As she lowered herself to the ground the grass changed from black to green. “I’m very much acclimated to your foul temperament. Though I keep hoping that one day I’ll find you in this spot and you’ll be growing dreamfoil and lilies.”

“And yet you find disappointment instead.”

“Not disappointment,” she responded. “Your displays of natural defense while you’re meditating are pretty impressive, considering you do not mean to do it. That you feel the need to defend yourself even in this place – that is where I am sad for you.”

Finnaeus did not answer. His eyes ranged over the poisoned brush of nightshade, and with a sad flick of his hand the roots dissolved back into the earth. Narya, like always, cut right to the heart of the matter. Even in Moonglade he couldn’t find peace. Despite the harsh wars, the fires of a Cataclysm or the cold hands of death marching upon the living, Moonglade remained as a sanctuary against destruction. It celebrated life, and did so fiercely. There was no room for politics, no red and blue flags or racial antagonism. Whatever race, if you were a druid you had a place. Disrupt it at your own peril.

There was little left for Narya to teach him, in terms of expanding his powers. He had grown proficient, a potent druid in his own rights. At odd points he even found himself teaching her a thing or two that he picked up in his travels. He considered her a friend – a distinction he did not give to everyone. Their relationship dictated he treat her better than with the casual disinterest he treated everyone else.

“You don’t need to be sad,” he responded. “When I’m back in my own body, I’ll grow all sorts of beautiful flowers.”

Narya clucked her tongue.

“You’re smart, Finnaeus. But it’s wasted by how stubborn you can be.”

“I’m not stubborn,” he said stubbornly. “How can I be at peace when I’m a bloody troll? When I fix that, the rest will follow.”

“You said the same thing to me when you came here cursed with being a worgen,” Narya responded. “The only difference between then and now is that your problem is a set of tusks as opposed to fur and claws.”

“I disagree.”

“You would,” Narya said with a laugh. “You run around telling people to see things as they are and yet when it comes to you, you’re about as unseeing as one can be.”

“Says you,” Finnaeus said.

“Says me,” she affirmed. An unsettled silence can between them then. Finnaeus reached down and pressed his hand against the grass. The life of it tingled against its skin, how it was connected to the rest of the grass, to the soil, to the water underneath. He could sense the insects in the earth, burrowing through the dirt. He concentrated a bit, and he could see the beginnings of something sprouting from the earth in front of him. A sprout came from the soil, twisting and undulating as if reaching for its own life. From the stem sprouted leaves of deep green, rich in color. A bud formed at the top of the stem. He watched, narrowing his eyes a bit in focus. When the bud began to bloom he thought he saw something gold, and beautiful. Instead the flower petals were an inky black, with a texture of velvet. Sharp thorns sprouted on the stem. The flower came to a full bloom, about a foot tall on the ground. Narya leaned forward, her fingers somehow finding purchase between the thorns to pluck it from the soil.

“At least it’s a rose,” he offered, his dull anger thudding in his chest.

“It’s poisonous,” she responded, a finger hovering just above the petals. “Not indigenous to the area.”

“You can give it to the guards,” Finnaeus responded. “If they crush the petals and infuse them with the right base, they can coat arrows and blades. It should be pretty potent, and –”

“You can’t keep living like this,” Narya said, cutting him off. He looked at her, trying to match his gaze to hers. But he could not bear to see the look on her face, that old, weathered look of someone growing tired of attempting the impossible.

“I’m living,” Finnaeus responded. “Isn’t that enough?”

“No,” she said simply.

“Well then you’re being greedy,” Finnaeus said. “Considering what it took to survive, I’d say being glad to be alive is a great attitude.”

“Neither of us believes the lies you’re telling,” she said. “In all the time I’ve known you, I have never seen you glad of anything.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but the warmth of her hand seemed to burn his skin. He gently dipped his shoulder blade so that they were no longer in contact. In response she arched an eyebrow.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Narya,” he said, spreading his hands.

“I want only for you to be happy, Finnaeus,” she said, a warm smile on her face. “And if you will not allow yourself that, then I would be content with you finding some peace.”

“I’ll find it when I’m out of this body,” he repeated.

“So you say,” she said with a sigh. The bright smile on her face wilted. She produced an envelope from her satchel, and handed it to him.

“Who is it from?”

“That’s for you to discover when you open it,” she said bluntly. “It’s your mail after all.” She stood, standing over him for a moment, before waving her hand. The thorny brushes twisted into the earth. “You’re not dead, Finnaeus, no matter how grim you think things are. You fancy yourself an old, weathered tree. But you’re just a sproutling that refuses to root.”

“I did root once,” Finnaeus said, his voice dangerously close to a snarl. The past stayed locked away, caged in a vault where it could do no more damage. He knew he could not change the things he had done, or regain what he had lost. It would not do to let the past continue to torment him. But at moments like this, when conversation threatened to unlock that cage – he could only react in self-defense. It was a primal instinct, and a fierce one.

“Then perhaps you should do so again,” she said. And with no other words, she walked away from him. Watching her go, he slid a finger under the lid and removed a piece of parchment.

He knew from whom it came even before he reached the signature at the end. The overly elaborate penmanship, the ostentatious show of forced politeness – they were the trademarks of his brother, Aloyseus. How he managed to wield a pen with the decrepit bones that he called fingers, Finnaeus did not know. He crumpled the paper up and tossed it into his satchel. A summons to Lordaeron. No, not a summons. Good old Aloyseus wouldn’t be so overtly rude as to demand his presence. Instead, it was a polite request for Finnaeus to give him the good pleasure of his company.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. There could be no good where his brother was concerned. His instinct told him to ignore it.

