I am bad at blood elf lore. I apologize for any weird discrepancies with established stuff?
Thanks to everyone that reviewed! This was going to be a much longer chapter, but once I hit the 39 page mark I thought it might be best for all involved if it got broken in half. Strell's brother Torril gets his own pov time to shine here. :)
12/23: Went back and fixed a few typos, but I'm certain more elude me...
The house seemed more like one of the dry crypts where ashes were stored than an actual home, lately. Everything was hushed, as though some terrible beast slept below the floorboards and all feared to wake it. The servants moved about as if walking on eggshells, and even the maids and lads that normally greeted him with smiles avoided his gaze now.
Torril let his broad shoulders sag as he sighed and allowed himself one more brief moment to wallow in disappointment and anger. It was half because of this, another gossip-worthy moment courtesy of his brother, and half for Kinzal.
He was tempted to ask a servant to help him with his armor, but in the end he simply wore it out on the grounds as he continued his search. It wasn't particularly hard to spot the troll. The elf had paid attention to him and knew his favourite places to steal away when he wasn't bound to his brother. That he stood head and shoulders above every other occupant of the estate didn't hurt, either.
The blond elf spotted him at the free-standing pavilion down near the brook that fed the pond and smiled. It was a place dear to him, too, where meditation came easy and prayers felt heard.
Torril winced at his horrible clinking and clanking as he approached, suddenly regretting his choice to leave his practice armor on. Self-conscious, he started furiously scratching at the dark, crusted stain on his breastplate from a recent nosebleed. He frowned when the metal remained tinged with red-brown, and when he looked back up the troll was watching him.
The paladin suddenly felt like a crab steamed in its shell; sweat tickled his palms within his gauntlets and trickled down his back. "Hello," he greeted as he clanked closer, smiling with gritted teeth and willing himself not to flinch with each noisy step.
"Ser Dayborne," Kinzal greeted, rising to meet him. "Did dey need me back already?"
"No, I'm afraid not," the elf said, a troubled look passing over his features. "I just… thought to speak with you." Before you are dismissed and I do not have the chance, he did not add.
The tall warrior considered him quizzically but welcomed the elf to sit with him, making space on the bench that ringed the inside of the pavilion. The cushions were plump and comfortable, spun from a fabric that resisted the weather and was dyed a deep maroon. Pillows of all sorts of warm hues were scattered along the seat as well, the occasional stray leaf lying atop them.
Torril settled uneasily beside the troll. In his silent prayers at the tower, he had hoped for a friend like Kinzal.
He had watched them over the weeks from the confines of his bedroom, or the study, or the training room. What seemed an onerous burden to his brother looked like Torril's fondest dream- they painted and carved, spent hours reading and playing cards, hunted and fished in the wood and returned soaked and grinning.
But Strell had done his vanishing act again, and left his keeper high and dry. Torril had expected more anger from the troll, more disbelief, but it seemed that Kinzal had come to know his brother well. After the initial surprise of finding him missing, he had resignedly accepted it, just as he now waited for his fate concerning the Dayborne household.
Even now his parents argued over what to do with the warrior, though the paladin-in-training was unpleasantly certain of what the outcome would be. His father had a way of relenting to his mother, and she had been wroth to see that he had selected a troll to share their home; no, she would not suffer him to dwell here any longer now that he had failed his duty, impossible as it was.
Unless…
"I apologize for my family," he said quietly, his hands clasped on his lap before him.
The troll turned and offered him a wan smile. Torril felt his cheeks heat as he watched the way his blue lips stretched and curved around those thick tusks, scratched and nicked and stained a faint red. "Nuttin' ya need ta apologize for," he said with a sigh.
"No one could have stopped him leaving," the elf sighed. He stared into his lap, flexing his gauntleted fingers to keep them busy. "He holds no love for us. You were asked to keep the rain from falling," he said with a frown.
"He loves ya," Kinzal said quietly, glancing at him sidelong. "He jus'… can' bear dis place. He craves excitement it don' have. An' sometimes ya gotta leave what ya love ta realize how important it is ta ya."
Torril listened, but he didn't believe it for a moment. He had known his brother all his life. "He cares for me no more than he cares for the walls that kept him," he insisted.
The troll groaned as he settled forward, his elbows resting on his finely mailed thighs. Torril felt his gaze drawn to the copper bracelets that ringed his arms, bands interwoven and stamped with intricate lines. "I tink ya brudda does care for ya. How he shows it… is in keepin' his distance."
"I do not want his distance. We were inseparable as children."
