I want to reconcile the violence in your heart

I want to recognize your beauty is not just a mask

I want to exorcise the demons from your past

I want to satisfy the undisclosed desires in your heart

—Muse, "Undisclosed Desires"

They reached the base camp in the early evening, just as an eerie mist began to roll in. The camp quite large; there were members from every faction here, so there was no shortage of fights in the libation tent. The camp was semi-permanent and well-tended to. There was basic plumbing (very basic) at least, a few outfitters to provide the necessities, and several pavilions dedicated to producing the finest and most deliciously prepared cuts of meat. Spencer stopped in front of one as they passed by, and read the sign up above:

MEATY TREATY

(no fighting here)

Indeed, there were goblin guards stationed and patrolling throughout the camp. Spencer was pleased…he should be able to enjoy a nice fat steak in peace. He was ravenous, and on the verge of gnawing through his own dried cords of tendon.

The five found a proper site out of the way of traffic within the compound. Malek immediately dumped his belongings in the dirt. "I'll unpack later…I need to eat. Now." He too had been eyeing the meat tents, and wasted no time in disappearing with Hephaestion and Summertree.

Spencer curled his lip. Once again, the orc had left him alone with the girl. "Fantastic."

He turned to Constantina. "Look—" he began.

"I don't need a babysitter," she said quickly. "Go, if you're hungry too."

He nodded, paused a moment, then offered to bring her back something. She declined. He left.

Several hours later, when the sun began to set, a herald blew a conch shell to signal the Storyteller's arrival. Horde and Alliance alike, full of mead and meat, gathered together around the main fire circle to digest and listen to the enthralling tales being offered of war and romance. The herald stood beside the Storyteller, softly lulling out a poignant tune on a set of drone-pipes.

The Storyteller was good, no doubt about it. He had human women clutching the brawny arms of orc men during his stories of macabre horror, and even the most fearsome of trolls shed a tear or two while narratives of love, devotion, and triumph kept them all captivated.

Spencer had wandered over after his meal and large quantity of brew, just as twilight faded and the stars began to shine unsteadily in the cavernous black void overhead. The Storyteller was a very, very old Tauren, and likely narrating his own experiences. He was telling a love story that took place during the Troll Wars—the legend of an Amani forest troll who was not destined to be with his mate. Spencer observed that Constantina was included in the circle, seated near the feet of the ancient Tauren.

He chewed the inside of his lip as he moved to sit and listen to the story. The young warlock was across the way on the opposite side of the fire, the dancing flames illuminating the hollows of her cheeks. She hadn't yet noticed him; she watched the Storyteller intently, clearly engrossed in the mournful tale of love. Spencer leaned back against the nearby tree and stared lazily at her, studying the warm glow that danced along her face. She had her knees pulled up under her chin, her arms wrapped tightly around them. She looked cold.

"…And so, the new day began, and with the rising of the sun, T'zulapitu found himself transformed and rooted to the center of the sacrificial circle, in the exact spot his beloved's blood had been spilled. It was exactly as he promised—he would never leave her. This, my friends, is the origin of the bloodpetal." The Storyteller finished, and with a quiet bow, rose to retire to the main longhouse. There was a smattering of applause from the audience. Those around the fire began to wander off to their respective campsites as well, still under the miasma induced by fine storytelling.

Constantina released a long, deep sigh, then looked across the licking fire to catch Spencer intently gazing at her. Caught off guard, he stiffened and immediately averted his eyes. He could feel her watching at him, and sensed her curiosity. Keeping his chin lowered, he slowly met her eyes again. Their gaze locked above the tumultuous blaze; his stomach dropped. An ache came over him.

…He must have had too much to drink again. Not to mention he couldn't stop thinking about his dream. That stupid dream had changed everything.

Strangely compelled, he slowly rose to his feet and moved to her side of the fire. Positioning himself on the ground beside her, he removed his coat and gently draped it over her shoulders. "You look like you need this more than I do."

"Thank you, Simon."

Spencer paused. That was the first time she had ever called him by his first name. He wasn't sure if he liked it. They sat beside each other in silence for a moment, both staring thoughtfully into the dancing flames.

A musical quartet approached the fire, two male goblin gourd-drummers and a pair of troll belly dancers. The svelte girls were costumed in lovely blood-red scarves, wooden beads, and silver coin belts. The goblins sat with their feet bracing the large gourds, and began to beat out a slow, sensual rhythm.

"You mind if I lay down?" Constantina asked.

"Not at all," Spencer replied, thinking that was something of an odd question. Why was she asking permission…?

He didn't have to consider it long before he found Constantina nestling into his shoulder.

…Oh.

Her head rested over his heart; had he still been a man of warm flesh and coursing blood, it would have been hammering wildly. Tentatively, he encircled his arm about her shoulders and held her against his side. With a bit of hesitation, he laid his leathery cheek against her hair…and smiled.

The belly-dancers wheeled around the bonfire as the two Forsaken watched with fixed, content gazes. The massive, flickering shadows of the dancers followed their mistresses in perfect form. The pulsating beat and warmth from the fire were immensely soothing; Spencer relaxed his body and allowed his eyelids to fall. Beneath his cheek, he felt Constantina stir. She let out a heavy, comfortable sigh.

Spencer tilted his head and looked at her suspiciously. It was suddenly clear that she had been drinking as well—he could smell the gentle singe of dwarven dram buidheach on her breath. It was pleasant; that particular distilled spirit was known for its delectable flavor, as well as its exceptionally high alcohol content.