He saved your life. That voice in his head, the conscience that almost always spoke in his deceased wife’s voice. It was the only time heard her voice anymore.

“Then let’s go and pay that debt,” Finnaeus said, standing. “And we’ll be rid of him forever.”

((Yay! A new Finnaeus thread. Although the title has me worried...))

((I thought the same thing! It's like "he'd better NOT be leaving..."))

((Before this is through, you will owe me a new f5 key, druid.)))

It was an altogether foreign experience being able to board a goblin zeppelin without the threat of being run through by the guards. But owning a troll body, however, did not afford him any sort of comfort when he stepped off the vehicle and onto the dusty wooden planks of the zeppelin tower in Tirisfal Glades. Nothing, from the tower to the baleful, undying gaze of the Forsaken guards, gave Finnaeus any sort of comfort, or peace of mind.

It gave him the creeps.

As he made his way through town, ever aware of the many Forsaken turning their heads and watching him stroll through, he wondered if anything living, Horde or not, could be comfortable here. All of their eyes seemed accusatory, as if having to breathe to survive was a crime of the highest order. A few Forsaken whispered to each other as he passed. He gave them no sign that he heard, but there was no denying that he was on edge, anticipating what felt like an inevitable surge of enemies. Horde as he may appear, these Forsaken had no room for outsiders.

Finnaeus had never been to Lordaeron before, so he could not compare the landscape with what had come before. But he didn’t have to – the land was never allowed to scar and heal from all of its wounds. On the contrary, its affliction still festered upon its lands, infected with a corruption that walked across its surface. The black painted buildings of Brill covered the land like necrotic tissue, forming a diseased replication of a living town. He stared in a morbid, twisted sense of awe at the way in which Forsaken life actually existed in a fashion that didn’t include blighting the land and eating the living. There were guards and military folks, to be sure, but there were also farmers tending to twisted crops, merchants hawking macabre merchandise to various apothecaries and alchemists. A small, twisted child ran by him chasing a ball, one eye missing and a crook to his right leg. It made Finn’s stomach turn. It was a cruel mirror of actual life, warped by death and decay.

He was glad to escape the town, but winding his way through the haunted landscape gave him no reprieve. The wind was cold, and it slid across the back of his neck like the last breath of a dying man. The boughs of the tall dark trees shook like gnarled fingers curled in pain and searching for something to share their grief. A fetid smell clung to the air, the lingering smell of a long-removed corpse. Finnaeus pulled his cloak closer. In the distance he could see a few plaguehounds glaring at him from the darkness. This was what happened when death had no consequence, and corruption and rot were left unchecked. When the wind was still he could sometimes feel something stirring in the land, some memory of what it was like to live and breathe. But then the darkness would thicken, the wind would breeze by with the silent screams of the long dead carried with it, and he was sure that the fleeting glimpses of life were just memories yet to be forgotten.

His brother took up residence well on the outskirts of town, one building of a handful that formed a half-ring around an empty field of dusty brown grass. Finnaeus narrowed his eyes as he watched a few dark cloaked individuals departing from the tallest of the buildings. Normally Finnaeus would have cloaked himself in stealth for an approach like this. But he did not trust the land, and he had a strong conviction that the shadows would betray him here. Instead he made his way down the beaten path towards the door. He watched as the others made their way to their mounts and galloped off.

“My apologies,” a voice said to him. Finnaeus turned and saw his brother, Aloyseus, standing at the doorway of the building the others had departed from. “Unexpected visit by some colleagues of mine.”

“Colleagues,” Finnaeus repeated, less because he was interested and more because he had nothing else to say. His eyes ranged over the corpse of his younger brother, and he found that his mouth had gone dry. This was not the first time seeing his brother in such a state, but nothing eased the disgust and horror that came over him when he was in Aloyseus’s company. His jaw had been reattached – if it was even his jaw to begin with – and there was just enough of his original facial features to be vaguely reminiscent of when Aloyseus was alive. Finnaeus thought him to be some undead caricature of his once handsome, youthful brother. It would have been better if he were barely recognizable at all.

“I am quite busy,” he said, that overly genial tone as pleasant as a corpse could have.

“If I’m an inconvenience, I can come back another time,” Finnaeus said, though he already knew the answer.

“And make you come all this way for nothing? No, that would be cruel.”

Cruel was making me come here in the first place, Finnaeus thought.

Aloyseus hovered for a moment, stepping aside so that Finnaeus could enter. But Finn had no use for stepping over the threshold of his brother’s abode, and instead sniffed the air. It smelled of mold, and just looking inside made him claustrophobic.

“You can come in, if you like,” Aloyseus said, as if to clarify why he had stepped aside in the first place.

“The fresh air is better,” Finnaeus said, wrinkling his nose. “Such as it is.”

Aloyseus hitched a bony smile on his face, and shrugged.

“As my guest desires,” he responded. He closed the door to his building behind him, and then approached. “I suppose you druids are more comfortable outside than cooped up in an old shack.”

“Something like that,” Finnaeus said, getting a headache. He had just arrived and he already wanted to leave.

“I see you’re handling your new body better than when last we spoke,” Aloyseus said. “Your spirit isn’t fleeing the premises, as it were.”

“It isn’t,” he said. “What do you want?”

“You’ve grown quite blunt,” Aloyseus said. “You remind me of our father. I did not know you were this averse to small talk.”

“You’re spending time like an elf spends gold at the fragrance merchants,” Finnaeus scowled. “I have no time to waste. It would be best to get to the point.”

