The moment she opened the cabin door and stepped onto the deck of the Maiden's Virtue, Ammi was glad that she had thought to change into her heavier robe before their arrival at the harbor.
More so even than yesterday, the Northrend breeze bit sharply at the exposed skin of her cheeks and ears, and Ammi could already feel the encroaching prickles of numbness. Although it was only October, the land to which she had journeyed was harsh and distant from the milder seasons of her native Menethil, and winter had already found a solid foothold from which to direct its icy tendrils of wind and snow.
Around them, the vast stone canyons of the Howling Fjord towered into the air, creating a narrow strip of brilliant blue sky above, clear and cloudless to mirror the sapphire gleam of the fjordwaters below. Ice floes drifted here and there on the briskly-moving waters, but the sharpened prow of the Maiden's Virtue cut through them easily, leaving a wake of shattered and gleaming ice shards dancing behind the bubbles churned up by the ship's waterwheel.
Ammi yanked her dark brown robe more tightly around her body, moving out from the shade of the passengers' deck and onto the main deck of the ship. The wind tousled her newly-chopped blonde curls into a wild halo around her face; spitting a few strands out of her mouth, the young mage approached the low-swooping rail of the Virtue and leaned on it eagerly, curious eyes gliding across the craggy cliff walls as if intending to swallow the landscape whole.
A kind, mild chuckle sounded from above her. "Excited, are we, Miss Amily?"
Ammi glanced up into the rigging above her and smiled as a diminutive figure dropped down onto the deck. Faerah Silversteel might have only stood four feet and five inches in height, but the stocky, well-built dwarf woman was a more than capable sailor, with a loud and boisterous laugh to match her exuberant personality.
"If I said no, I'd be lying," Ammi replied with a grin. "Northrend is beautiful."
"So far," Faerah said with a mock-threatening shake of the head. "Wait til' ye've seen those vrykul for yerself."
Ammi laughed. "Don't worry, I'm plenty scared, too." She didn't lie; beneath the outward optimism and good cheer, a worm of unease stirred itself in her gut, coiling tighter with every caress of the knifelike breeze across her cheeks. Northrend was beautiful, but it was also clearly wild and savage, unlike any land that Ammi had ever seen or visited before.
Which doesn't amount to many, between Menethil, Arathi, Dun Morogh, and Elwynn, the young human thought wryly.
"Ah, ye'll be just fine," Faerah said, waving her hand. "Magician like you, capable and young? Besides, t'aint as if ye'll be alone."
"One of the very nice things about being part of an army," Ammi agreed with a mischievous grin.
"All the magicians get personal guardians, too," Faerah said matter-of-factly, looking up and yanking on one of the rigging ropes in response to a call from another sailor across the deck. "Strong warrior types, from what I'm told."
Ammi snorted. "Fabulous. A bodyguard to get in my way is exactly what I need." Secretly, though, the idea pleased her, quieting a small bit of the fear.
"Now, get on with yerself, Miss Amily D'Aure." Faerah rolled her eyes and laughed. "Ye know just s'well as I do that ye'll be best friends with yer entire unit come nightfall. I swear I never met a human who was so good at charming everyone she met."
"Clearly, my charm worked on you," Ammi teased.
"Eh, rightly enough." Faerah shrugged, her ironic grin softening into a real smile. "Ye're a good girl, Ammi. Ye'll get on just fine."
Ammi smiled too, reaching over and giving Faerah's shoulder a grateful squeeze. "Thank you. For your faith and for your companionship. I enjoyed this journey more than I expected." It was true, and Ammi realized with a pang of mild sorrow that she would miss this new friend.
"You go on and surprise me now," Faerah said with a wink. "We'll be in port in twenty minutes, so I'd suggest readyin' yerself. And put a hat on," she commanded as Ammi turned to descend belowdecks once more. "It's cold out here!"
