Izby wanted to sleep. She did. She really, really wanted to sleep. Her lids drooped and her body ached, but she stayed awake. A candle flickered in the corner of the room on the desk. It faded and reminded Izby of fire laying itself to bed. Everything in the room wanted to sleep. Everything did. Even her. But she didn't. She sat up with paper in lap, pen in hand, writing.
Strewn across the floor, the aborted letters lay quiet. Waiting for the opportunity to request a proper burial. Izby's pen scratched the paper, tearing a hole in it. It was small, almost undiscernable, but it wasn't perfect. Her frustrations grew with her weariness. She exhaled it away, crumpling the page and tossing it to the floor with its comrades. She flexed her fingers and tossed the pen to the side, looking down at the sleeping woman beside her. The bruise that adorned her face hours before only visible as a memory. Izby rolled her neck and shoulders, feeling the aches and pops in her joints and creeks in her muscles. She dipped a claw into the inkwell to start anew.
The letter was a detailed account of what happened to break the woman's soul and inflame her emotions so that her mother, Lia, would know what to research. It was her prerogative to demand all the information and a quick set of notes were sent within seconds of the request being made. Written in proper Draenic and broken Common. It wasn't good enough anymore though and Izby wanted them in proper Common, which meant she finally had to learn it.
Previously, her broken usage had been enough to get her by and she could focus her attention on other work. Like her enchanting jobs. Hours spent pouring over the intricate runic carvings trying to understand what the precision of each carving meant. Deciphering whether or not the amount of certain dusts poured into the runes was as precise or if you simply needed to use a set amount. It was like untying a layered knot while doing the mathematic calculations that explained it. An enchantment could take weeks or months to deconstruct harmlessly.
Now, there was someone she cared about. Someone she swore to help and protect and her broken usage stood as an obstacle preventing her from understanding the verbal assaults flung at the woman. Her lack of understanding left her impotent to responding with anything more dignified than violence, she thought. That was why she had gathered every book on Common grammar and spelling and opened them around the bed to aid her in her task. She was determined to learn this forsaken language and this frustratingly simple letter was proving her undoing.
She ran a hand through her hair and pushed it back behind her ear and over her horns. Her mind came back to the violence. The fiery passion that swelled in her whenever something threatened her or those she loved. The last time it flared so brilliantly hot, she could smell blood on the edge of the marsh. The molasses blood and dirt mixture filling her nostrils with the scent of iron and acid. Her parents struggling to flee from a horde of Orcs bounding through a flock of ravagers. Eyes burning with bloodlust. Her husband, sword in hand, strode forward and struck down Orc after Orc with the graceful arcing movement of a dancer. He'd parry a blow and dodge a swinging axe. No distance separating the two that Izby could ever see, but the lack of blood suggesting it passed harmlessly. She remembered rushing foward, skin heating, an acid taste in her mouth as she howled in fury. Summoning a ball of pyromanic retaliation, she flung it over his head into the crowd of rushing Orcs and he pushed them back into it. Taking blows to his flanks to ensure their position. Nine orcs rushed him. They died. Either to his sword or her flame. She remembered running to his side and slinging his arm over her shoulder, tears streaming down her face. Body screaming with flame. She didn't even notice his flesh burning under her touch until the anger subsided so that she could smell again. That dangerous passion. The taint of being an Eredar drawn to magic. His skin darkened as he burned. Hers darkened with corruption.
It felt warm inside her, like a blanket by a hearth after spending too many hours in the snows around Kharanos. The flames caressed her soul at those moments and called to her. Embraced her. Comforted her in their violent ecstasy. She writhed at the memory and moaned. Forcing herself to calm. To let an icy resolve flood through her senses. She pictured an iceberg crashing against a wall of flame. Steam rising from it, creating a fresh scent for the air and tormenting her flesh, but the water dissipated the fire until it was gone.