“Quite,” Aloyseus said, raising an eyebrow. Or what would be an eyebrow, if his decrepit flesh hadn’t festered over his eyes. “I did not expect you to be happy, Finnaeus, but I also did not expect you to be so dour.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint.”

“Or ungrateful,” Aloyseus said. Finnaeus bit his tongue. That his brother could hold this life debt over him was simply unacceptable to him.

“I’m not ungrateful,” he croaked, almost choking on the words.

“Of course not,” Aloyseus said, his smile showing through the rotted remains of a once youthful face. “You have a long memory, I’m sure you have not forgotten that I saved your life. But, I must admit, you’ve got the disposition of poison. I do not remember you always being so sour.”

“I’ve been told as much many times,” he said. “What do you want, Aloyseus? You said yourself you’re busy, and I have my own things to get on with. Why did you ask me here?”

“Is it not enough to spend some time with your own flesh and blood?”

“My flesh and blood is dead,” Finnaeus said, his temper rising. His brother was being facetious, and that attitude could only lead to bad places.

“Dead and undead,” Aloyseus corrected him. “You would think someone so desperate for a second chance with his family would relish being able to secure a better ending than the one he previously had with his younger brother.”

“You left Gilneas, not the other way around,” Finnaeus snapped. “What happened between the two of us is on you.” He could feel his heart beating an angry tattoo in his chest. Reliving the past with his undead brother was the last thing he wanted to do. Why call him all the way to Lordaeron just to pick at old wounds? Why couldn’t he just let them be?

“I wasn’t blaming you,” Aloyseus said. “I’m simply saying that, in this one instance, what you thought you once lost you’ve found again.”

“What I’ve lost is still lost,” Finnaeus said, his hands curling into such fists that his finger nails were cutting into his palms. “Let’s not pretend that you’re the same person you were before.”

“Of course not, no one stays the same forever,” Aloyseus responded, the smile on his face growing wider. “You yourself are living proof. After all, you didn’t start out as a troll.”

“I didn’t come all the way across the world to philosophize with you. Or to wax nostalgic about a past that’s as dead as you,” Finnaeus snarled. “We should be getting on with our business.”

“Why do you have such hostility for me,” Aloyseus said, spreading his hands. “I’ve done nothing to you.”

“Nor did I come here to have some sort of reconciliation,” Finnaeus said, his voice rising so loud that he was sure that any nearby Deathguards would come calling. “I just want to get on with it. Tell me why you wanted me here so that I can repay this debt I owe to you and move on.”

Aloyseus folded his arms across his chest.

“So you came all this way out of a sense of obligation? That you owe me some debt. And once our transaction is concluded and the ledger is evened, you will what, exactly? Fade into obscurity?”

“With any luck,” Finnaeus said, pinching the bridge of his nose. Guilt mixed toxically with his anger – this was his brother, in some fashion. And yet as he felt a swell of remorse for his hostility, he grew angry that he felt guilty at all. No, this was not his brother. This was some undead facsimile, a member of a nation that leveled Gilneas. Aloyseus had his own objections to how Gilneas acted in the past, but the alive, real version of him would never have stood with a host of unnatural abominations that would besiege Gilnean walls and rain plague and destruction upon its citizens. No matter how arrogant and isolationist they became.

“If you are so miserable, why don’t you just kill yourself and be done with it?”

The question was posed without rancor. It was the logical question of a man who himself had died, and saw no longer appreciated the severity of its finality. It was a question asked by a man who no longer felt the emotional pulls of being alive, of breathing and living and being afraid of loss. The question made Finnaeus hate him even more.

“Because life is precious and should be protected at all costs,” Finnaeus said. “Even if it’s difficult.”

“I never knew you to be an idealist,” Aloyseus said.

“It’s not an ideal. It’s a truth.”

The two lapsed into a silence. They were feet from each other, but a great divide spread between the two of them, a vast difference in time, space, and circumstance that Finnaeus was sure they could never span it. These were his brother’s bones, his flesh, the physical components. But they were not him. The Aloyseus he knew never flinched or questioned ideals, because he lived his life devoted to them. He was a young, naïve, idealistic paladin who believed in righting the world’s wrongs and living to a higher standard. Finnaeus was always the practical one.

“I will waste no more of your time then,” Aloyseus said finally, brushing some dust off of his robes. “I requested you here for two reasons. The first, which I’m finding to be woefully naïve of me, was to attempt to form some sort of relation between the two of us. You wear your disgust plainly. Which is fine. I’m not burdened by nostalgia or sentimentality. I simply believed that since we do have this past link, that perhaps we could become colleagues of a fashion.”

Aloyseus paused, allowing Finnaeus to interject. Finn did no such thing. He simply waited for his brother to finish.

“The second is more practical in nature. I have need of your set of skills.”

“What skills would those be?”

“Subterfuge and, should the situation arise, combat. And discretion, with which you are of course well acquainted. I’m moving some very sensitive materials. I’ll need your skills to help me fend off any parties interested in absconding with them.”

“Where will these materials be going?” Finnaeus asked. He decided not to ask which materials they would be. He wouldn’t believe his brother even if he told him.

“Details will be divulged should you choose to accept the help,” Aloyseus said, smiling a bit. “I can’t afford to give you information if you are not going to assist in the endeavor. If you’re not invested in the project, there’s no need to put you at risk.”

“How thoughtful,” Finnaeus said.

“I thought so,” Aloyseus said, smoothing over his robe. “Although I’m sure you’d jump at the opportunity to be killed in the middle of a mission or assignment. Then you can’t be blamed for committing suicide.”

“You think I want to die?”

“No,” Aloyseus said. “I know you want to.”