They did indeed reach port within twenty minutes of the conversation; by that time, Ammi had stowed her few belongings and effects in her rough leather knapsack, pulling the cowl of her robe up to shield her head and face. The clothes had been constructed to withstand the northern chill, lined with furs and sewed in double layers, but the wind keened forcefully around the bend in the fjord where the harbor was situated, and as Ammi waited on the deck with the other new recruits, she couldn't help but shiver.
The port of Valgarde was a city in two halves; the half which contained the harbor and the tall barracks buildings was an old place, seeming to rise organically from the stone of the fjord itself. The structures were not elegant or ornate, but they were certainly functional, every curve of every tower designed in some way to withstand the harsh climate and biting winds of Northrend.
The further half of the city, facing away toward the sloping rise of the cliffs, was most definitely a new city, its newness rising ominously from blackened, charred, and smoking remains which were continually being added to by the light of what Ammi could tell even from this distance were raging fires. The buildings over there were constructed mostly from wood, dried and hollowed by the winds and the constant heat from the blazes. Rebuilding was necessary, but ultimately seemed pointless.
"When you disembark from the ship, you're to report to the barracks immediately to receive your unit number and barracks assignment," called the ship's captain. Ammi couldn't remember his name, having never had a real reason to speak with him.
"Magi will remain behind to meet with their guardians!" The captain saluted them and turned back to face the approaching harbor, his concentration focused now on the docking of the Virtue.
Ammi exchanged a short glance with the only other mage on board the ship, a sallow-faced, pasty young woman named Vivian Clearwater. Both women were novitiates, sent from their respective Academies to serve with the military for rank and experience. Vivian gave Ammi a quiet nod and a nervous smile, and then the Virtue was sliding into the dock, the sailors scrambling to let down the anchors and get the ship properly moored.
The wind softened somewhat once Ammi stepped onto the ground; glancing around, she could see some of the recruits stumbling and rolling with the residual sensation of 'sea legs,' as if the earth were bucking beneath them. Ammi, the daughter of a merchant seaman, had no such trouble, having grown up on and around ships at sea. With a faintly amused smile, she hitched up the hem of her robe around her ankles and headed for the barracks.
She was greeted in the soldiers' common room by a tall man with dark hair and beard, who introduced himself as Lieutenant Hart.
"And you are?" he asked, glancing down at the sheet of commission papers which sat on the desk in front of him.
"Amily D'Aure, Novice Pyromancer of the Stormwind Royal Magical Academy," Ammi replied in what she thought was a very proper and formal tone.
Hart gave her a kind smile. "You're all right, there, Miss D'Aure. No need to try to be stiff. We here at Valgarde expect deference and respect to superiors, but this isn't like your traditional Stormwind garrison. Living out here, you learn to be…familiar."
Ammi sighed slightly, relaxing her straight-backed posture. "Sorry. I'm nervous. I've never been outside the Eastern Kingdoms before."
Hart pulled her commission paper from his pile and expertly stamped it with a wax seal, blowing on it gently as it dried. "You and half of the rest of these recruits," he replied. "You'll get used to it quickly, don't worry."
Ammi nodded and shoved a piece of hair behind her ear, watching him as he dried the wax and folded the paper before sliding it neatly into another pile.
"You'll want to stay here; there's quite a few recruits from your ship that I have to process before I can get you acquainted with your partner," Hart said. He gestured to the rough wooden furniture, which was arranged in what vaguely resembled a circle around a wide fireplace. "Make yourself as comfortable as you can."
Ammi nodded gratefully and took a seat, trying her best to ignore the ominous implications of that little word 'process.'
Forty-five minutes later, Ammi and Vivian sat alone facing the crackling fire; all the other recruits had been 'processed' and sorted into their respective barracks, and now the two magi waited in silence for the final part of their reception to Valgarde.
"Miss Clearwater, if you would," Lieutenant Hart called.
Vivian stood and brushed at her robe, approaching the officer's desk. He handed her a piece of paper, and she exited without a word.
"And Miss D'Aure," Hart said.
