Author's note:There is nothing in the Warcraft lore to suggest the worgen life is not extended by the curse. Genn Greymane should be 80-90 years old yet he acts like a spry 20 year old man. Because of this I have taken artistic liberties and assumed that the curse of the worgen would be treated like any other. As with other races I am going by a lifespan chart from WoWwiki. On the subject of intercourse and procreation I have also had to improvise as there is very little to no lore on such matters. If you have thoughts on this, please share with me in a message! Anything else I've gathered from the defiasrp site such as physiology and psychology. This story is set years after MOP.
I wish I knew then what I know now
But I'd probably do the same
I get the feeling it's planned out
from the cradle to the grave
Sometimes the weight is more than I can hold
But I'd rather fail then never really know
If it takes forever I will die trying
- Art Of Dying: Die Trying
He sat his empty tumbler down on the table with audible force; it was a known sign he wanted a refill. The innkeeper obliged within minutes, but when she did not immediately return to her post behind the bar; the seemingly young man looked up at her with drunken laziness.
"I'm thinking you should probably turn in after this one, don't you?" The innkeeper coaxed with her free hand on her hip.
Bran gave her a crooked smile and nodded slowly. He rarely did anything in his free time anymore except occupy his usual spot near the fire at the Stormwind Inn. He'd become somewhat of a fixture and the owner served him well into each night out of respect for his time spent enlisted in the guard.
He was a quiet man; more apt to sit in silence and reminisce on the past than carry the other patrons in a tune or brawl with a fellow drunk. No, Bran preferred to be left to his own brooding and especially on this night. Tonight was the would-be anniversary for her.
His father had always warned him that he was too soft on matters of the heart and it would be the end of him one day. A muffled snort escaped him and he scratched his beard in thought. He'd been not yet a man when he'd acted on his feelings and confessed to his childhood friend that he loved her. She was the daughter of a known tailor in their small hometown in Westfall. A burly man who looked more suited to run a blacksmith forge than sew linen shirts. Her mother was an elegant enchanter who almost never spoke and sold her talents and wares in the tailor's shop.
Elsie had been a tomboy growing up. She threw her lot in with the other boys and helped them wage make-believe war against each other with sticks and mud packed rocks. At sixteen winters she had started to look ravishing and everyone noticed. Gone were her chubby child cheeks and wild hair that refused to be tamed by her mothers brush. The boys were now edging towards being men and squabbled over who would be the one to marry her. Bran knew they didn't stand a chance. He and Elsie had made a pact the day Bran's mother had passed from sickness. When the time came, he would rescue her from this life and take her adventuring across the waters. They had only been ten winters old each and none the wiser to the politics of men.
Bran gazed off into the fire in the hearth, giving into the full weight of the memory.
"We should just run away together!" Elsie exclaimed before returning to kissing Bran.
He pulled back from her lips and tried not to frown."I wont do it that way. Your family would disown you. I intend to join the Stormwind guard, Elsie. Your father has to see the honor in that and grant us permission." Bran urged, more for himself than for her. Elsie's father was very strict and set on what type of man Elsie would be given away to. The tailor wanted his daughter to marry up in station so that her life would be easier, as would her children's.
Elsie bit her lower lip and her brows furrowed. "Oh Bran... This is why I love you. You always look to do the right thing. I'm afraid that even the right decisions aren't enough to move a mountain. My father is just that, a stubborn mountain." Her hands played at the back of his hair, weaving long strands in between her fingers. She picked a few pieces of hay from it before laying her head back down and closing her eyes. They laid naked together for a short while more before shaking the evidence from their clothes and parting ways.
That had been it. The last time they would ever see each other. Bran had gathered his courage and asked her father for Elsie's hand that evening. Her father had reared back and punched Bran square in the face. Before the stars had left his vision, Bran was sent tumbling out of the Tailor's front door and it abruptly slammed. He'd gone home in a whirlwind of confusion to nurse his bleeding nose and bruised ego. Bran's father, Dredrick had been in the middle of trying to get the story from his son when there was a knock at their front door. Elsie's father stood there, almost blocking out the moonlight over his shoulder with his massive form. Dredrick had taken the brunt of the man's anger over a "filthy worgen" accosting and man handling his daughter in secret.
Dredrick, a broken man since his wife's death, had backed down from the confrontation and agreed to keep Bran away from Elsie if only the tailor would not call the guard. Bran raged from the kitchen through his broken nose and had met the fiery expression from his father. Bran had never done anything to Elsie that she had not consented to, but the tailor accused otherwise.
The next day Bran watched as trunk after trunk of Elsie's things be loaded into a horse drawn wagon. The prejudiced tailor was vacating their small town for that of the mighty Ironforge. He had been offered a job in the great city a week back and had decided to accept in light of the recent events. That was all Elsie could divulge before her father barked the order for her to get in the wagon. Bran's heart ached as Elsie climbed atop her things and sat on one of the trunks. Her eyes never left his as her father loaded her mother into the seat beside him and commanded the horse forward.
Only after Elsie and the wagon were gone from sight did Dredrick clamp a hand upon his sons shoulder in an effort to console the torn heart. Humans were fearful of the curse and how it was passed from one person to the next. While the Gilnean worgens were welcome by the alliance, not all shared this welcome with positive feelings. Mothers and fathers did not want their children contracting such a dark shadow upon their soul. Dredrick and his wife had found out first hand how it could be passed to the unborn. No unafflicted human wanted to take the chance of their children being born with the curse.
When Dredrick opened his mouth to suggest time would heal, Bran tore from his hold and disappeared in the line of trees. That night he had completely changed for the first time. Bran met his beast within head on and filled with pain.
