A/N- I stayed up like 4 straight hours last night (this morning) to get hallways through this. Please review; it makes me a happy author.
The Brotherhood
Chapter 5
Purple.
That was the first though Conyeri had when she awoke. Everything was purple, all the leaves, the trees, her own hands, the sky, and the very air. She took this new tint of vision in her stride, rolling over on her bed of leaves. They crackled underneath her, but the discomfort was small price to pay for the sense of peace that instilled in her. It was just past dawn, and the light was spilling over the tall hills that surrounded the strange, elven grove in the centre of Duskwood, gently easing a breath of golden clarity into the dusky earth.
Her body was wrecked, and she knew it. Her throat was cut up and raw from panting and pulling chilled lungfuls of air in at a rate that was not physically possible. Her skin was bruised, punctured, infected, gouged with the remnants of her less-than-narrow escape from the ghouls. Her head was exploding, her eyelids sluggish, her vision drifting into different spectrums. The only thing intact was her pool of talent, which suffused her body and gave her the abilities of her chosen class, leaning towards more shadowy arts. It recovered quickly.
On hands shaky with loss of blood and adrenaline withdrawal, she pushed her tattered frame up. The girl groaned and clenched her fists as scabbing sores stretched an re-opened, wounds and bumps began to swell and blood rushed into her skull, thick with pain-laced impulses. She toppled against the tree's thick trunk, liking the rigidity of it.
"By the light…" she muttered in a raspy whisper. Something scampered away at the emission, flitting from her right to further along the grassy floor. It was a squirrel, bushy tail standing on end. "No…" she looked at it. "Don't go away."
It did.
Left alone, utterly broken and exhausted, Conyeri sat watching the grove, wondering if she'd die here. She supposed it was better than being ghoul fodder, but slower.
Drifting off got easier as the sun came higher in the sky and the weather warmed. If she didn't die of hunger or blood loss, she would from cold during the night. Greens became purples that faded into grays and eventually black, drifting into the edges f her consciousness and clinging, lamprey-like to her thoughts, dragging them into a deep slumber, her along with them.
Days passed like this. Maybe a week, Conyeri didn't know. It left her time to think, to explore things she hadn't before. The idea of death, of god, of power and love. Musings filled her few waking hours, intermittently interrupted by fantasies of Geylan and Dez and Harrman coming to rescue her, Sarah getting resurrected, her parents being cured or given peace. They were all very nice, but she'd cry when she figured out they were lies. She was becoming worse; she could feel her flesh festering and her mind dulling. Her skin was pasty white, tinged with and unhealthy green of infection. She lamented that her life would be for nothing, that she had changed so little.
The fourth or fifth day, she found the energy to stand up.
It was monumentous. That morning, she had woken up to find she felt better. Stronger. She wanted to test herself, to kindle the ember of hope that had sprung up within her chest. The movement was slow, lumbering, and greatly aided by the tree, but it was standing nonetheless. She walked. Slowly, again, but walking all the same.
Conyeri walked out of the grove, pausing frequently to catch her breath. There was renewed purpose in her actions; she was hungry. After eating the grass in the immediate area around where she was propped up against the tree, she wanted meat and cooked food. The scenery became more like Duskwood as she descended, the howls of worgen and the skittering of spiders in the shadows always on the peripheral of Cony's thoughts, but she had priorities. The camp she had skirted around earlier came to mind, close enough. She worked her was at an agonizing pace through the trees and bushes until she had sight of it. Men were talking in hushed voices, their volume low and brows furrowed. A woman in leather armour came along the road from the right, shouting something. Conyeri was disturbed that to her, the words were garbled. She could hardly understand them.
The guards, or whatever they were, all ran off with the female, no doubt to some impending doom or something, leaving their camp guarded by a boy who could be barely older than Cony, sweat on his brow and a shield that probably weighed more than he did. Crates of food. A hot fire. Cony couldn't resist. She stumbled out of the bushes and approached the small roadside encampment.
"Who's there? Step out!" The boy said, his voice shaky. He looked at Cony as she approached. "Oh," he breathed out. "Can I help you?"
"Mmmm," she nodded, leaning on the fence. "I'm lossst."
He grabbed a map that was laid down on the flat of a barrel of water. It had a myriad of symbols covering it; marking sites of what Cony guessed was danger. He came up to the fence and turned her back to her to show her the map and effectively mark the way. He was really stupid.
"So, you just follow this road to get to Darkshire. It's pretty much the only place around-" she stuck a dagger in his back. "Oh."
He slumped to the floor. Cony moved around the fence, searching the food crates. Bread, bread, dried stuff, more bread. Why the hell wasn't there any meat here? They probably caught it fresh.
"Fuck," she cursed under her breath, eyes hungrily flitting to the body on the floor. "No." she told herself, wondering why even the thought had come to her. She settled with several loaves of bread and a skin of wine, which was all she could carry. She hoped the boy would recover.
She ate en route to wherever she was going, bread hungrily disappearing down her throat between gulps of wine. The road was easy to follow, and somewhere along the line there would be somewhere sheltered. Or meat. That would be best. A path led off to the right. She hesitated, but a gut feeling pulled her off the beaten track and down into a small clearing. Dark shapes lurked in the shadows, but there was a smell: roasting meat, somewhere. A small fire, crudely put together, was burning to ashes in the corner, left by someone who needed to get away quickly. A rabbit was burning on a spit. She rushed for it, tearing a leg off and feeling it go down, juices still dripping. Again, she tore, ravenously, reveling in the heat and the rich flavour.
A piercing howl came from behind her, and she ducked behind the fire, guarding her rabbit. A silly thing, really, but it was important that she owned something. One of the worgen had been ambling around the clearing, away from its pack, and had spotted her. On gangly but powerful limbs it loped up to the fire, cruel eyes slitting as it judged her, damp nose twitching. Then, it went down on his bowed back legs, almost in an apologetic movement, and slunk off, whining to itself.