Finnaeus made to respond, but he found himself without words. Before he could recover himself, Aloyseus filled the silence.

“You value life, as is your wont. I value productivity. You’re doing nothing with yourself. Your errands that you run for the Inquisitor? Inconsequential. The rebellion is over, and you got your fill of blood in Orgrimmar. What’s left for you?”

“Getting my body back,” Finnaeus responded.

“And then what? You run errands for some other master? Go back to the Pia? Join some other group? You’re a leaf in the wind, Finnaeus. What’s the point of continuing on if you are in so much pain?”

“Pain is temporary,” Finnaeus said.

“You say that, and yet here you are after all this time. Your family dead and gone. Your nation in ruins. You have no purpose. It can all end.”

“I’m not looking for an out,” Finnaeus said, narrowing his eyes.

“So you say,” Aloyseus said. “You put on an impressive front, I’ll give you that. But you don’t hide the truth as well as you think you do. I’ve watched you, from the moment you came into that Horde camp in Pandaria fresh in that troll body of yours. I saved you, have protected you, watched you. You’re formidable, quite formidable. And yet you languish up there in Moonglade feeling sorry for yourself. You slink into Silvermoon and let Liore Bloodwing give you little missions that give you some short-lived purpose. No connective tissue, no life in between. Just missions and wallowing, fighting the anger as if it does anything except make it worse. The brother I thought I was saving isn’t in there anymore.”

“This is an odd sales pitch for another seemingly inconsequential mission,” Finnaeus said, his tone laced with malice. “I don’t know what you expected to get from me, but I’m sure I’ll find a way to sleep at night despite your profound disappointment. Save your thoughtful analysis for someone who takes stock in your opinion. I don’t care how many people you have watching me wherever I go – you know nothing about me.”

“Perhaps,” Aloyseus said. He folded his arms behind his back. “I can see that we will make no further progress here, if there was any progress to begin with. In any case, my request still stands. We may not be on the path to mending fences, but you can at least assist me in this project. It’ll square the ledger you’re so desperate to even, and then you can go back to your chosen path, never to see me again. I’ll be ready to move in five days. You can return at that time.”

“I don’t want to come back here,” Finnaeus said.

“For now,” Aloyseus said. “I suspect after you give it some thought, you’ll reconsider. After all, if I know anything about you it’s that you hate loose ends.”

Finnaeus glared at the undead in front of him. He had a million different responses, each one laced with venom. But instead of saying anything, he simply turned and walked away. A cold wind braced against his skin, and he shivered.

((AND THEN WHAT))

07/07/2014 11:56 AMPosted by Liore

((AND THEN WHAT))

((NO AND THEN! STORY OVER!

Ok not really, about to post the update. Sorry for the delay, editing is a monster.))

The waves lapped against the Isle of Quel’Danas with a lazy easiness. Araneon Sunwhisper sat at the edge of the dock, watching a ship full of supplies roll in. The sun was warm, the air crisp – it was an effortlessly comfortable day. The daylight sparkled and danced across the water’s surface, the water glimmering as if it were made of gold. Time didn’t pass so much as floated by, and there was plenty to look at while he lounged in the sun.

Araneon turned his head, his eyes catching on two delicious looking creatures strolling down the docks. The two spell casters were enraptured in conversation, probably discussing some sort of magicky nonsense concerning mana somethings or runic whatevers. His interest in them came from the light, floaty robes that hugged their frames just right. He could see every curve in their bodies, the way their hair fell into their faces just so. He soaked in every detail – their lips, their skin, and the scent of magic on them that intoxicated him like a shot of alcohol. As they passed, he craned his neck. A light-headedness came over him, and that all too familiar hunger – no. Craving.

For a moment he imagined taking one of them, or both if he could manage it. With the right attitude, saying the right things – a playful smile, a flirtatious wink. Maybe his ignorance to all things of higher spellcasting knowledge would draw them in. They always loved educating him, talking spells and incantations, and he would look interested because he was, just in their lips and not their words. It had been awhile since he played the game, stepped that delicate dance that drew them in without betraying his intentions. That was part of the allure, the thrill of the hunt. He licked his lips. He stood up, his eyes laser focused on the two mages.

But then he saw a third female frame walking towards him, and he knew the chase was over before it began. His sister, Anyanara, strolled down the docks. She said a few polite words to the two mages before she approached him. His eyes flicked from her to the two mages, taking in one last glance before he returned his gaze to his now imperious looking sister.

“There’s no point in trying,” she said, cutting through any pretense. “I’ve already warned them about you.”

His heart practically stopped, and anger flashed on his face.

“You told them about –”

“No, not all of it,” she said, before adding, “you idiot.”

A powerful relief came over him. He worked hard to conceal the traces of the elf he was before, to eliminate all of those loose ends before finally closing the door to his past. The thought of his sister undoing all that work sent shivers up his spine.

“Sorry. Just paranoid I suppose.”

“Apparently,” she said, giving him that same look of impatient condescension. “And keep your hungry eyes to yourself.”

“There’s nothing wrong with looking,” he offered.

“Except when it leads to more,” Anyanara said. “These are good people here, and I don’t want you ruining any of them.”

“Fine,” he said. “But if they come to me I’m not going to refuse.”

“Any elf that seeks you out can find herself a ship to the mainland,” she said. “I don’t need anyone that desperate for affection.”

“Ouch,” he said.

“You were practically eating them with your eyes,” she said. “Don’t give me that wounded look. Find yourself someone respectable, but not someone I work with.”

“I’m still surprised they let you back working here.”

Anyanara’s face dropped. Good, he thought. Serves her right for getting so personal.

