Absurd Disclaimer: I don't own or hold any rights to World of Warcraft. All references respective to the game are copyrighted to Blizzard. Please do not copy this story without my permission (do I really have to say that?).
Under the Rose
Chapter 1
"I, Draes Athirien, Vice-summoner of the Defiant Sun, confess to treason. I have lingered in the dark will of our enemies, endangering both my comrades and our honored King. It is with utmost humility that I accept the punishment that is laid out before me, hoping, but not asking, for the slightest of mercy to be shown."
Interrogations were one of the few things that Draes hated about his job. The dim labyrinthine forests that surrounded the Blood Elf camp were another thing, yes, but interrogations vastly outranked the scenery of Azuremyst Isle on his mental list of unpleasantries. So much work went into retrieving, documenting, and analyzing the babble of semi-coherent prisoners that it was a wonder their expedition hadn't reached its end sooner. It was the same routine every week. Two or three suspects would be herded into the holding cage and left to starve for eight hours or so. They would wail and curse, throwing up their arms to shout the obscenest of phrases at their guards. More than once, the guards had been irked into preemptively beating their captives. Such acts were punished heavily by General Cor'theryn, who held firm that guards should guard and interrogators should torture. Maintaining ranks was vital in the troop's indefinite stay in Azuremyst, lest mutiny cause an irreparable schism in the network of Kael'thas loyalists.
Prisoner 93: Twelve outbursts of "Death to Kael'thas!" and four shouts of "Curse the Sin'dorei and their progeny!" Fifteen minutes of excessive sobbing. Physical and magical methods (instruments 2-17. Spells 4, 11, and 15) were applied. No new information acquired.
He set his quill down, pausing to replay the torture in his mind. Did the prisoner beg for death fifteen or sixteen times? It was a needless detail that still needed to be included in the writings, along with a full account of dialogue exchanged between captor and captive. Draes despised writing such reports. Not out of any moral distaste for torture or violence. He enjoyed causing pain to their enemies, and was upset at being cooped up inside for "office duty." Unfortunately, the Defiant Sun wasn't able to request secretaries from Silvermoon now that it was under the command of Lor'themar Theron, or simply "Traitor" Theron. The pompous gnat barred all followers of Kael'thas from the city, their homeland for centuries. Many of his comrades experienced outrage or heartbreak from the decree, but not Draes.
There was no woman to wait for him, no parents to write to him, and no family who would ever miss him. Sironas, his only sister, was the wife to Silvermoon's finest cloth dyer. They had long fallen out of touch after their parents died. For all she knew, he was living happily ever after in the outskirts of the city.
"Do you really have to write all that nonsense down?" A voice came from the doorway.
Draes didn't bother acknowledging the presence until it drew closer, its shape darkening his peripheral vision. Pentaleon always knew how to push his buttons, knowing that to stand in corner of Draes's eye caused more annoyance than any amount of foot tapping or whistling.
"Writing all this 'nonsense' has gotten me appointed Vice-summoner. Where has sneaking around in the shadows gotten you? Ah, that's right. You're only one rank higher than when you enlisted. Mostly on account that all recruits are promoted after a year of service. Now, how about you make use of that flash powder and vanish?"
Pentaleon merely tisked at his comrade, wagging a slender finger to emphasize his playful chastisement, "So moody! How about you, me, and a mana crystal forget our worries over a jug of wine later?"
"No," he answered flatly.
"Ah, come now. I know you love crystals as much as I do. In fact," he mused, "I've been thinking about naming my daughter Crystal."
Pentaleon's daughter was around two years old by now and, most likely, had a name that didn't relate to their race's incurable addiction to magic. Stifling a smirk, Draes reflected on all the cruel taunts that such a name would inspire amongst her future classmates. I'd mana tap that Crystal anytime. Or perhaps, Hey, Crystal. Wanna see my large glimmering shard? Oh Sun, he could come up with these for hours. Remembering his previous annoyance with the rogue, he recomposed himself.
"That's wonderful, Pen. Now, take your mana crystal and get out." He pointed to the door.
Muttering a slew of rather creative insults, Pentaleon stalked away. Though they had been fast friends in the beginning, Draes was growing weary of his comrade. Desire to excel simply took the backseat in Pen's set of priorities, resulting in several disciplinary actions and a few days in the cell for insubordination. Sighing, he continued to write. It was getting late and his normally elegant script was diminishing into a tired scrawl. Best leave the report until tomorrow morning, he decided.
He pushed his chair back, the legs eliciting a loud squawk as they scraped against the floor, and went to the basin to freshen up for dinner. The cool water slid down his cheeks in small rivulets that converged at his bottom lip. Looking up, he was met with a sight that he hadn't taken in for some time. The looking glass harshly reflected his angular features, showing no mercy in mirroring every fine wrinkle and blemish. Fel magic had a beautiful irony. It enhanced the attractiveness of his people, making the women appear gracefully feline and granting the men that Titan-like physique. Yet, as time passed, it wasted them. It worked its way into the body, corrupting each cell to its secret will. Such corruption was already evident in him, given how often he wielded the powerful magic. His deathly pale skin was stretched tight over the fine bones of his face, making him look drawn and tired. His mass of raven-black hair was pulled back into a messy foxtail, wisps of it poking out in all directions. At least he wouldn't have to worry about attracting the airheaded priestesses that flitted about, looking for men to treat them like princesses.