"Oh-kayyy," she murmured to herself, confused but grateful. There was still more rabbit to be eaten. After finishing it off, her stomach full, she lay down by the small, dying fire, and slept again. Numbed sensation seeped into her body through her skin, bringing with it an idle, lurking suspicion that something was wrong. The worgen were silent through her sleep- and they were night creatures. Conyeri was deep in slumber when they lifted her up with stilted tenderness and silently ferried her from her bed into the small mine they had taken as their home.
Worgen looked at the passing procession with interest, but never moved to attack the vulnerable girl. She was laid in the furthest-back cavern of the mine, on soft leaves and hay. Her carriers laid down with her, sharing their warmth, insulating her against the jarring cold of early winter far better than the weak, dying fire ever could. Why they had done it was not the matter; it was that they had. The Worgen, the bloodthirsty beasts summoned from a world of eternal pain and suffering into Azeroth, those who preyed on weak townspeople and voraciously tore their prey limb from limb were the very same who now cuddled up to Conyeri, their broad chests expanding and contracting with measured breaths.
A smaller Worgen stepped from his skulking patrol into the cavern, suspicious smells borne on the whistling wind having reached his sensitive nose. He padded on four paws up to the sleepers with curiosity, seeing the little human girl in their midst. She didn't smell right, not like the rest of the weaklings that stepped into his territory. He scent was less, masked by the reek of infection that covered her skin, clinging to her flesh. Talavan, the Worgen in question, leaned closer to her, nudging the brown hair that fell over her neck off. He worried. There was a strange compulsion in him, like nothing he had ever felt before, to keep her safe. His pack was further moved by it, taking her into the heart of their nest.
His lupine form shivered with renewed purpose as his ears picked up the faint sound of battle ringing on the wind, coming from far outside the cave. The people were back, this time with more. They were trying to kill his kin, coming with knives and magic that had surprised the Worgen. He growled under his breath and loped out of the nest, his alpha instincts telling him to keep them from his inner sanctuary. As Talavan came to the mouth of the cave, a shout came from the group that pierced his delicately tuned hearing. He knew of their language, minimally, but they spoke so fast and so loudly! A burly one, face marked with war and sword in his grip, shouted at the others. "There it is! The monster, the abominable Gutspill! Kill it!"
Talavan growled and rushed at the man. He was no monster. He was the protector of his pack, no matter his small size. A shield came up to block his claw, and the warrior plunged the sword into his stomach. Howling with pain, he took a swipe and the man's head, clipping him as he twirled out of the way. Behind him, of diminutive stature, was a man with a thick brown beard and the stink of magic in him. His beady eyes focused hard on the warrior, and the wound on his temple began to knit itself together. The short man was a healer.
Using his powerful jaws, the worgen snapped at the warrior's hand, but with another thrust of the sword his head exploded in pain. Toppling backwards, he felt hot, sticky blood run down his face. He grimaced, but the duty he had to protect his pack came before his personal condition; he would fight until there was no breath left in his lungs or no blood in his body.
An arrow sliced into the fur of his back as he stood, coming from another short-human. His eyes went wide as he saw the sentries from his pack lying mutilated and silent on the grass behind him. The men had killed his friends, his allies, his pack. Talavan was the Alpha. The Alpha was responsible for his pack. He had failed them.
A cry of anguish burst from his throat as two more arrows found their mark, felling the worgen again. He felt the cool, damp Duskwood grass under his fur and accepted that this was his end. He had fought as well as he could for his time. There would be more of his kin coming, coming to escape the hell they had lived in before this. He feared for the sleeping ones in the mine. And the girl.
The warrior, eyes blazing with twisted righteousness, grinned at the fallen alpha before slicing his head clean off.
Howls echoed out from everywhere as Worgen felt their leader die, the powerful pack ties severed. Now was when a new alpha would be chosen, in the thick of battle. The group moved on, eager to continue ridding Duskwood of these aberrations of nature. Into the mine, they moved with a hushed quickness, picking the prowling worgen off where they met them. The light dimmed and the atmosphere hushed in a stark juxtaposition to the fury of bloodshed that the group had encountered on the way in. Small sounds filtered through the sleepy miasma that coated the inner sanctum of the Worgen. The warrior, much to his annoyance, was having trouble concentrating. He was only how noticing how the skin itched where the priest had many times re-knitted it. His armour was heavy, his hands rubbed raw from his swordplay. He was very tired. Really, really tired…
"Stay awake ye fool," whispered the priest, his hushed words reverberating through the mine. "It be a dark trick."
The warrior gripped his blade tightly again, concentrating on the thought of seeing his wife and daughter again tonight. They came upon the sight they had been hoping to see; the remained of the worgen, four or five of them, curled up on a nest of hay and leaves, sound asleep. The group was silhouetted against the lighter corridor they had come from, three blurs of black on cold blue stone. They had the complete upper hand here. The warrior was eager to get this over and done with.
""Old on a minute…" The hunter breathed. "Dun'ya feel bad 'bout not givn' 'em a chance?"
"What on earth are you talking about!" the warrior whispered, voice high with rage. "They are monsters!"
"They've ne'er bothered Darkshire." The priest said hesitantly. "Tho' I guess they did take this mine, an' th' orchard o'er there…"
"You aren't seriously considering letting them stay here? To breed and kill more people? By the Light!" He ended his sentence with a short acclamation, his eyes focusing on the sleeping worgen. "Look at that."
"Whut?" The hunter peered through the gloom with the aid of the warrior's outstretched arm. "By me beard. It's a girl."
"Living?" the dwarfs said in union, both uneasy at their discovery when the warrior nodded.
"She's breathing." He said softly. "A midnight snack?"
"Worgen dun't eat people. Sure, they rip 'em ta shreds, but they dun't eat 'em." The hunter's gloved hands nervously twirled his black mustache. "She be under their protection. Like a child o' their own. If I know beasties, which I do, they're sleepin' around her like a newborn, keepin' her warm."
"Then she's with them. An ally of my enemy is my enemy also." The warrior said shortly, raising his voice. He regretted it immediately when one of the worgen stirred, but it merely turned over and laid a protective arm over Conyeri, suddenly not so bloodthirsty to the hunter.
"She dun't smell right," he added, taking a nervous step closer. "I can smell so much worgen in here, but there's also somthin' else."