“Wasn’t easy,” she responded, pulling herself together. “But hard work always wins out. Everyone makes mistakes.”

“Was a doozy of a mistake. Letting a Modas warlock near the Sunwell -”

“A mistake that not everyone needs to hear about,” she hissed, looking around.

“So our mutual secret keeping is more deterrence than respect for each other,” he said. “Duly noted.”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” she said.

“Don’t hurt my feelings then.” She rolled her eyes, but despite herself she afforded him a smirk.

“Fine. What brings you here?”

“Just passing through,” he said. “Accompanying some precious materials.”

“From?”

“The Isle of Thunder,” Araneon said.

“For?” she responded frowning. Araneon twitched – his sister could be such a busy body.

“You’re particularly nosy today.”

“Especially as it concerns you and your dealings,” she said. “What are the materials for?”

“I can’t say,” he said. “Sworn to secrecy.”

“Don’t be a troll.”

“I’m serious!”

“I don’t like secrets,” she said, her eyes flashing dangerously. “You said you were keeping yourself out of trouble.”

“I did, and I’m trying to,” Araneon said. “Some things happened.”

He knew he wasn’t going to get away with being that vague, but he also didn’t want to give her too many details. Anyanara had come to an understanding when it came to his past, and his attempts to put it behind him. But it also made her suspicious and, worse, overbearing. He had lived with her when he first returned to Silvermoon, and helped him land a small flat for himself. But then that damnable undead priest came into the picture, with that troll druid problem of his, and everything got upended.

“Go on,” she said, her eyebrows raised.

“Nothing like before,” he said, waving his hands. “Just got mixed up in a not so safe situation.”

“With whom?” she asked.

“No one you know, don’t worry,” he said. She was not mollified, however.

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

“Aloyseus,” Araneon said. “The undead priest that visits Silvermoon from time to time. He’s in the Coterie.”

Anyanara narrowed her eyes.

“I told you to be careful around the Forsaken,” she said. “Around any of the Horde, to be honest. Don’t go getting mixed up in other business until you’ve got your own settled.”

“That’s the thing,” he said. “He knows everything about my old business.”

That changed the tenor of the conversation. She stood up straight, her eyes alighting with that laser focus that only she possessed.

“You told him?”

“He has a way of knowing things,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m a pretty good liar. He knew without me telling.”

“Maybe he found out from one of your old partners?”

“They’re all taken care of,” he said. “None remain.”

“You’re sure?”

“Anyone who has ever encountered The Spider is no longer alive to tell the tale,” he said.

“Don’t say that name,” she said. “It still disgusts me.”

“Me too,” he said softly, his hand going to that place on his arm where he had burned the Spider tattoo into his skin. No magic had been yet able to remove it.

“So what kind of trouble is he putting you in?”

“None that I can’t handle,” he said. “I just have to get these materials to Lordaeron and then help escort them to their final destination. After that, the debt between us is evened.”

“Debts are never evened,” she said, shaking her head. “Not when the payments are as lucrative as this. What kind of materials?”

“Anya, I can’t say,” he said, spreading his hands.

“You’re bringing them here, yes?” she said, losing whatever patience she had. “I’m not asking for an itemized list – I know you won’t give it to me. But I need to know something about what you’re doing. It’s my job.”

“All I can tell you is that there are several crates, and that they’re all magically sealed,” he said. “They’re not staying in Quel’Danas. They’re moving through.”

“The last person that did something like this tried to destroy the Sunwell,” Anyanara said.

“I’m not Malthaes,” Araneon said. “I’m not looking to do you harm.”

“And I’m not so trusting with people who say they can be trusted,” she said back. “Especially when they insist on it. Usually it means that trust is the foolish thing to give.”

“I wouldn’t be doing this unless I have to.”

“Even worse,” she said. “That you had to be strong armed into doing this work makes me all the more concerned. Why did he seek you out anyway? Because he could manipulate you?”

“I’m sure that’s part of it,” Araneon said, inwardly scowling. Usually he had his fingers on the strings. It was an unpleasant experience being on the opposite end of this kind of manipulation. “I was working with the Sunreavers on the Isle of the Thunder, which proved to be very convenient for Aloyseus. The stars aligned for him.”

Anyanara made to respond, but she said nothing. She recommended him for that job, because it got him out of his flat in Silvermoon and reintegrated back into Sin’Dorei society. She was concerned about his brooding temperament, but also she recognized that he was afraid to take that first step back into a world that would string him from a tree if they ever found out about his past. Anya gave him that last push that he needed to make the attempt. It was hard, difficult – he didn’t trust anyone, and he always made sure that the brand on his arm remained unseen by strange eyes. And the women that he had to work with, that temptation was greater than all. Constantly he fought the part of himself that he nurtured and strengthened for so long that he feared the newer version of himself wasn’t strong enough to resist. It was schizophrenic work, trying to make a better life for himself. Especially when yielding to past habits would feel so very good.

“Well,” she finally said. “We knew this wouldn’t be easy. Are you sure this Aloyseus will go away once you help him?”

“I’m not sure of anything,” he said. “But that’s what he’s saying. And he said he can get rid of my tattoo.”

“How?” she said, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “We’ve tried everything.”

“He wouldn’t tell me,” Araneon said. “He said that I have to put my trust in him like he’s putting his trust in me.”

“A lot of trust going around for people who don’t deserve it,” she said. She tossed the thought out casually, but it struck Araneon directly in the heart. It brought back to him the disappointed and horrified look on her face when he told her the truth about him. She didn’t talk to him for three days, and in those days he lived with the crippling fear that she would never speak to him again. She was the last person he had to hold on to in the world, and knowing that he would be completely alone if she let go of him would have been like falling into an abyss with no hoping of coming back.