Startled, Bran was pulled from his thoughts when the innkeeper refilled his glass once more. He'd emptied it sometime during his reverie and had failed to notice. He glanced up to the innkeeper, knowing better than to speak and his slurred speech give away his current state.
"Let that last one bring you sleep against whatever ghost haunts you." The innkeeper nodded, a knowing look on her face. She patted his shoulder a few times before disappearing to the kitchen area.
Bran watched her walk away. She did not know the irony in her words. It was not the ghost of Elsie who haunted his dreams and caused him so much inner turmoil these days. He had grown past the pain of a first love lost. Bran was certain she had married a wealthy bachelor and given him glorious raven-haired children to which they provided everything young hearts could have desired. The ghost that plagued Bran was a bitter memory. One that lead his gaze back to that of the hearth; the fire small now that patrons had mostly turned in for the night.
Bran had found that if he threw himself into enlisting with the Stormwind guard that it provided something in the horizon for his heart to set itself upon. Two of the boys he had grown up with and called friends joined him to prove their worth and make their own way in life. Rorick was a skilled hunter and had an uncanny knack at training hounds. Gaeb was quite lecherous with women but hit with iron fists and swung a mace with ten times the strength. His temper was also not to be toyed with. All three worgen boys, now men, soared to the top in their training. Bran had proved adept in the areas of stealth and lie detection which garnered him extra attention from his superiors.
Freshly sworn under oath to protect and serve Stormwind, it's people and the commands of King Varian Wrynn himself, the three young men spent a few nights of drunken partying to commemorate their accomplishment. It was expressly stated by their commanding officers to enjoy their fort night of leave. War was raging in faraway lands and none of them could be sure they would ever experience such free reign again.
However confident, Gaeb had used his money he won playing cards to pull three spinsters from the brothel that night. Bran found himself with quite a curvy wench trying to seduce him into one of the inns rooms. Remaining polite, Bran had brushed off enough of her flirtatious assaults to drive her into Gaeb's already filled lap. Rorick's face seemed to stay flushed as a feisty redhead whispered things into his ears. As the night progressed on, Gaeb retreated to his room with a woman on each arm, both filled with boisterous laughter that continued on behind closed doors. Rorick had nodded to Bran before heading in a similar direction with the aforementioned redhead trailing close behind him.
"Why do you not partake?" A soft voice behind him probed lightly.
Bran turned to face the woman. She was clothed in a common dress with a heavily stained apron atop it. He watched her small hands busy themselves dry cleaning tumblers, tankards and shot glasses. "Partake in what? The women?" Bran asked, his brows raising as if this woman should already know of his personal taste.
"Of course. What else do you think I ask about?" She licked the corner of her mouth as an afterthought.
Bran could see it was an obvious tell. She would be terrible at playing cards. With that in mind, he smiled and sat in his chair backwards. It was easy to read her face and find that she fancied herself a fair ways apart from most others. He found himself wondering just how different or similar she truly was. "Loose women are not something I've ever considered a viable option." He rested his chin on his arms which draped across the top of the backrest. It was a pose that made him look even younger than he was and women loved it. Or so Gaeb told him.
The barkeep exploded in warm laughter that tossed her head back, causing her rich chocolate curls to bounce. She shook her head once she had recovered from the outburst. "Compared to what, my good sir?" Her playful tone was accompanied by an arched eyebrow.
Bran stood and closed the distance between the bar and himself. He flashed her a genuine smile and then let his expression drop, becoming quite serious. The barkeep responded in kind, her hands pausing on the current glass. Bran took a second to look around at the scarce few that remained. One was snoring against the back wall and the other was buried in a book, clearly a night owl. "To that of many nights receiving a warm bed with a mate between the linens." He finally stated.
The barkeep's mouth fell slightly open and her form went rigid. Bran leaned forward and tapped one finger under her chin. She cleared her throat and looked away from him, her hands returning autonomously to the glass and drying cloth.
Bran sobered quickly and stood straight again. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I-"
"No." The barkeep cut him off. "It's alright. I'm not uncomfortable, just surprised. So many of the newly recruited king's guard come through here. They're all the same, really. Pigs drooling after their next bed partner. No offense to your friends, of course." She had added that last bit in a rush. He smiled at that small sentiment Bran appreciated her efforts in not invoking his anger, although it was not needed. He knew Gaeb fit the bill and Rorick had never rolled in the barn with the young girls back home that he knew of.
"Where is this wife of yours then, hmm?" She asked suddenly with an slightly accusatory tone. Her eyes were not as brave, however, as they were focused solely on the glass in hand.
"I haven't found her yet." He lied. Well, it wasn't technically a lie. He had wanted to marry Elsie but hope for that life had walked out of the door long ago. Bran ran his hands over the stubble on his face and through his hair. "What of yourself?"
"Oh, I'm too headstrong for most. It comes from working here. I help my mother as she is getting on in age and tends to retire for the night earlier and earlier. We'd lose business if we closed up shop at sundown." She gave Bran a forced smile. "My name is Moira. Moira Blackwood."
"Bran Arnes. Pleased to make your acquaintance " Bran offered an outstretched hand and she accepted, shaking it. Before she pulled away he brushed his mouth over her knuckles and his eyes shown a spark he hadn't felt in some time. He could be charming as hell when he really wanted to be. It would be easy to talk her into shooing the last patrons from their roosts and they both could end up happily entangled in each other by morning.
Bran laughed softly and looked down. Moira was terrible at cards, indeed. He wondered how often smooth soldiers snaked their way past her guard as he had done and left her before she woke. Releasing her hand, he took a step back. "I should turn in. I'm keeping you from work. I'll...see you in the morning." He turned away from Moira's confused face and took the stairs two at a time. Winter would arrive soon and with that would come less control over his wolf. It worried him how easy it would be to change his mind and return to Moira and the fire he knew they both could ignite.