"Speaking in riddles and smelling her isn't getting me home for dinner," the warrior growled, stepping forward dominantly. "I say we take them, and check the girl at the end."
"That sounds right with me," the priest acquiesced, rubbing his hands together. "The boys'll start down the tavern without us, Gull. Let's get it goin'."
Having been outnumbered, Gull the hunter nodded and handled his bow nervously, wondering why he felt bad about doing this. A worgen was a worgen. He strung the bow, the creak of the wood sounding twice as loud and echoey as it should have in the nest. The warrior motioned to him and they both soundlessly padded further into the nest while the priest stayed back, whispering gibberish to himself that filled Gull with renewed strength.
One. The warrior held out his hand.
Two. His other.
Three. His sword raised, the warrior charged with impossible speed into the nest, hacking one of the worgen to pieces even before the others got their wits together. Gull let a flurry of arrows out on another, who promptly topped back down. The worgen came out of their nest, snarling, but one stayed behind, beside the miraculously still-sleeping girl's body, growling with his protective arm over her waist. He loosed more arrows, focusing his mana into the tips to make them fly true and fast. He wished briefly that his companion was present, but this was not the place for her. Duskwood deeply unsettled the lumbering bear.
Three worgen were down, two more to go, not counting the one guarding the girl. The warrior was spinning wildly, his sword slicing deftly through knotted worgen muscles and down to the bones. Another fell, and Gull took aim and put an arrow straight through the remaining one's chest. Followed by several harsh stabs and a small burst of almost blindingly holy light from the priest's hand, the worgen was most definitely dead.
They converged on the last one, guarding the girl, who whimpered and looked- if worgen had emotions- guiltily at the limp body under its paw. Self-preservation fought with the odd compulsion that the worgen felt for the girl, and in weakness, self-preservation won out, and the worgen leapt an impossible height over the warrior and was out of sight and reach in a second.
Cursing, the warrior decided against chasing it down. He slipped his bloody sword back in its scabbard and slotted his shield onto his pack, tentatively stepping over to where the mysterious girl lay, murmuring quietly in her sleep. He crouched down and recoiled.
"She smells like a dead body," he snarled, hand reaching for his sword hilt. "Why don't we just-"
"Yeh'd kill a girl jest because she smells dead? Shame on ye, Orenn." The healer chastised him. "We'll at least wake 'er up." He shuffled down to the nest, shaking Conyeri on the shoulder. "Wake up, girlie." Harder, this time, he shook her, her hair flopping over and away from her face. He grimaced as he took in her body.
"What?" Orenn the warrior said, nervously glancing over his shoulder. "Is she alive or not?"
"She could be. Or she could be already dead." He said darkly, running his practiced hands over the oozing tooth marks on her arm.
"Riddles, again!" the priest rolled his eyes.
"She may be undead. Infection runs deep in her blood. When -if- she wakes up, there's a large chance tha' the contamination has spread too far, an' that she'll un-die."
"Can ye heal 'er?" Gull asked softly, frowning as he said it. Why did he care, anyway?
"Far beyond me present abilities, but I dun't reckon she'd survive th' trip ta Stormwind."
Orenn spoke. "Is there a competent healer in Darkshire?" the priest considered it for a moment, running the citizens of the last bastion of human life that was Darkshire.
"Per'aps Madame Eva," he said, becoming more confident as he affirmed the conversation they had had about the potency of certain healing herbs. "Yeh, she could 'elp, 'specially with the girl's current condition, in which she's an expert."
"Hoist her on my back," Orenn took off his shield and pack. "Gull, you don't have a pack, take mine."
It took the party a couple of minutes to get the girl out of the hay and onto Orenn's brawny back. Once that had been done, they trekked out from the mine, leaving the dead worgen to rot behind them.
-
Sensations bombarded Conyeri, such that she couldn't get a complete thought together for long enough. Little whispers wiggled through her brain like maggots, icy cold and slimy, in a voice so sleek and suave that it seemed to know her. Know her like nobody ever did; know her hopes, her dreams.
Soon, you're going to wake up, aren't you?
Yes, she answered, relaxing into the familiarity of the voice. It held her like a mother did an infant, supporting her head and keeping her warm.
What're you going to do then?
I don't really know, now you ask. Maybe find some more food. Somewhere sheltered to sleep. A way to scrub my life clean of the filth on my soul. Yeh, that's a plan.
Nah, that sucks. I mean, what is your life going to be about? If you're not going to 'change the Defias for the better' or whatever you were thinking anymore, then what is there to live for?
Hmmm. Well, I'd like to stay alive. Death doesn't look very nice.
You're scared of death?
Who isn't?
Let me rephrase. How do you know what death is like if you've never experienced it?
Who are you?
You.
No, you're not. Don't give me that line; I know myself and you're not me.
I could be. You want a fresh start? A purpose? I can give that to you. It's your choice.
The tone of the voice shifted almost imperceptibly. It became soft and sultry, cooing and smooth as a spool of silk.
Marisa didn't give you a choice, did she? Do you hate her? Does she deserve to live?
No, but I'm never killing anyone, ever again. I can't handle it now, and I couldn't handle it again, no matter how much she deserved it.
I can take your guilt away. I can rid you of your doubts and fears. You can exact the revenge you deserve and not have to take the blame. Wouldn't you like that?
There was an echoing silence as Conyeri mulled that over. It sounded nice, but there were always repercussions involved. Someone had to take the sharp end of the stick. Nothing was free. She felt the voice follow all of her thoughts and wondered how long it had been listening. She wasn't mad, like Marisa- this type of thing had never happened before. She was unconscious, she knew, possibly comatose. Near death, even. This must be her way of reasoning with her life, trying to find a new track for it.
Think of how much impression you could make on the world with more affluence. Nobody would be better than you; nobody would demand you looked up to him or her. You'd have no master but yourself… you could even have Geylan, if you wanted.
I don't 'want' Geylan. He's my friend.
Tell yourself that enough times and you'll believe it.
I'm about to wake up, you know.
I know. Answer me. Yes or no?
Do I have to? Right now? Without time to know the catch?
There isn't one. All you have to do is say yes, and your weakness will be gone.