“One day I’ll deserve your trust again,” he said quietly, his hand drifting to that place on his arm, where that infernal brand constantly reminded him of what he was. What he used to be. What he threatened to become again, when the cravings got so strong that he would panic in the face of succumbing to them.

She gave him that dubious look, the one where he could watch her hope for his future battle her experience with his past. Almost always her experience won out, but sometimes he thought he could see the hope winning. It gave him reason to believe he could earn some of that hope for himself.

“How long are you here for?”

“A day or two at most. I need to get the materials there in five days.”

“That’s a tight window.”

“I can do it,” Araneon said, scratching his stomach. His eyes drifted to behind his sister. Another mage was making her way down the dock. He licked his lips, and then hastily shifted his eyes back to his sister.

“I can fix you up with a place to stay,” she said. “But no screwing me on this, Araneon. I’m already skating on thin ice as it is. That whole situation with Mal nearly cost me everything.”

“Understood,” he said. She gave him a lingering look of severity. He offered her a genuine smile. Anya was the only person he could give that to.

“Give me a few hours and I’ll meet you back here,” she said, turning to leave. As she walked away she added, “And keep your hands to yourself.”

He should have just boarded the zeppelin and left the continent. But Gilneas was too close to ignore, and Finnaeus could not deny himself a visit.

The city always seemed to shroud itself with a permanent layer of fog and cloud. The ruins were no different. Except now, smoke and toxic fumes from Forsaken plague rose from the ground. The tendrils of poisoned vapor snaked through the wreckage, or hitched to the breeze, moving like a carrion creature not quite ready to relinquish its dead prize.

Finnaeus moved quickly in his feline form, using nature magic to protect himself from the worst of the plagued areas. The countryside was less blighted and he could breathe freely, but the baleful sadness of the region oozed from this area as well. The wildlife was all gone, and huge swathes of grasslands were replaced by barren stretches of dead soil. While Lordaeron’s land mourned the distant past, Gilneas was still too beaten to take stock of its own trauma. That suited Finnaeus just fine. He did not want to be here when the land recoiled from shock and felt the pain of what it had lost.

He had been here once or twice since the fall. The area was still dangerous – the fighting for its control was sporadic but bloody. Many third party interests picked over the ruins looking for trinkets, treasures, or even just a bit of influence or territory. The last time he visited he came with Erelyn. It was when he finally confessed his past to her, opening up in a way he could with precious few. They had thrown Aloyseus’s family pendant into the waters, a token gesture to put the past behind him. But as the Forsaken proved, and the world reminded him – what was dead no longer stayed dead. The past was not done with him, but if he was honest with himself, he had to admit he was not done with the past.

As he made his way, taking in ruins here, abandoned buildings there, he felt that upswell of longing, of anger, frustration and sadness. They were familiar feelings, longtime companions that walked with him every step that he took. But the anger ruled now, the searing pain of a rage that never died but waited for the right moments to explode. He thought back to his time with Claire, when they would have their arguments like any married couple. She had many complaints about his disposition back then. Stubborn, rigid, formal. Never angry. No, that was a new development. And while he had plenty to be angry about, it never went away. The tides of rage never ebbed as time passed. Instead it stayed, stuck, growing and taking on a life of its own.

He spotted a graveyard. New, though full. It was hastily put together – by the Alliance arrivals after the siege, probably – and as the hot edges of anger scalded him a new question came into his head. Why did he do this to himself? There was nothing new to see in Gilneas. No progress, no restoration - just the degradation of a life and land that he could no longer claim. And yet he would come here, look at it all, and the anger and loss would flare as strongly as it ever had. Why did he come here? Was it to put a visual to his anger? To remind himself why? But he didn’t need that reminder. He saw this place in his dreams, in his thoughts, while he meditated and traveled. He replayed memories, he recalled the faces of his family. Coming here was torturous, excruciating. And yet when he left Aloyseus in Lordaeron, he didn’t ignore Gilneas completely. Instead he came here. He thought he had to, but the truth was that he couldn’t resist. And, maybe, it was also that he had nowhere to go.

He growled. Not at any one thing. He simply had to let out frustration. He had no answers. Or, maybe, he wasn’t ready to answer the questions at hand. Rather than continuing on, he came to rest next to the graveyard. His eyes roved over the unmarked graves. It was a sad thing, the compulsion to mark the death of people they had no way of knowing. His own family had marked graves on the farm, but those markers were deep underwater by now. The image of the bodies of his wife and daughter floating in the sea came unbidden, and his body shivered in revulsion.

Finnaeus tried to shake his head, to loosen the grip the past held on him. But instead it only encouraged the memories. He could see himself standing under the family apple tree, holding hands with Claire when he proposed to her. He could feel the familiar weight of little Lydia when she was first born. His heart felt incomplete, crippled by a gaping wound that couldn’t be filled. His anguish reached back to the young, happy face of his brother Aloyseus. The naïve smile playing underneath sparkling blue eyes and radiant blonde hair, holding out his hand and watching as the Light dazzled between his fingers. None of them had graves. Instead, they filled the graveyard of Finnaeus’s memory, forever demanding attention but being incapable of fostering resolution.

He cursed his brother for unlocking the cage in which he trapped the past. He took one last look at the graves, and then turned to depart. But just as he made to shift into his flight form, he heard voices.