Lia was right. Her reaction was caused by her taint, but Lia was wrong about why. The emotional connection to the women beside her caused her outbursts. Drove it. She couldn't be sure why but they had a bond, a common struggle that they both needed to work through. Izby needed her control back.
Strewn across the floor, the aborted letters lay quiet. Waiting for the opportunity to request a proper burial. Izby's pen scratched the paper, tearing a hole in it. It was small, almost undiscernable, but it wasn't perfect. Her frustrations grew with her weariness. She exhaled it away, crumpling the page and tossing it to the floor with its comrades. She flexed her fingers and tossed the pen to the side, looking down at the sleeping woman beside her. The bruise that adorned her face hours before only visible as a memory. Izby rolled her neck and shoulders, feeling the aches and pops in her joints and creeks in her muscles. She dipped a claw into the inkwell to start anew.
The letter was a detailed account of what happened to break the woman's soul and inflame her emotions so that her mother, Lia, would know what to research. It was her prerogative to demand all the information and a quick set of notes were sent within seconds of the request being made. Written in proper Draenic and broken Common. It wasn't good enough anymore though and Izby wanted them in proper Common, which meant she finally had to learn it.
Previously, her broken usage had been enough to get her by and she could focus her attention on other work. Like her enchanting jobs. Hours spent pouring over the intricate runic carvings trying to understand what the precision of each carving meant. Deciphering whether or not the amount of certain dusts poured into the runes was as precise or if you simply needed to use a set amount. It was like untying a layered knot while doing the mathematic calculations that explained it. An enchantment could take weeks or months to deconstruct harmlessly.
Now, there was someone she cared about. Someone she swore to help and protect and her broken usage stood as an obstacle preventing her from understanding the verbal assaults flung at the woman. Her lack of understanding left her impotent to responding with anything more dignified than violence, she thought. That was why she had gathered every book on Common grammar and spelling and opened them around the bed to aid her in her task. She was determined to learn this forsaken language and this frustratingly simple letter was proving her undoing.
She ran a hand through her hair and pushed it back behind her ear and over her horns. Her mind came back to the violence. The fiery passion that swelled in her whenever something threatened her or those she loved. The last time it flared so brilliantly hot, she could smell blood on the edge of the marsh. The molasses blood and dirt mixture filling her nostrils with the scent of iron and acid. Her parents struggling to flee from a horde of Orcs bounding through a flock of ravagers. Eyes burning with bloodlust. Her husband, sword in hand, strode forward and struck down Orc after Orc with the graceful arcing movement of a dancer. He'd parry a blow and dodge a swinging axe. No distance separating the two that Izby could ever see, but the lack of blood suggesting it passed harmlessly. She remembered rushing foward, skin heating, an acid taste in her mouth as she howled in fury. Summoning a ball of pyromanic retaliation, she flung it over his head into the crowd of rushing Orcs and he pushed them back into it. Taking blows to his flanks to ensure their position. Nine orcs rushed him. They died. Either to his sword or her flame. She remembered running to his side and slinging his arm over her shoulder, tears streaming down her face. Body screaming with flame. She didn't even notice his flesh burning under her touch until the anger subsided so that she could smell again. That dangerous passion. The taint of being an Eredar drawn to magic. His skin darkened as he burned. Hers darkened with corruption.
It felt warm inside her, like a blanket by a hearth after spending too many hours in the snows around Kharanos. The flames caressed her soul at those moments and called to her. Embraced her. Comforted her in their violent ecstasy. She writhed at the memory and moaned. Forcing herself to calm. To let an icy resolve flood through her senses. She pictured an iceberg crashing against a wall of flame. Steam rising from it, creating a fresh scent for the air and tormenting her flesh, but the water dissipated the fire until it was gone.
Lia was right. Her reaction was caused by her taint, but Lia was wrong about why. The emotional connection to the women beside her caused her outbursts. Drove it. She couldn't be sure why but they had a bond, a common struggle that they both needed to work through. Izby needed her control back.