Yes, then. I want to be strong. I want to make a difference.
Wait, no. No. No!
Too late.
Pain spiked behind Conyeri's eyes and she screamed, a real, throaty scream that made her lungs vibrate as though she were singing opera. She scrabbled around, her sweaty fingers gripping onto something. Fear and pain clouded her perception and vision as sensation came back to her, the wind, and the smell of magic and hot coal. Heavy linen under her tight grip, she heaved herself up, twisting and writing as the feeling of helplessness crashed upon her and cast its queasy tendrils into her, groping for her life force like an addict for his fix. Cries came from around her, shrieks that pained her ears and echoed in her head as though someone had rung a church bell.
She cried and thrashed wildly, unable to put words together. Unable to think, only to feel. Pain as she fell of the table she had been laid on. Splinters of the hardwood floor on her bare back. Her eyes fluttered wildly, seeing and not seeing, blurs of shape and shadow melting into primary colours and pockets of stars that flew in the brown sky, fizzing as they went out. Hands pushed her down, and she shouted at them, for all they were was hands, not attached to a body, sporting multicoloured patches of colour that fit together in a haphazard jigsaw. He head burned behind her eyes, a torrent of nothing and everything traveling by caravan and by horse over the craggy land of her brain, their dry feet drumming as they trekked on, merrily laughing with each other.
"I said this would happen," Conyeri didn't understand the words. They came from an oak chair that perched atop a pine tree, swaying gaily. Something pulled her soul to all different sides at once, threatening to rip it. It was as though hands made from darkness were scrabbling to get the biggest piece. "Get it over with."
She howled and started crying, tears leaking down her cheeks in acidic rivulets that scarred her pretty face, waterfalls to the money spiders that skittered away from her. The things spoke in a langue she didn't understand, it frustrated her. She shouted at them to be quiet, and they did. A strange silence fell over her as though condensed into a single voice, smiling and encouraging.
"Kill them."
"B-but… why? Who?" her eyes flickered to the empty room, bar the hands that held her down. "Why?"
"Because I said so." The voice said, anger edging into its coolness. "And you do what I say."
She laughed. "Um, noooooo. Why would I?" It was funny. Something reminded her of something else which made her think about something. The process was fascinating.
"You agreed to!" the voice growled. "You said yes!"
"Then I said no. Your ears don't work so well."
"She's talking gibberish to herself."
"Do it!"
"Nah…" she smiled. "Um, thank you, though. My dad told me to be polite to people. Thank you very much."
"Is she thanking me?"
"Dunno."
"I did save her life. I'd thanking myself for that."
"Just a moment ago you were going to kill her." There was something going wrong. The stars dulled and became yellow, lighting the brown sky in a gloom that spread from the peripheral of Conyeri's vision to encompass it. The tree went away. Why had it been there in the first place? The chair had a man in it. A short man. And an old woman was over her. The hands had grown. They were hairy, and connected to arms. Oh, how confusing it was!
"I don't even want to think of what this one's been through. Why, if she were my own child…" the old woman shivered, her wrinkled face scrunching up. "Poor thing…"
"She's looking at you," the arms said, expanding into a chest and a head. "I think she understands."
Conyeri most certainly did. She felt offended that he wouldn't think she was intelligent enough to. Never had she been the scholarly type, but her father had always said…
Oh.
Ohhhh.
And everything came back. Including who she was and how she got here.
"Holy…" she looked down at herself. She was a mess of stitches and smelled like a herb shop was growing somewhere on her. She was also naked, save a cotton wrap around her crotch. Instinct hand a hand up and around her breasts before anything else. The old woman laughed.
"At least she has priorities," she smiled softly. "You can call me Eva, miss…?"
"Con-" alarm caught her mid-sentence. There was an investigation into her whereabouts. They would either take her to Stormwind to be killed or kill her on the spot. "Connaly, uh," her mind shifted through surnames. Du'Paige was out, as was Shaw, Stonefist, and DeHayersae… but why go for surnames? First names worked as well. "Harrman. Connaly Harrman." She assured her pseudonym in her mind.
"I'd like to know what you were doing half-dead and sleeping with a pack of Worgen, but you're in no health to tell me at the minute." She briskly took out rolls of bandages. "I need to change them again. Your wounds don't respond to healing magic, like that of the nice dwarf who brought you back with his friends, so I've had to resort back to herbs. Old-person stuff." She smiled and the corner of her eyes wrinkled. Conyeri thought it would have been nice to have a grandmother or a grandfather. "You might have woken the little ones up."
There were kids? Great. Conyeri hadn't been around children for ages… not since she was that age herself. She stayed as still as she could as Eva bandaged her wounds. They were ugly, sickly things, seeping and dirty. Why had she not been in the right mind to seek attention for them earlier? All she remembered was being hungry. So very hungry. Even famished enough to consider eating that young guard at the roadside camp. She shuttered at even the notion that she had though of cannibalizing someone. How close she had brushed with death, and indeed undeath. What had compelled her to say yes to the voice? The little, beguiling voice that promised her so much.
"Thank you," she said quietly, her throat tired from screaming and burned from, well, burned rabbit. "Can you… tell me what happened?"
"No," she said tiredly, wringing out a dirty cloth and wetting it again in clean water, dabbing it onto Conyeri's wounds. "But Orenn and the Steelbeard brothers can. The former is with his family, and the latter are probably drunk off their faces by now."
"Ah," the girl noted, grimacing as the cloth touched severed flesh. Eva eyed her with a pitiful but angry gaze.
"Girl your age shouldn't be out there." She chastised. "What on earth were you thinking?"
"I was running away," she truthfully said. "Not from my home, though. I ran into ghouls. I only just got away." she swallowed painfully. "Can I have some water?"
Eva nodded and went over to the small stove, tapping a keg beside it. Clear water flowed out and into the glass she had taken from a low cupboard. She offered it to Cony, who let the blissfully cold liquid slowly slide down her throat before continuing. Her memories were hazy. "I was in a place for ages. Under a tree. Uh, a place above the camp- with the purple leaves?" Eva nodded, eyes thoughtful. "Eventually, I left, and found food by the worgen place. I fell asleep. I remember nothing since."