Instinct took over – he took two bounding steps and leapt into a nearby tree. The leaves would give him additional coverage. He saw a group of humans marching up the countryside. There were too many to count – maybe thirty – they moved without discipline, with a single horse rider at the back. The rider was perhaps the only one who looked ready for combat. Dazzling silver armor covered his body, with a tabard that looked remarkably like the tabard for the Argent Crusade. That confused Finnaeus – he didn’t think that the Crusade had any formal interest in Gilneas. The last he knew, back from his time with the Pia, was that the Crusade was staying out of the political and military clashing of the Alliance and Horde. The group marched closer, the voices becoming distinguishable. Finnaeus saw that two of them were dragging a cart filled with bodies.

“Nearly there, lads,” the rider called out.

“It smells worse than it did before,” said one of the soldiers.

“Reeks like garbage,” another agreed.

“It is the stench of corruption, no doubt,” the rider boomed. “The Light will not suffer it to harm you, of that I can assure you.”

Finnaeus did not doubt the man’s fervor, but he did distrust the accuracy of the statement. The Forsaken had perfected the plague – he saw many Light wielders succumb to its potency. But then the Crusade never lacked for true believers, and belief carried with it a powerful conviction.

“This is peasant work,” one of the soldiers said, as the group passed by the tree. “I didn’t come here to Gilneas to play clean up.”

“This is noble work, lad,” the rider said, hopping down from the horse with a jostling clang of his armor.

“Then why don’t the Crusade send more people,” another piped up.

“You all know the score. The Crusade won’t authorize any work in Gilneas. I’m here of my own accord, same as all of you. You can leave if you wish.”

“When you enlisted us you said we would be fighting a good cause.” Finnaeus turned and saw what looked like the chief dissenter. He was a grubby looking man, covered in leather armor that looked scavenged from a variety of sources. He wouldn’t last in real combat. “You didn’t say we’d be dragging bodies up and down the country side.”

“We burn the bodies, and then we memorialize them,” the armored man replied. “We don’t need any of these folk rising and fighting against us. We’ve cleaned the surrounding area. Soon we’ll build up a nice sized garrison, and we can start the real combat. But we won’t rush into battle just because you’re itching to swing a sword.”

Finnaeus leaned forward, trying to take the armored man in. Clearly he was a paladin – all this talk about the Light wasn’t just posturing. He looked well built, possibly trained. The men, despite their griping, seemed to respect him enough to at least listen. His features were smooth, however – he looked too young to have seen any real combat. In a strange away he reminded Finnaeus of Aloyseus, when he was alive. A little bit taller, and his hair was a light brown as opposed to shimmering blonde.

“Sir Jarrett is right,” said another soldier, this one a woman. “I don’t want to give the Forsaken any extra advantage while there are so few of us.”

“We camp tonight. Burn the bodies in a pyre – the ashes are buried with the rest. We’ll say a few words when the work is done. Some will take the night watch, and the rest will get shut eye. In the morning, we’ll start gathering resources for a camp.”

“We’re runnin’ short o’ supplies,” said a dwarf, her rifle leaning against her shoulder.

“I have a well placed investor from Stormwind financing the mission,” Sir Jarrett said, surveying his troops. “A few days from now we’ll see a shipment come up the coast, barring disaster. Small ship, good captain – knows how to sail without being seen. With luck we’ll be well stocked and on our way.”

He looked around for any additional complaints. That seemed to satisfy the lot, because they did not pitch any further concerns. Instead, with a collective nod, they began to unload the bodies.

Finnaeus stealthed, hopping down from the tree and keeping low to the ground. He did not want to get caught by these folks. He wondered what the fall out would be if this Sir Jarrett was caught in Gilneas proudly bearing his Crusade tabard. Surely there would be political consequences, none of which would appease Lord Fordring. But Finnaeus had no time or interest for politics.

“The Light is with us, men,” he heard Sir Jarrett call out. “With any luck, we’ll be the catalyst for a rebirth for this great nation.”

Finnaeus stopped for a moment, considering the man’s words. It piqued his interest that they were building something that resembled a future. But as he slunk off into the shadows, and the silence of solitude washing over him, he could not help but feel like the knight’s optimism would eventually be his undoing.

He crept away, trying to corral the past back into its prison. Aloyseus's living face floated into his mind's eye, one last sharp stab from the past, before it faded from view.

The sun set on the working day, which brought quite a few more people to the bar than had been there earlier. Which greatly benefited Araneon. He smiled, tipping his glass towards a beautiful blonde two tables down. She had that cold, dismissive look that most Sin’Dorei women had, but he could see the sparks of interest in her eyes. He turned away, swirling the red wine in his glass, smiling inwardly. The trick was to not over pursue. Give enough to tantalize them and they would come ambling onto the web.

The bartender refilled the glass. Araneon placed a few gold pieces on the counter, nodded, and then turned to face the entrance of the café. The curtains fluttered in the breeze, blue satin sheets that allowed the fragrance of the food and the friendly chatter of the café to spill outside to passer-bys. It was a small place, cozy but not simple. Nothing Sin’Dorei could ever be accused of simplicity. Every chair was ornately crafted from the finest wood. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, and a window overlooking the bar was stained red and gold. But by their standards it wasn’t too much. The patrons did not sit on plush pillows and bathe in incense. And the chatter was kept to a polite murmur, and was absent the melodramatic and serious flourishes that often came with magical discussions.

Araneon shifted, resting one hand on his stomach while the other traced the rim of his wine glass. The blonde kept flicking casual glances his way while ensconced in conversation about some sort of arcane measurement of the Sunwell. He kept his ears perked but looked about lazily. Sometimes the look of indifference came across as forced. It was a fine balance, but the years sharpened his skill, like a stone to a sword. A lazy sip here, an absent-minded gaze there – it had to look effortless. He was a master of his craft, all of his attention bent on that beautiful mage, while he made it seem she was just another thread in a tapestry.