She had to be completely loaded.

Now he was curious. Why on earth would she be drinking something so hard? Usually dwarven drams were reserved for holidays, and in low quantities because of their potency. Maybe she was depressed…was it because of him? He started feeling a little guilty for giving her such a hard time. She seemed in rather good mood now, though. She was cocooned within his oilskin coat, nestled peacefully against his side with her hand resting on his stomach.

"You're drunk," he said flatly.

"So are you," she muttered against him.

He couldn't refute that. "…I suppose."

Her hand slid from his stomach to his chest as she moved to look at him. Their faces were dangerously close.

"You never told me," he murmured, "why is it that you look so…well-preserved?"

Constantina fell silent and turned her face away. He inclined his head, curious. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then clamped it shut again.

"I need to go…I need to go to bed," she finally said, her voice strained. Spencer blinked as she struggled to get to her feet. Had he said something wrong? He was sure that he had—it seemed to be a regularity for him to offend her.

She got up rather shakily, and he rose beside her. He didn't press the issue; he gripped her elbow instead, seeing she was a bit unstable.

"Alright," he agreed. "Let's get back to our site."

They walked silently, without hurry, beside each other through the heavy mist. Constantina was seemingly deep in thought. He looked over at her periodically, though tried not to show an excess of concern. The silence was peculiar, and even the lack of activity in the camps made Spencer's skin crawl. The fog seemed to absorb every bit of sound.

The two finally navigated their way back to their site, pausing outside her tent. She shivered, and for the tiniest moment, Spencer half-expected her to invite him in.

"Listen, Spence," Constantina began, her voice serious. He looked down at her, his placid eyes burning softly through the thick vapor in the air.

"Hm?"

"Remind me some other time and…we'll talk," she said wearily. She watched him, her own heavily-lidded eyes glowing intently.

He was unsure if she was just exhausted and drunk, or if she had some other dire reason to not answer his question. He froze as she moved her hand to pull her fingers through his dark hair.

"You should drink more often," she whispered. "I like you better this way." And with that, she turned and disappeared into her tent.

Spencer blinked, appalled that he was dismissed so abruptly. It took him a moment before he could finally move towards his own tent, his feet as heavy as bricks.

The next morning, Spencer was in a decidedly better mood. For the first time in a long time, he felt semi-content.

…And naked? Why was he feeling naked? Figuratively, of course.

His coat. Constantina hadn't returned his coat. She had disappeared with it to her tent the night before, and left him with nothing but a sleepy grin.

Which was another thing – he had actually slept. The best part was that he slept without nightmares or overwhelmingly inappropriate dreams. He actually felt well-rested, better than when he'd been in the poison coma. It was apparent in his posture and demeanor. He felt damn good.

He rapped on the pole of Constantina's tent with the bone of his exposed knuckles. "I think you have something of mine."

"Oh, I'm sorry Spence," came a muffled yawn. "Can I ask you an enormous favor?"

"Hmm?"

"My robes are disgustingly filthy from all this travel. Do you have something relatively clean I could borrow?"

Spencer scowled, retrieved his pack, and thrust it through the flaps of her tent.

The muffled voice came again. "Thank you, kind sir."

"Don't mention it," he grumbled. Then under his breath: "Bucephalus…"

The colossal black mount emerged from the forest and tossed his head. Spencer patted the horse's boney neck and began to load up the miscellaneous camp supplies into the saddlebags. He dismantled his tent, rinsed out his tankard, kicked dirt over the dying fire…his mind elsewhere…

"So what do you think?"

Spencer turned at the sound of Constantina's voice, and tightly clenched the bedroll in his hands. She stood before him, hands planted on her hips, dressed head to toe in his clothing. Of course, she had chosen his favorite black wyrmscale trousers. But he wasn't really too bothered…not at all. His crimson collared shirt was too big on her, and she had the cuffs rolled up to her elbows.

"Well?"

"You look…not like a warlock," he finally said.

"Yes, that may be a problem. What are these pants, leather? I won't be able to draw any kind of useful energy from them. Awfully comfortable, though."

"I can draw power from them just fine," Spencer grinned.

"Yes, thank you. Let's get my clothing washed as soon as possible so you can get me out of your pants."

Spencer bit his tongue. Constantina giggled.

"Well, well," came Malek's voice. "Looks like you two are getting along just swimmingly. That's…weird."

"Don't get too excited. She'll hate me again in no time," Spencer scoffed.

Constantina's face fell upon seeing that Spencer had already kicked out the fire.

"Damn," she said.

"Relax," he told her as he reached into a saddle bag. He pulled out a small satchel of nuts and dried fruit, and tossed it to her. "You're not, uh…a little hungover this morning?"

"Absolutely not!" she said cheerily, shoving a handful of salted ambercorns into her mouth. Malek raised an eyebrow as he packed up his gear. Hephaestion and Summertree had already loaded their gear onto their mounts.

Spencer eyed her dubiously. She quickly and effortlessly tore down her tent, behaving rather chipper and lively. She displayed no apparent sign of last night's alcoholic endeavors.

"Unbelievable," he said under his breath as he climbed into his saddle.

"Right behind you," Constantina sang, rapidly packing up her things. In no time she was astride her fiery beast as well, and they were on their way to Scholomance.