"You left a good chunk out of that," the old woman accused, but she didn't prompt Cony to fill the gaps in. "But I know."
Conyeri froze as the woman looked at her mischievously, fingers caressing a glass orb on a small table behind her. "You did the right thing, Conyeri."
"Why ask my name if you knew it?" she inched backwards, muscles knotting painfully.
"To see if you would lie or not." Eva shrugged. "I don't think any less of you for it. There is untrustworthy, and then there is sensible. Do you know that your bounty has been upped to 750 gold pieces?"
"No," she whistled. That much money was enough for some serious spending. A house, food for one, maybe two years… just for her? Someone must really hate her.
"It's not for dead or alive. It's recovery. Baros wants to thank you personally for killing his greatest rival."
"I didn't kill my dad," she said awkwardly. Eva smiled, her long fingers stroking the ball, in which thick smoke seemed to be pulled to her fingertips. Conyeri, watching it in mild interest, thought she saw a shape form, but blinked and it was gone. It gave her an uneasy feeling: someone she didn't know could find out so much about her life.
"But you did then sleep with the woman who had him killed," Eva pointed out, refilling the empty water glass Conyeri had placed carefully back on the table. "The youth of today…"
"It wasn't voluntary," anger bubbled up within Conyeri, bringing back flashes of her escape from camp RUTN. Oh gods, Geylan would be wondering where she was. And Dez and Harrman, and Jack. Alt would tell Marisa that she had escaped. She quelled it hastily, knowing it had got her in this mess to begin with, but it leaked out into a scowl. "Why not turn me in?"
"You're interesting, my dear," she offered the refilled glass to Conyeri, who took it in shaky hands. "Orenn, bless him, told me how he found you- not in detail mind you, but enough. In a worgen nest, and still in one piece. That is most perplexing."
"When I was taking the rabbit…" Conyeri's thoughts opened up, bringing back details that she perhaps could have done without. "One of them came for me, but it stopped. It… it apologized to me, then left me alone."
"The pack were protecting you," Eva pulled out a chair, the scraping sound it made on the wooden floor jarring Conyeri's hearing. "Why? You aren't a worgen. Why the compulsion? Why only to you?"
"I don't know," she said exasperatedly, chugging down the water and realizing that she was very hungry. "Can I have something to eat?" she said loudly, realizing how rude she sounded and not really caring. She'd been to hell and back and by the Light was she going to get what she wanted, just for today. Not what Marisa wanted, or what the Defias wanted, or even what Geylan or her friends wanted. Today was Conyeri day.
Eva quirked an eyebrow. "You'd make this old lady get back on her feet?"
"I can't exactly get back on mine," she retorted, gesturing with the hand that held the glass to her battered body. "Weren't there other people in here?"
"Two, Orenn and Thursly, but they left immediately after you were subdued."
"Oh." She said shortly. "What am I going to do now?"
"Well, I'm going to make soup, and you're going to decide what to do with yourself."
"Why do I have to decide?" she asked wearily, laying her head back on the floor, from which she hadn't moved since she'd fallen.
"I thought you hated people deciding for you." Eva said slyly as she pulled herself from the chair and over to the cupboards. "And don't ask me how I know that."
Conyeri stayed silent, brooding over that. Indeed, people made decisions for her, and often they were ones, in retrospect, that were bad. They didn't take her own self into account. This method was, however, easier by far for her. She could blame other people when things went wrong because of the decisions they had made. She didn't have to take the time to analyze each fork in the path before she took it. Damn, Conyeri realized- she was weak. A real pushover.
"Had any epiphanies yet?" Eva asked from where she was boiling water in a heavily blackened pot.
"Yes," she said softly, wanting to sit up. She did, though it hurt in all the wrong places. Maneuvering herself up into the chair Eva had vacated moments earlier; she leaned back in it and closed her eyes. These sorts of thing had to happen to her, didn't they?
"Don't stress those stitches too much," the older woman warned. "The ghost hair thread is wonderful, but if you pull it the wrong way it doesn't bunch up and stick into the wound." Ghost hair? Gods, this place was full to the brim with the undead.
"Can I have some clothes?" she asked, ashamed that only now she was feeling uncomfortable.
"All your Defias-issue ones were burnt, my dear. They were heavily infected with the same thing that nearly killed you."
"I'm not dead." She said to herself, feeling so scared that she had actually come so close to the end. "But it wouldn't have been the end, would it?"
"You said that out loud."
"I would have turned undead. The voice would control me like it said… I would have killed you when it asked."
Eva stiffened mid-stir. "Voice?"
"Um, when I was unconscious, a voice talked to me. Promised me some things. I said yes to it. But then no. I let it make the decision for me again…"
"You said yes? But that means that you're… she looked down at Cony. "Take your pulse for me." She did. Her heart beat steadily, and she counted for a minute.
"Sixty-five beats in a minute," she told the woman. "What did you expect?"
"That there would be no beats. You said yes to the Lich King, Conyeri. How you rescinded your agreement I have no idea, but thank the Light that you managed it, or I would be burying your instead of cooking your soup."
"The Lich King?" Cony paled. "Shit."
"Language," she said tiredly, adding some salt to the soup. "Go taken something from that dressers behind you- it has some off-shoots from my daughter inside. They should fit okay."
Conyeri eyed the polished dresser and carefully opened the top draw, her fingers coming off dusty. Eva's daughter must have left long ago, and she silently thanked her, wherever she was, for borrowing her clothes and her mother. Laid with startling neatness were dresses, soft to the touch and exquisitely patterned. Offshoots, Eva had said? No girl would leave home without these; they wee far to expensive and beautiful. Conyeri tentatively ran her hand over a deep blue and purple robe, marveling in the silver thread that wound around the cuffs.
"Take one. She doesn't want or need them any more." Eva said darkly from the stove, leaving Cony to wonder what had become of the old woman's daughter. Was she dead? Did she run away? "She was the most beautiful girl in all Duskwood."
"Her dresses are… amazing," she pulled the one with the silver stitching out and looked at Eva to seek her approval. She felt to horrible, taking someone else's belongings, and the memories connected with them.