Pulling the thick grey hood of his robe over his head, he left the tent. Thick droplets of rain pelted his face as he trudged toward the mess hall. The camp was a pitiful sight. A cluster of wood-framed tents were erected with no particular pattern around several small campfires.. The Defiant Sun, originally stationed in Outland, was ordered to Azuremyst Isle after the Exodar's crash to ensure that the Draenei kept out of the King's affairs. Not much progress had been made so far, and Draes felt his own impatience growing. They were given instructions to abduct, interrogate, and kill any Draenei they crossed paths with. But any intel that could be gained from these abductions was either vague or irrelevant. There were no large scale attacks planned for the camp and few of the Azeroth-bound Draenei seemed a threat to Kael'thas or Quel'thalas. They were more preoccupied with handling the dead and injured, than plotting revenge. So far.
Draes lifted the flap of the large mess tent, pausing at the entrance to let a warm gust of air settle over his cold skin. Steaming bowls of lynx meat soup with spiced rolls were placed before the hungry soldiers who were crammed into the benches at either side of a long table. Pentaleon was sitting at the opposite end of the room, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke to a blonde huntress. The amount of flirting the elf did was enough to make Draes wonder at which point Pen realized that he would never return to his family.
"Late to dinner once again, Vice-summoner?"
His gaze turned to the petite woman before him. "Yes, I'm afraid. I'm glad that I managed to come just in time to see the food run out."
A broad smile flashed instantly across her pixie face. "Early bird gets the..umm.." she paused, repeating the words as she struggled to complete the idiom.
"Worm, Arana. Early bird gets the worm." He fought down the impatience that roiled in the pit of his stomach. "Not a single scrap is left?"
She leaned close to him and cupped her hand to his ear. It was everything he could to do not shy away with revulsion. Arana, the cook's apprentice, wasn't unattractive by any means, but her abject stupidity challenged his resolve. Warlocks were often branded as haughty or aloof, but there was a tangible reason for why his class avoided outsiders. They were overpoweringly dull, both magically and intellectually. In his counterparts, he sensed the vast reserves of raw magical power and, on rare occasions, was tempted to siphon it for himself.
"I have something for you that's even better," she whispered excitedly, unaware that the puffs of warm breath that escaped her lips sent the hairs on the back of his neck straight up.
How dare she stand so near to you. Show that miserable wretch her place. Draes gritted his teeth against that familiar dark voice that dwelt in the recesses of his mind. The voice was an ominous reminder that he was going to have to bleed himself tonight. The practice, a well-guarded secret amongst Sin'dorei warlocks, seemed to ease the concentration of magic enough for normalcy to reign once more.
Arana led him outside and around to the back of the tent where the cookfire blazed. A cauldron of boiling water hung over it, attended by bored apprentice. Clasping his hand—why did she have to do that—she led him to a deserted area of the outdoor kitchen.
"Here it is," she smiled, lifting a tightly-wrapped bundle of cloth. "Now, don't burn yourself. Take it back to your room, so no one sees that I baked it for you."
Curious, he unraveled the cloth. A cloud of trapped steam billowed upward, misting his face with faint droplets of moisture. It was a meat pie, large and perfectly golden . The aroma of it sent his stomach into an upheaval of embarrassing growls. Draes paused, considering whether or not to accept the generous gift. Surely, Arana had gone through a fair amount of trouble to bake and conceal it for him. That could be a problem.
"Let me get you a few silvers," he said, digging through his pocket with one hand while he balanced the pie in the other.
A light grasp to his forearm stopped him short. "You don't have to pay me, Vice-summoner. I just don't like to see you go hungry."
Her hand dropped to his wrist, fingers gently caressing his skin. He shivered under her touch, not bothering to hide his disgust. Being touched without permission was something Draes could not abide, no matter who did it. Women never kept their hands to themselves and, ironically, accused males of the same indiscretion. She desires you. The voice mocked him now, sending pangs of rage and humiliation through him like shocks of lightning. He should have never gone with her, never let himself be seen with her. This revolting creature was only sparing him her kindness because she wanted something in return.
Thrusting the pie at her, he growled, "If you will not accept my payment, then take it back. No gift is ever freely given. Do you think me a complete backbirth?"
Her lips twitched nervously, "N-no, Vice-summoner. I merely.."
She stepped forward then, coming even closer than she had earlier. Did the girl have a death wish or something? Before that train of thought could lead any further, her lips crushed to his own. They were wet, slimy even. A fury that he hadn't felt in so long seized him. He wanted to strikeher, to make her pay for humiliating him like this. How dare she think herself worthy of him? Draes paused, realizing that his addiction was at least partly to blame for his sudden temper.
The color fled from Arana's cheeks as she watched him, eyes wide with fear. The polite, quiet warlock she exchanged pleasantries with these past few months had transformed into something else entirely. His lips were set into a tight scowl, eyes smoldering with hatred so pure that she could almost feel the heat of it scorching her. Surely, he could not be angry at her for kissing him. His lips were so very kissable and she often felt herself daydreaming about what they would feel like against her own. The situation had gone horribly off plan and she needed to know why.
"Do you not like women—" she ventured.
Draes scoffed at her question, "I don't like anyone." Especially not as slow-witted as you, he bit back.
Before she could say any more, he turned his back to her and left. His swift stride carried him away in moments, leaving her alone..dumbstruck. She swallowed against the painful lump that was rising like dough in her throat. Cheeks burning with embarrassment from his intense scorn, she set the dish on the earthen floor, close to the woods. Let the vermin eat it. Apparently, that's all it was good for.
A/N: You got to the end, did you? Well, please leave a review and tell me what you think! :)