Ammi stood and walked back over to the small table, fighting the desire to lean on it. The adrenaline and excitement from earlier had all but worn off, and exhaustion was beginning to set in, combined with a keen and poignant prickle of homesickness.
"Here is the name and barrack assignment of your guardian," Hart said, handing Ammi another piece of paper. "Apart from sleeping, you and your guardian will be spending most of your days together; you will be partners on every assignment and every watch rotation, share mealtimes, and that sort of thing."
"Do you know who this is?" Ammi glanced down at the creamy folded sheet in her hands, suddenly anxious.
Hart shook his head. "No. But all of our soldiers are well-trained and I'm sure that whoever it is, there will be no trouble with either of your safety." He gave her a reassuring smile, and Ammi tried to return it.
"Thank you."
"Good luck, Miss D'Aure." Hart bowed his head and returned to his work, and Ammi inhaled a deep breath and exited the common room, the paper clutched in her hands.
I suppose I'd better get this over with, then.
She leaned on the stone wall of the corridor which led to the staircases and the actual barracks beyond, gazing down at the sheet of paper with trepidation.
Here goes.
Slowly, her trembling hands unfolded the sheet.
She read the information once, then twice, holding it in her memory. It was a man, and his name was Kolbyon Whitewood. He was assigned to Barrack Three, Bunk Seventeen. More information than that was unknown to her; the rest of the paper was blank.
Kolbyon Whitewood. I wonder who he is.
Kol sat on his bunk, his elbows leaned heavily against his thighs, and tried for the thousandth time not to regret every life decision he had ever made.
Coming to Valgarde, he was becoming increasingly certain, had been a huge mistake. Kol had been physically toughened and emotionally destroyed long before his arrival in Northrend, and still, he felt a tug of anxiety to be surrounded by men and women who seemed so weathered and prepared to fight. Third in his class at the Royal Warriors' Academy, afflicted with a terrifying and dangerous Curse, Kolbyon Whitewood still, inexplicably, was terrified out of his wits.
What is wrong with me? he mused silently and despondently. Besides the obvious, of course.
"Hey, Whitewood."
Kol looked up as one of the other young men leaned through the doorway; Adam Velazquez was a dark-skinned and narrow-eyed boy two years younger than Kol's already-young twenty-two. He looked like a child, and Kol swallowed hard at the thought of watching more people meet their deaths long before it was their time.
"What?" Kol asked quietly.
"There's someone looking for you," Adam replied. "Says you're some kind of guardian?" He shrugged. "I dunno."
"Guardian?" Kol was confused. "Guardian of what?"
"How should I know? I'm just the messenger boy." Adam raised his hands and shrugged. "I just thought you should know that there's someone coming up here to find you."
"What source do you have that from?" Despite himself, Kol couldn't help but smile. Adam was kind and cheerful, but he had an ear for gossip, and not always the reliable kind.
Adam snorted. "Oh, I see how it is. Fine, then. Have fun." He grinned and slid out of the doorway, and Kol was alone again.
The young man sighed and stood up from his cot, bending over to touch his toes. He felt the faint stitch pulling at his side where he had been nicked by a Forsaken weapon during the long battle in defense of his homeland; the thought stirred up a messy soup of painful memories, and Kol shoved them all back with a mighty effort, staring at the stone floor dully.
"…Kolbyon Whitewood?"
The sound of the voice almost made Kol jump, but he forced himself to straighten slowly; no use in pulling a disc or a muscle out of place before he'd even gotten to fight.
The figure watching him curiously from the doorway was a petite, slender girl, certainly not older than nineteen. She was dressed in a heavy brown robe judiciously lined with furs, her feet shod in boots and her hands wrapped in sturdy, functional gloves; her cowl was pulled down around her neck, revealing a soft, heart-shaped face, pale in tone and studded with cheerful freckles. Her blonde curls were a short and wild halo around that face, and her eyes twinkled with interest as she peered at him inquisitively.
Kol swallowed so hard that he swore he almost swallowed his tongue.