"I sewed them," Eva said, setting the ladle down. "She doesn't need them now." Curiosity rose within Conyeri, but this was not the time to ask questions, especially seeing Eva slip into a strange melancholy. "My Mary didn't deserve her fate."
Cony fingered the sleeves of the robe and slipped it on, feeling as though a mantle of memories and expectation had fallen upon her along with it. The robe was a little too big for her at the hips and bust, obviously belonging to a woman as opposed to a girl, but other than that it was the right height for her. It has been far too long since she had worn anything that carried a semblance of girlishness, or indeed seen any of the Defias do so. Shirts, breeches, leather armour- none of it was modified based on gender. Now, she felt softer, almost more vulnerable, like the girl she would have been if all of this had never happened.
"You look like her," Eva said in the silence, her hand gripping the crystal ball in habit. "By the Light, I thought I'd gotten over all of this." She wiped a tear from her wise eyes and turned back to the simmering soup. "It'll be ready in a couple of minutes if you want to freshen up. God knows how long it's been since you had a proper bath."
"Madame Eva, I'm sorry…" she started, but the woman brought a hand up to stop her.
"Not your fault, my dear." A clattering and an infantile shout came from upstairs. Eva sighed good-naturedly. "They've smelt the soup, it seems."
"Your children?"
"Grandchildren." She corrected. "Mary is in… no state to take care of them."
Two pattering sets of feet came down the stairs, for a moment giving Conyeri a horrible flashback of the night her own home was ransacked, the sound of shoes on wood. Into view came two children, a girl and a boy, who were skipping down the stairs until they saw Conyeri next to their table. They froze, eyes wide with confusion.
"Grandma?" the girl asked, standing a good three inches over the boy. She looked the older of the two.
"Yes, Alyssa?" Eva asked, doling out the soup into four bowls, having had the forethought to cook more if the children came down.
Alyssa blanched when Conyeri smiled, or tried to in the current state she was in, at her. "Who is she?"
"This is Conyeri. She just nearly died, have the good manners to greet her," Eva was a strict grandmother, it seemed. Conyeri felt an uneasy twinge at the use of her real name, but what would children know of death warrants?
"The same Conyeri wanted alive for seven-hundred-fifty gold?" Alyssa asked, narrowing her eyes. She hadn't missed a beat. Gods, what had happened that made these children so suspicious at such a young age? Alyssa could be no older than ten, the little boy six or seven.
"Yes." Eva answered simply, laying the bowls on the table along with four spoons. Conyeri sat down and looked around the table as the children and Eva did the same, hesitating as she went to pick up her spoon.
"Light, fill us with your strength and give us hope in these troubled times. Help us to life the veil of darkness over our home and endeavor, with us, to create a bright and joyful future. This we pray."
"This we pray."
They were saying their prayers. Conyeri's family had never done that, but she could see the appeal of it. Something to hope and strive towards. The prayer though… it made her realize what kind of life people lived out here. Westfall was dangerous, for sure, with prowling beats and golems clogging up the farmsteads, but nothing like the omnipresent drape of malignance that blanketed Duskwood in its foggy darkness. The dead would not rest here, and so neither did the living, always looking over their shoulder. What a damnable existence.
The children were tucking into their soup, so Conyeri quietly did the same. She felt odd, like she was looking at a family painting from the outside. She didn't belong here, and the children knew it.
"She looks like the old pictures of mummy." The boy said suddenly, and Conyeri realized eh had been staring at her for a good minute.
"Coincidence," Eva stated simply, spooning the hot soup- chicken, Conyeri guessed- into her mouth. "She won't be here for much longer, Loghan, don't worry."
She wouldn't? That meant that Cony would have to move on again. She honestly had no idea where she would go. Not everyone was as enigmatic as Eva, willing to look past her tattoo and state to the person she was a couple of months ago. "Where will I go?"
"I can get you out of Darkshire unseen, but after than you're on your own. I can give you advice, but I don't know everything about you. In the end, you take your own road."
She took another gulp of the soup, just realizing it wad delicious and salty, the burnt rabbit and stale bread and grass she had been eating for the last week being pushed out of her thoughts in favour of the rich, creamy liquid that glided down her throat.
"The way I see it, you have three choices." Eva began. "First, you can go back to the Defias. If you didn't know, they took over Westfall and declared it their state two days ago. In the chaos, anyone could have slipped by or been taken and then escaped or such. You'd be welcomed back, if that's what you wanted. I wouldn't think any less of you for returning. Second, You find somewhere entirely neutral. The Venture Co., I believe, deals with the Defias. They're in Stranglethorn, just south of Duskwood. I don't know what you'd be to them, to be honest, but you can bet that Booty Bay won't be glad to see you."
"Last, you can hand yourself in to Stormwind. Dealing with the Defias has never been easy. You'd be put in the Stockade, which is under Defias control, though I don't know how well you'd fare. The death sentence would most likely be ignored."
"It won't. Alexton hated my father and he hates me too. I'd probably just be executed on the spot."
"True," she smiled. "But it's up to your conscience. Hand yourself in or go back to the Defias and continue the life you were living. Killing, stealing, hurting people. It's your choice."
Conyeri's stomach dropped a mile. When she said it like that, the Defias seemed worse. But she didn't want to die, again, in front of people who hated her, called her a traitor. Maybe some would even pity her. That would possibly be worse.
"There is… one other thing." Eva said hesitantly. "A hundred times as dangerous as the others."
She knew how to build up a recommendation, thought Conyeri dryly. Give them three to choose from, none that seemed particularly attractive, and then drop the one you personally think they should do. "What?"
"I can…" she looked Conyeri over with an eyes for detail. "You may look girlish, but that can be easily remedied. They're looking for a girl that fits your description… and they're busy with the recent takeover to care who goes in and out of Stormwind…"
"You want me to go to Stormwind!?" she said loudly. "Are you mad?"
"Not as yourself. As a boy. You can get a job that requires heavy labour or something. Wear your gloves; rub your hands in coal dust. They'll be as black as that cog. You can get a job on a caravan train or something out of the city. Far away."