She stood up from her chair, ambling over to the bar with her empty glass. Araneon’s face kept as still as stone, but inwardly he couldn’t help but smirk. She did it all wrong. Her eyes kept flicking at him, and that sexy saunter she was affecting was just as much an illusion as any a mage could conjure. He could practically feel her interest in him radiating from her. With another sip of his wine, casually turned, making sure his eyes passed over her without landing on her.

“You’re Anyanara’s brother,” she said, her eyes flicking from him to her glass. An appeal to indifference, but more an indication of nerves.

“Is that a question or a statement?” he asked. He gestured to the bartender to give him another refill.

“A statement,” she said. He turned to her, allowing her to know that he was now giving her his interest. She responded by leaning against the bar counter, casually but not casually flicking her hair out of her eyes. He could not deny that she was beautiful – small lips, pink and inviting, her face slender but not gaunt. She arched her back a little, emphasizing her curves. A good figure, to be sure. But the effort was obvious, and he wondered if she heard of his reputation as a lady killer and decided to prove herself up to the task.

“A keen observation then,” he said, adding a little ice to his tone. He nodded, indicating that the conversation was over, and he took a sip. She gave off a little laugh, though the blood rushing to her cheeks told him that she was off guard, maybe a little nervous that she couldn’t keep him interested.

“She said you’d be around,” the girl offered. Araneon turned his head again.

“You talk about me often?”

She let out a glamour of a laugh.

“Don’t be so cocky.”

“It was a question, not a statement,” he responded. “After all, you came to speak to me.”

She got closer, and the scent of her perfume mixed with another smell entirely intoxicating. The delicious aroma of her mana wafted from her, and despite himself he felt his mouth water.

“I had to see the infamous Araneon Sunwhisper for myself,” the girl responded, affecting a sultry gaze. He took a sip of wine, relaxing against the bar, and then raised an eyebrow.

“Infamous? I hope I lived up to your expectations,” he said to her.

“That remains to be seen,” she responded, taking a dramatically slow sip of her wine. “Anyanara said you’re dangerous. That you think you can have any woman you want.”

Araneon narrowed his eyes a bit, appraising her. He couldn’t decide if she was flirting or trying to tease him, flaunting herself in front of him knowing that his sister warned her to stay away. Mixed signals were always part of the game, and he was excellent at pulling them closer to his side of the equation. But adding his sister, the warnings, the attempts at control - it altered the dance, made it more challenging.

But he did love challenges.

“A rumor, nothing more.”

“So you’re actually capable of modesty?”

“More disinterested than modest,” he said, turning his gaze away and draining the last of his wine. He took an idle look at the cup, gauging whether or not he wanted another one.

“That’s a bit rude.”

“A bit,” Araneon agreed. “But then again, there’s no cause for politick. I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m not sure you deserve it,” she said back, perhaps a bit too quickly. Araneon smirked.

“Maybe I don’t,” he said. “But here am I with a beautiful young elf talking to me. I’m not greedy, no matter what my sister says. I’ve already netted a profit for the night.”

That caught the mage by surprise. He turned and gestured to the bartender to refill the cup. The mage took a sip of her own and then looked up at him. He could see the struggle in her eyes, trying to decide whether or not to stay or to up and leave. Araneon said nothing to convince her. Instead, he leaned back, becoming more comfortable against the bar.

“Elana,” she said.

“Elana,” Araneon responded. He dipped his head. “The pleasure, and honor, is mine.”

“You’re such a charmer,” she said, narrowing her eyes and giving him a smirk. “Does that kind of superficiality work often?”

“I’m not using it as a tool, Elana,” Araneon said, sipping the wine and letting a hand rest on his stomach. “Simply obliging your request for a bit more finesse in our exchange.”

“So you’re doing me a favor?”

“A courtesy,” he corrected her. “A lady such as yourself deserves it.”

She laughed, a bit high and abrasive for his taste. He didn’t let it sour his appetite, however. Elana scooted closer, the scent of her perfume and mana coming on so strong that Araneon could no longer smell the freshly baked pastries or the aroma of his wine. Her arm brushed him, and it sent a surge through his body that made his skin tingle. She may be clumsy socially, but she was especially strong magically. And her body was just as intoxicating. The desire had shifted to need so quickly that he had no time to rebuff the change. Already his mind was spinning towards getting her to his small flat, preferably in a way that Anya wouldn’t know about it.

“So what brings you to Quel’Danas?” she asked, her eyes trained on him. It was a well perfected craft of his, soaking in every detail of her without letting her see his eyes range over her.

“Business,” he said.

“Just business?”

“Well,” he said. “Maybe a little pleasure.”

“Is that so?” she asked. “Just a little?”

“How much or how little, I’m afraid, is out of my hands,” he said smiling.

“And whose hands would that distinction be in?” she asked, leaning forward. He could see down the front of her robes, and his mind went into a blurry haze. Instinct, finely honed over the many years of his experience, had kicked in. He picked up her hand, converting his smile into a playful smirk.

“Your hands, of course,” he said, and he kissed the top of her hand gently with his lips. “The power is all yours, my dear,” he said. He locked eyes with her, and despite all of her protests he knew he had her.

“And how do I know it’d be worth it?” she asked, the smile gone and her face imperious, sultry. She was trying to regain control, but they both knew that he had won. He leaned in closer, so close that he could see the moisture on her lips and the smell the wine on her breath.