Why this? Why now?
He was aware that the girl was waiting for him to answer, so he tried to force his leaden jaw open to let words out; it was no use, however. Anxiety had utterly gripped him, and he turned away and sat crosslegged on the bed, inhaling slowly.
"Um…hello?" The girl knocked gently on the wooden doorframe. "Are you Kolbyon?"
Stupid mouth, just say something so she'll leave!
"Yes," Kol finally forced himself to say, without looking back at her. He thought for a panicked moment that she might not have heard, and wondered if he could make himself say it again.
"Oh, good! I did come to the right place!" She sounded relieved. "And you're my guardian, then…interesting."
Her guardian? What?!
"What are you talking about?" The sentence exploded out of him with far more ease now thanks to the shock; he turned around to face the girl with wide, paralyzed eyes.
"…Did they not tell you? Oh, that was kind of them." She rolled her eyes. "I'm a junior mage, and they always assign a warrior as guardian for mage novitiates. Kind of like a bodyguard, I suppose? Must be because I'm so breakable." She laughed and squeezed her own skinny bicep.
Who in the name of heaven thought that this was a good idea? Why me?
Kol groaned and leaned back on the cot, flopping his arm over his eyes so he would not have to look at her anymore.
"Hey, are you okay?" she asked, sounding concerned. "Are you sick? Do you need a medic?"
"No," Kol mumbled hastily.
"What's wrong with you, then?" Her voice asked the question he had asked himself not even five minutes before, and Kol winced slightly at the sound of it, knowing how ridiculous he looked.
"Tired," Kol fabricated.
"Oh, I get it. I'm pretty exhausted too. What a trip, right?" She sounded sympathetic. "Well, I'll let you get some rest, then, and I suppose I'll see you at the evening meal. We can get to know each other then." There was a pause. "By the way, I'm Amily D'Aure. But you can call me Ammi."
"Okay," Kol sighed.
"See you, Kolbyon. Sleep well." Her voice became footsteps, which slowly faded away as she departed.
They want me to protect that skinny mage girl from dying? I can't even talk to her without feeling like I'm going to throw up. Kol felt sorry for the girl, who had been stuck with him utterly beyond her own will, if what she said was correct.
What'd she say her name was? …Amily. Ammi.
Kol hoped that Ammi could get another guardian before they were actually assigned to any missions; otherwise, he felt certain that her time in Northrend would end swiftly.
Just like everyone else I ever tried to protect.
Ammi found her own bunk easily enough; the women's barrack was smaller than the men's, with slightly more amenities, including private washbasins and small chests in which to store clothes. She unpacked her knapsack slowly, still musing on her encounter with the strange young warrior.
Kolbyon Whitewood, from what she had seen of him, was a tall, muscular man, fair-skinned and ginger-haired with a neat and well-trimmed beard. At first, the facial hair had set her estimate of his age somewhere around thirty, but as soon as they had locked eyes, she had instantly revised her guess. His body was that of a man, but his face, unlined and youthful, and his wide green eyes, belonged to a boy just barely into manhood, maybe twenty or so.
He had looked oddly terrified at the sight of her—or perhaps that was just Ammi's imagination. After all, he had said he was exhausted, and she believed him. She herself was fighting the urge to drop onto her cot and sleep through the evening meal.
And that was another thing—his voice was unlike any she had heard before. Dwarven accents were familiar to her, and by now, she had even become accustomed to the strange, rolling lilt belonging to the few Draenei whom she knew well. Kolbyon's voice, though, was deep and rich, and fluid with an accent unfamiliar to her ears, wherein one word drawled into the next in an almost liquid stream of speech.
Yes, in the one full sentence he spoke to me, she thought. I wonder if he really is ill or something. Places like this are certainly prime breeding grounds for that sort of thing, especially with all the plague danger.
Ammi certainly hoped that he wasn't ill; he had spoken little, but Ammi found herself wanting to get to know him, despite the anxiety. They might have been forced together by the commission papers, but here was a valuable opportunity to cultivate a friendship in a strange and foreign land, and Ammi would not let it go to waste.
