Vignette: (Draft 4)
The rogue's rough blade sliced her, surgically, imperceptivity, along the rib's thread, near her heart.
And for one who hated to show weakness, this sting caused the rims of her eyes to burn with tears. He was merciless, menacing in his attack, even her wolves could not protect her…. dying, reborn, but diminished. To heal, she would have to bathe in a pool of Elune, sacred and holy to the Night Elves, and fiercely guarded. But if she did not tend to this wound, wickedness would bleed her. Scarlet, thin, poisonous.
Deeply muscled thighs clutched the curve of the saddle, her tail painfully marking every jolt on the cantle. She pushed her stomach into the swell of the seat, the motion making her feel more in control, as if she could somehow will her mount to fly faster.
The hour was past late, the time when changelings are exchanged and mothers are indifferent. Only the moon shrugged at her presence. The late-layered spring air, warmth and frost, was undecided. The drake circled in on a pool, flowing waters bubbling silently, lit by its own bioluminescent forces. Elvin guards stood at their posts, never resting, but subdued this evening. Perhaps the crinkling and balmy spring night fogged their keen intellect. Even with those magnificent ears, they did not hear her dismount.
Elune forgive her…she had to be healed. She couldn't summon the power of the Naaru on her own. Her iridescent lavender skin turned grey. One hand holding her wound, the other unbuckling armor, the chain mail falling like scraped fish scales, the armored boon she had fought for and earned. Cursing her carelessness and pain, her warrior's training made it possible to finish undressing and slip in the pool, unnoticed.
The water…the water of the pool is not of this world. It is a life force of its own, magic and dark matter. The water sinks into her skin, like an emollient, deeper, holding her; she lay on the bottom using her water breathing spell to stay under as long as she could. Elune was kind to the girl. Water sought out her architecture, her curves, her inner places, she became the water's home.
Regaining strength, she composed herself on bended knees. The wound and its toxins dissipated like mage smoke. No amount of elfish healing could erase the thin silver scar though, her memento of impulsive battle mistakes. Cupping the water in her hands, pouring over her shoulders, hair, breasts. The stars, being outmatched by incoming clouds, angrily protest that they will not be able to witness her beauty for much longer. The moon nods away, the crepuscular light matching her skin color, returning to her soft shades of indigo horns, periwinkle cheeks and moon-spun hair. Body and light mix as lenticular imagery.
The new, and perhaps more dangerous dilemma than dying by a rogue's blade: How to exit unnoticed, and find some safe place to sleep?
He's been tracking her since the battle. He could not get to her in time when the troll attacked. His rage, his frustration felt nearly unforgivable. But his forgiveness is not his salvation; finding her is, just as she had found him.
A soloist, straddling, balancing on a poorly crafted leather saddle, the Draenei shaman sighs with reverberating restlessness. It is in her nature, her soul, to know what others are feeling, to take up axe or mace to fight and defend, and protect her own self-interests. She can do this well, all on her own. Her wolves are fleeting, ectoplasm allies. No feathered fellow shadow casts upon her mount. No connection or link at this hour. Thinking her own thoughts and keeping her own counsel. She finds trust...challenging.
On the ground, a young naive paladin is in over his head. These elites may prove to best him. No guild mates answer his call; they can't be bothered with this initiate, this amateur. Let him pay his dues, even if it means paying with his life, several times over. He puts the call out...not a yell, not a shout, but a request...simple and humble. Anyone out there...can help... kill elite?
She did hesitate. Just for a moment. But quickly remembered how difficult it was to find aid, assistance - in a most dire hour. She answers his call, and is rewarded...with a friend and a champion...
But he could not protect her tonight. She makes too many miscalculations. Believes she is more redoubtable than she is, or in contrast, underestimates her powers, not using them to full capacity. He would like to shake her sometimes; she is so bloody infuriating! His human pragmatism is indeed strength, but also fogs his ability to see how complex she is; this is one fight he can't win. But King and country help him, he knows her as much as anyone can.
Here she is. Curse her…in a pool of Elune! Those night elf guards will surely catch her, and although allies, have none of their druidic patience for this trespass. He grabs the saddle blanket off of his horse, and anticipating the guards' moves and looks, gets to the edge of the pool, whispering her name – amazingly, she doesn't make a sound…stepping out onto the ground, he wraps the blanket around her body, rubbing her dry as best as he can. She is shivering, and her own body can't decide between the frost and heat. How does he always find her, exactly when she needs him?
From exploration and knowledge, he knows every pebble and pathway of this area. A hunter's cabin lies near. Assisting her climb aboard his mount, he puts her armor and clothing in packs on hers.
"In Krono's name, Mat, what were you thinking?" He normally doesn't have an edge to his voice, but tonight cannot hide his worry for her. Her thin shoulder blade turns away, her answer.
She has learned not to answer his blunt human questions. If truth be known, her greatest fear is being misunderstood, or misunderstood to the point of weakness. She shared with him a childhood memory once of seeing centaurs in the forest during mating season; his subsequent inquisition made her feel a little embarrassed. She doesn't always know what she's thinking; she visits heartbeat places that do not always invite rational thought.
Any anger or fear in his heart, he can't keep those now. If he does, the mood will sour. Because he has her now, holding fast, and has different needs on his mind.
The cabin appears from an unseen forest threshold. The mounts are tended. For her immense height, he is more than capable of helping her in. The fireplace is stocked; the dry wood lights and dances to its own song.
A fox and an owl converse about prey in the night.
A fading of moonlight hushes the trees to be still.
All the energy, the fear, the anger of her being nearly destroyed by that monster changes him. His own armor clanks to the floor, and though he is still covered in blood of enemies and sweat, and she is as clean as the moon. Under the thick pelts he meets her. Her skin is famished for warmth, for him. She never protests. She smells of honey, grass, and water. The energy of the pool continues swirling imperceptivity on her skin.
The human puts his hand behind her neck and nuzzles into her. His other arm cups her sweet backside, under her tail, pulling her toward him. He can smell her, her wetness, a signature ink of vanilla and fur. All the while she warms, beginning to burn, kissing his face, his lips, her hips begin to grind in anticipation of him. But he is a patient man.
The Howling Fjord pine bedposts make a perfect place to control this girl-animal. Ripping a swatch of ember silk from the bed-sheets, from the length of under her arm to the tips of her fingers, he levers her arm toward the post, and with one hand, ties the silk to her wrist, securing her gently but firmly to the post. She is curious as to why he thought he needed to do this – wasn't she was already his for the taking? But sometimes she is too eager; he has this effect on her. If he slows her down just a bit, then he can explore her on his time, not hers.
She is completely warm now, except for where smooth wetness should be. Pulling her juices around her, she moans…her back arching…with his hands he holds her up like a plate for feasting…with her free hand she rubs his head, her breasts, around his ear…an unnecessary navigator, because he knows where to go. He will make her shudder, her earthquake roll…imagine feeling her ecstasy all on the tip of his tongue?
They sleep, intertwined as honeysuckle vines, redolent, satisfying sleep, and a rare gift from Morpheus.
The sun chose other dreams today. The maze of the light is rain and mist, grey green mossy veils. He looks at her sleeping, considering her scar on her perfect skin. He must go; duty awaits, but will never leave his lady alone without a goodbye. She feels the shadows of their sex pulsating a beat inside her. He cannot see the prescient scar on her heart, which he himself will engrave.