"But now he says he da wrong sort for ya ta be seen wit," Kinzal said. His eyes are kind, Torril thought. Not at all like Clanys the gardener whispered, that they looked hard like a beast's.
The elf pressed his lips together. "But when we are not in public," he said with a shake of his head. "I don't understand why we could not have it be a secret. He keeps so many other secrets. He will sneak away to- to- to visit a brothel, or meet his friends, but not to speak with me."
He glanced up and saw the troll watching him with a torn expression.
"I apologize," he said quickly, swallowing. "I did not come here to talk of such things. I came to ask if you might still be interested in staying on here, if you were offered another job."
Kinzal's face brightened at that, and Torril's heart fluttered beneath layers of leather and metal. "Is dat da talk up in da house?"
The young paladin shook his head, his face going hot. "I did not mean to get your hopes up like that. There is no sure word from them yet," he said, his tone conveying his disappointment. "But I thought that… I mean, if you had nowhere better to go, I could ask them. It might help." It seemed silly now that he said it aloud.
"I wouldn' want ya ta get in trouble on my account," the warrior said. Torril had expected as much.
"Even if it was trouble, it would be worth it," he said resolutely.
"And what would dey keep me for?" Kinzal asked wryly.
Torril squirmed in his seat. "As… I don't know. As a friend. Not a friend," he amended quickly. "I saw you teach Strell. Iron casting and card games and raptor calls. I would like to learn such things," he said eagerly.
"Not really sometin' I'd tink dey'd need me for," he chuckled.
"Who else?" the elf asked, on the verge of biting his lip.
"If… if dat's sometin' ya really want, an' ya don' tink it'd be any trouble, den ask 'em," the troll said at last. "I'd… appreciate dat."
Torril allowed himself a grin upon seeing Kinzal's cheeks color and his head bow gratefully. "It would be nice," he murmured, "to have other things to do. Things that aren't studying or training. Not that I am ungrateful. There are many who would wish to walk my path."
The elf breathed deeply, relieved by the way the conversation had gone; he looked out of the pavilion and watched the golden leaves drift down around them. More than once he chanced to glance at Kinzal- he stared out at the trees, too, looking contemplative. His profile was striking. Severe, maybe. The shape of the warrior's nose reminded the elf a little of his own, even if of a greater size- broken several times over, his own nose was something Torril had once overheard a woman remark as the only flaw to his otherwise handsome and finely formed face.
Somehow, he doubted the troll would see his bent nose as something marring.
"Ser Dayborne," the warrior said after a few minutes had passed in silence. His amber-eyed gaze drifted back to him and the paladin felt the same swell of warmth in his gut and chest that he got from Captain Niandra. "What is it ya wanna do? Wit ya life, I mean."
Torril felt puzzled by that, and he was certain it showed on his face. "I… I will become a lord, but hopefully not for many years yet. I am nearly finished with my training. If some trouble should come to Eversong, I would defend it," he said, growing certain and proud toward the end. But doubt crept back in when the trollish warrior shook his head at him.
"I mean… what does Ser Torril Dayborne dream of? What would ya do if ya didn' have ta be a lord here?"
The blond elf swam in that question for a few long moments. Then a slow smile spread as he leaned in, as if sharing a secret. "I have sometimes imagined being sent away," he admitted shyly. "To help the Reliquary, or to the front in Northrend- not to fight," he added quickly, his cheeks going scarlet. "To... to heal. Ser Flamesbreak has said that I am adept at it." More than adept, but he didn't want to boast.
"Dere's always need for more healers," Kinzal told him with an approving nod. "It ain' work for da weak of stomach, though, not out dere," he added somberly.
"I am not as stone when I see bloodshed, but neither am I weak. I have healed many grievous wounds, and even seen some too grave to repair. My order tends the streetfolk," he explained, his eyes growing warmer. "It is part of our service as junior members. Three days a week we go to them and provide what we can- I have set the bones of urchins and cured sicknesses and even delivered babes. It is not easy work, no, nor for the faint of heart, but there is no greater reward."
"Sounds like ya enjoy it," Kinzal said, his head tilting.
"I do," Torril said, his smile beginning to fade. "But… it will end when I am made a come into the estate. It is not seemly for a lord to mingle so with the lowborn," he stated, repeating the words that he knew so well.
Kinzal shrugged. "Seems ta me like a lord could do whateva he wants. What's da point in bein' so high an' mighty if ya can' even do what ya like?"
Torril frowned at the troll's words. "Nobility is a position of obligation. Duty. We cannot rule ourselves as the baseborn do- you cannot have the power of a lord or lady but act the commoner. That is my brother's folly."