Mealtime. We'll speak then.
With that resolved, she closed her trunk and sat on it with a deep sigh, trying to drive away the heartache and longing beginning to set in with every moment of silence.
Mealtimes at Valgarde, like at most military garrisons, were boisterous affairs; although the soldiers were disciplined and well-trained, they were only people, and looked for opportunities to commune with one another in companionship and camaraderie.
Ammi thought to herself that the rations were surprisingly good; not haute quality, at any rate, but the stew's meat was flavorful and hearty, and the consistency was thick, with added chunks where potatoes and other vegetables had been thrown in. She took a bite and smiled, accepting a small hunk of bread before clicking her fingers and feeling a thrill of satisfaction as her canteen suddenly grew heavy with conjured water.
Score one for Ammi. Take that, arcanism.
She glanced around the spacious mess hall, peering through crowds of laughing, talking recruits and soldiers until she finally spotted the ginger-haired figure sitting alone at the end of one of the long wooden tables.
That's curious. What's he doing by himself?
He looked up as Ammi slid into the bench next to him, and the same brief flicker of panic danced through his eyes as before.
"I found you!" Ammi laughed cheerfully. "Told you I would! Are you feeling any better now?"
"I…suppose." His voice was quiet, barely audible over the bright din of the room.
"You don't look very good." Ammi glanced at his tray. "Have you got enough food?"
Kolbyon nodded, looking down into his stew bowl. His face was very pale, cheeks almost grey. Was it the cold?
"Are you cold?" Ammi asked.
"No," he replied softly.
"…Is it me?" A faint brush of heat washed through Ammi's cheeks. "Am I bothering you? Oh, blast my talkativeness. Sol and Serena always warned me I could talk anyone's ear off." She already felt the guilt stealing up through her heart. "I can be quiet if you'd like."
Kolbyon shrugged silently, pushing his spoon around his bowl.
"I'm sorry," Ammi said faintly. "I didn't mean to be overbearing." She leaned unhappily on the table, her appetite suddenly gone.
If he doesn't want to speak to me, then what do I do? I can't make him be my friend, but I miss Sol and Serena so terribly much…
"You aren't. I'm just…very bad with girls."
Ammi looked up, startled. He was actually looking at her now, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in evident anxiety. He was definitely young; Ammi studied his face closely in the moment of silence, appraising it privately. He had open, honest features which spoke of an old-line chivalry; his upper lip was faintly scarred, although the mark was hidden greatly from view by his ginger mustache. It was a face that Ammi liked, despite his ashen complexion and obvious panic.
"Oh, is it because I'm a girl?" Ammi laughed, trying to ease the tension. "Well, you don't have to worry about that. I might look small, but I grew up with three older brothers. I know how to handle myself around men." She grinned, privately hoping that she had said the right thing.
To her utter relief, he chuckled softly, though the nervousness didn't entirely dissipate. "I'm sure you're more than a match for me."
"I don't know about that." Ammi winked. "When Faerah said 'tall, strong warrior type,' she really meant it."
She was surprised to see him blush fiercely, his cheeks going from ghost grey to cherry red in a matter of moments. The color washed new life into his features, and Ammi suddenly realized with a jolt that he was handsome.
"Trust me, you'll reevaluate that statement—Amily?" He said her name nervously, as if worried he might misspeak it.
"Ammi," she corrected him kindly. "Only my parents have ever called me Amily."
"Ammi," he repeated slowly.
"And you're Kolbyon," she said, beaming. "Only, that's a very long name. Do you have anything shorter?"
Kolbyon smiled for the first time; hesitantly, but it was a nice smile, and Ammi responded with a wider smile of her own.
"Friends call me Kol."
"It's my pleasure, Kol." Ammi extended a hand, holding her breath; she exhaled in silent relief when Kol took it and shook firmly.
So we will be friends, after all.