"Is there anyone who could remove it?" she wondered aloud, touching the tattoo Marisa had magically etched into her skin. Eva shook her head.
"That curse is as powerful as they come. Can only be broken by the caster."
"Damn," she said, finishing the soup. "You did say it was the least safe."
"It is," she answered with a shrug. "But it's within my skills to make you a boy everything but physically. And, in a way, I owe it to you."
"Why? You've saved me, fed me, clothed me… I'm the one who owes you, Madame Eva." She said in common sense. "I can't pay you back for any of this."
The old woman smiled like a fox, showing yellowing teeth. "There you are wrong, my dear. If you were to do one thing for me, I'd call it all null and void." Conyeri listened closer, aware of the children silently finishing their meals. "I want you to talk to my daughter."
-
"Geylan-"
"That's Master Shaw to you," He snidely cut Dez off mid-sentence, his nose stuck into a sheaf of reports from all the towns and cities within plausible traveling distance. He was so far at Booty Bay, and as they were arranged alphabetically, not very far into his task.
"Listen 'ere, Master Shaw. I'm eight years older than you, no matter 'ow much above me ya are in the Defias. I know what's goin' on, an' what ya can't see through your emotional crap." Dez snatched the papers from his hand. Geylan, lightning-quick, tried to snatch it back, but Dez was taller than him and he was sitting down. "Listen, Shaw."
Harrman stood back, watching them. He was around the same age as Geylan, but he didn't have any of the presence Dez commanded with his brawny chest and big fists. Content to only interject if things got bad, he stayed at the entrance to the cubby.
"If you'll see 'er again, it's because of 'er, not you. If she comes back, it'll be by her own choice-"
"She won't! She's dead!" he cried angrily, his eyes red-rimmed from all the crying he'd been doing over his own failings. "She'd dead!"
"You know that about as well as you know Harrman's sister," Dez retorted, stuffing the papers into a pocket of his trousers. "So whut, she went into the catacombs? She can stealth. She's fast. The Conyeri we're talkin' 'bout would fight it out, and ya know it. Sayin' she's dead just gives you an excuse te mope."
"I'm not moping." He moped, running his hand through his hair for the millionth time that morning. "I'm being realistic."
"Pessimistic," Harrman corrected, earning a glare that would melt rock. He shrugged it off and returned to silence.
"Ya know as well as me whut Marisa was doin' te her, Geylan. 'Er parents, 'er life… they were taken from 'er by us. Well, not us personally, but the Defias, and then she had to join it? I'd want to run away, too."
"But…" Geylan squeezed his eyes shut and winced as they burned, having been open too long and reading small print. "She seemed happy."
"Marisa seems sane when ya look at 'er, but she ain't. Same, I guess, goes fer Cony." Dez put a heavy hand on Geylan's shoulder. "It ain't yer fault, ya know."
"Damn well feels like it," he growled. "You're telling me to just sit back and wait until she comes back?"
"Kinda," he admitted. "Look, Geylan, all of us care 'bout 'er, an' I know ya'd do everythin' that ya could te help, but in the end, she's her and she's been really hurt in the last couple of months. She cares fer you, and us, but I dunno if that nem… nef…"
"Negates," Harrman offered, and Dez nodded.
"Negates all the shit she's had. Look at it from 'er perspective."
Geylan didn't reply: he was thinking on Dez's words. Gods, he'd been stupid. To think that she'd stay because of him after everything that had happened. Sarah, Marisa, this whole new life that she'd been pushed into. Geylan had been so glad that he'd found someone like him, someone with sharp wit and lust for life- not that Dez and Harrman weren't his friends too, but they weren't on the same level. There weren't those instant bonds, that trust. The trust he'd thought would win over her doubt.
"I'm an idiot, aren't I?" he said quietly.
"An earnest idiot," Harrman came off the wall, his boots squeaking as he changed his centre of weight. "But an idiot nonetheless."
"Don't rub it in," Geylan sighed. "So I just go with it? Act like she never existed?"
"No," the other two said in unison. They looked at each other and Harrman continued. "Remember her and hope she comes back. If not, keep the hope up. Then, when you're older and have more lease on your actions, go after her if you still want to."
"This is getting' awful sentimental," Dez said gruffly, but he was smiling under his light beard. "C'mon Harr, I reckon we got some sense into him."
"All before lunch," Harrman grinned. "Are you coming with us? Cookie is making that goulash you like."
"No, thanks. I need to tidy this mess up," Geylan offered meekly, gesturing to the lack of discernable bed or floor in his cubby, so covered as it was by clothes and papers and knotted dried herbs and all sorts.
"Your loss," Dez shrugged and left the cubby, Harrman is tow. The youngest Shaw was left by himself, with the papers Dez had dropped by his feet on the way out. Reports from everywhere that she could have gone. Maybe Geylan couldn't go looking for her, but that didn't mean he couldn't check. Just to see.
Corin's Crossing. Useless, it was up in the Plaguelands. She couldn't be there; a gryphon cost an arm and a leg and would take at least a week. D… Darkshire. More Defias activity, ghouls, worgen, etc etc. Lake Everstill, Elwyn in general, Fargodeep mine… none of it told him anything. Frustrated, he set the papers down and started tidying his cubby, sweeping papers to the side and seeing the bed Conyeri had slept on the week before, while Marisa was away doing other things. He frowned. Marisa. How he hated that self-indulgent, childish woman. How she'd ruined things for so many people just because she had not a semblance of restraint in her body.
He contemplated bringing the mattress back to the stores and getting his money back, but in the end he kept it there. It smelled like Conyeri. Gods, he was such a sap. Once his room had some floor space again, he decided to brew some poisons. He grabbed his favourite book and set out towards the labs, meeting people on the way who gave him a hello or a salute. The mood was generally dour underground since the takeover, as less people chose to live down here now that they could go on the surface safely, and those that did were packing up anyway. Camp RUTN was no longer right under their noses, because there was no them. Was there a point in hiding when you could be outside?
Not really, but Geylan was attached to the camp. He liked Cookie's food and the sulphurous baths and the comforting stone walls around him. Adaptivity was never one of his strongest qualities. He came to the labs, where goblins hustled and bustled, their excitement palpable. Goblins were rarely so outwardly cheery, so he asked one of them what was going on.
"You don't know?" the little green creature asked incredulously while he handled a bag full of bolts onto a processing line. "We've just been given the go-ahead for the next project."
"There's a new one, already?" Project Tinker was only just setting up. Damn, the Defias moved quickly.
"We're making full use of the face we have an overland base of operations. Project Overhead. We're building a group of zeppelins to act as a permanent settlement. Untouchable, an impervious base of Defias operations." The little man replied, his eyes gleaming. Geylan was shocked. That was a big thing to move on to, from the takeover of a state that pretty much belonged to them anyway. The possibilities, though… It was like that place in the Plaguelands, the one spoken of in whispers. Naxxramas, floating in the sky. Or Archerus, the Ebon Hold. The Defias wanted their own piece of the sky. The goblin had long since scuffled off, leaving Geylan looking stupid and standing by himself.
Quickly moving to the more apothecarial side of the lab, he found an empty table and began to gather his ingredients, working methodically, keeping his mind clear of all else. The poison he was going to make was slow-acting, attacking DNA cells and changing the structure of the chromosomes. The mutated genes were then produced in all the new cells the body created, and the old cells thought them invaders and attacked them, the body effectively destroying itself. It had been a long time since he had made it, not really having much need for slow-acting poisons, but he liked to test himself. This one was particularly tricky.
"There you are, Master Shaw," came a voice from behind him that he didn't want to hear, accompanied by clanking. He was weighing out swiftthistle dust, but he abandoned it and saluted.
"Miss Du'Paige." He said stiffly, through gritted teeth. He wanted to tear her head off right now. It had been by her selfishness that Conyeri had lost her parents, her pride, and her choice.
"I have a message for you." She handed him a small envelope. Message? What was she talking about? Nobody ever sent him mail. Who could have sent him something? Conyeri? He opened it excitedly, not trusting himself with the patience to wait. The letter was inked in scratchy handwriting that definitely didn't belong to Conyeri. He deflated, hopes dashed, but read the letter anyway.
Dearest cousin,
I thought to write to you on the subject of my good luck, for you know it is not often that I have it. My employer, the noble gentleman that he is, was speaking with someone we both know, though not as well as your father, for they indeed spent much time isolated together previously. In their conversation, it came to pass that there was a job opening under this gentleman's employ, and to my great surprise, it was offered unto me! How astonished I was I cannot convey to you in words alone.
The job description is somewhat interesting, I must say. I shall be employed to the very house that your dearest father cultivated before his death at the hands of those cruel mercenaries. There, I will be attempting to befriend the young men and women who study the arts of the Light, to learn what direction that the Stewardess is taking them in. My employer, as you know, has vested interest in the training of those on the noble path. I shall be reporting back to my new employer on my findings.
I must admit, this job has come as a great surprise, but at the right time. Perhaps my family, and by extension, yours, will benefit from the profit it garners.
How is dearest Claudia fairing? She must be heavy with child by now. How I wish I could visit.
Yours,
Paulina.
Geylan stared at the letter. "Why in hell is it addressed to me?"
"It was addressed to the residence we registered under the name Daniel Howarth, which is a pseudonym you used to go by last spring, when you were posing as that merchant in Goldshire. We use it as a safehouse for contacts to send letters to, but as it was addressed straight to you, I thought it might be from someone you know. Obviously not." She snatched the letter back. "I don't understand it, but one of the coders will. Whoever wrote it must have been under real scrutiny to send such a heavily encrypted message."
"Then get it to a coder. I'm mixing poisons," he tried to keep irritation out of his voice, but failed miserably. Marisa just really pissed him off.
"That's not the only reason I'm here," she said, tucking the letter into her belt. "We have a job for you and your trainee friends. Long-term."
Long-term, translated as 'we want to get you out of the way for a while'. And the fact that Dez and Harrman (who he considered his 'trainee friends'. Maybe Jack, too) were coming with him made it more obvious. "Where is it?"
"Up north," she said vaguely. "Very north."
"Do I get a briefing or anything?" he asked, tipping the swiftthistle into one of the larger mixing bowls, which held most of the ingredients he was using.
"Marzon is briefing you. Meet him in his classroom tomorrow, ready to leave. Despite what you think, we're not getting rid of you. The Syndicate has been brash of late, and we're wondering what they're up to- they're expanding from Strahnbrad up into Silverpine Forest, and that's dangerously near the Undercity. They may hate the horde, but that doesn't stop them allying with the more dangerous things around there. Potentially, they could expand and we'd meet in the middle, so to speak."
"So you're sending me to spy on the Syndicate?" he said skeptically, pouring diluted sticky green sap into his potion, which bound his ingredients together before he put the finishing touch to it.
"Essentially." She admitted. "But it is important, and you're the best person we have for this kind of thing."
"Why not send Nightly?" he said snidely.
"Nightly's an idiot. He's got an ego the size of Stormwind. He couldn't stop himself going at one of the Syndicate, and that's exactly what we're not doing up there." She replied, idly brushing some dust off her shirt. Alt stood silent beside her, eyes roaming the room behind them and Geylan's poison in the making with mild interest.
"I agree there," he said. "I'll see Marzy tomorrow, and bring Dez and Harrman."
"Good boy," she cooed mockingly, turning on the ball of her foot and walking off, Alt trailing behind her.
Geylan sighed, hand on his hip. He guessed another mission would be good for him, but not half as fun without Conyeri there with him. He'd like to see Alterac or Silverpine, though- he'd never been that far north before. Dez and Harrman could use the field experience, also.
He dumped the last ingredient in and stirred, smiling as the liquid darkened to a tar black. He scraped it all up into a vial and corked it, feeling pleased with himself and empty at the same time.
Life would go on.
-
A/N: 50k :) It's getting there. I apolgise that this chapter had rather a lot of dialogue in it, but I hope it facilitated Conyeri's thought progression from her moment of weakness. We all have them, and I would be tempted if I was offered what she was. Nobody is perfect. Now, I'll be shifting into the next arc, but don't worry, this isn't the last you'll see of the gang together.
~Emmy