"How is healin' dem street urchins acting like a commoner? Healin' ain' beneath a lord, is it?"
"No," the paladin said at once. "No. It is… there have been lords and ladies that served indiscriminately."
"'S selfless," the warrior said approvingly. "Like you."
Torril shook his head, his brow furrowing. "Selfless… but selfish, too. It cast derision on them and their houses. To associate with the whores and thieves is to cast you into doubt, and eventually that shame spreads to the rest of the family."
"So, who do lords heal?"
"We lead," he sighed. "Anything less is an insult to a lord's house." But he thought, too, searching for words that felt right. Kinzal seemed to expect it from him. "I will… perhaps strike out on my own for it. I do not need the permission of the Light's Hand to visit the gutters and offer my aid," he said, feeling more assured of the words as he spoke them.
"Ya'd go do dat on ya own?"
The elf shrugged uneasily. "I do not see the harm. If I was anonymous, even the nobles could not be troubled by it. There are enough dark forces at work in the night. Why not one of light?"
"Why not?" the warrior agreed, another smile bringing his teeth to bare.
Torril laughed quietly, already feeling warm from the troll's attentions. It was odd to be asked so many questions, and to be expected to say so much, but he found he liked it. Especially with the warrior listening.
"Thank you," the paladin said after a moment. It was a strange feeling of contentment that filled him now, something akin to the certainty that took him when he was mending flesh or righting bone. With every moment he felt more confident that he would do these things, that he would not surrender this one passion of his. "For asking me."
"Ya remind me of one of ma bruddas," Kinzal said, leaning back and resting his arms on the pillows.
"Really?"
The troll nodded, his gaze drifting back to the leaves. "He always had a knack for helpin' people. Had a way wit da ancestors. Became a shaman an' did his healin' all over Kalimdor, til dey got swarmed in Ahn'Quiraj." He ran his hand over his vermillion arc of hair of hair and sighed. "Da next expedition through foun' da bones. But at leas' we got sometin ta burn on da pyre. More den what comes back from Northrend, at leas'."
"I'm sorry," Torril said. The words seemed small and worthless, but he said them anyway. It was all he knew how to say when it came to things like this- and that was part of why he loved to heal the sickly and the maimed. Where words fell short, his ability to piece people back together flourished, and then he could do more than say 'I'm sorry'. But this was different.
The troll nodded, his tall fan of hair bobbing. "Ya be a good kid-" He stopped himself and laughed. "I called ya a kid again. Ya older den me, aren' ya?"
The paladin nodded, a meek smile crossing his lips. "And older than Strell. Would that he had been born first… no. That was unkind of me," he said immediately, feeling his cheeks and ears grow hot. "My brother chafes under even the slightest obligation from us. How poorly he could bear to have such expectations upon him."
"He don' like nobody tellin' him what ta do, dat one," Kinzal mused. "An' he'll do anyting ta break loose, consequences be damned." He picked up one of the gold-crimson leaves that had fluttered in and landed on a nearby pillow, twirling it between his thumb and a large finger.
"It's true," Torril agreed, wondering how his mother had born two children so different.
The visit to the first tavern since his escape began exuberantly- ale flowed like the legendary Southfury as Strell found himself embraced and kissed and pulled onto the laps of his many acquaintances and admirers. He settled on a vivacious redhead for the night, grinning as he allowed her to take him by the hand and lead him up to her room when the party began to slow.
She was by no means the best he'd ever had, but after a dry two months and an agonizing few days with Kinzal, he felt relieved to be fucking anyone at all.
He stayed up until she slipped into slumber, curled up beside him, still stroking her tousled red locks. The rogue was not normally so suspicious, but his current supply of gold was all he had access to at the moment and he had grown wary after recalling all the times before that he had awoken to find whores had helped themselves to a little more coin than was agreed upon.
With her soundly asleep, he pulled his clothes back on and took up his bags, climbing out the window and crossing the rooftops until he left the vulgar district entirely.
The homes and buildings here took on a new character, all subtle shades of white and pale gold with trimmings of red, unlike the brothels and taverns that painted themselves crimson. Tendrils of vines climbed the walls, and numerous trellises aided him greatly in covering ground as he climbed.
At last Strell found the address he had been searching for. He shimmied down onto the balcony, squeezed between the topiaries, and tap-tap-tapped at the glass of the door there. Upon hearing muffled footsteps shuffling down the hall, he pressed his face to the glass and grinned wildly.
There was a high pitched shriek that quickly erupted into giggles, and within moments Effira was unlatching the lock and letting him inside.
"Sorry that I didn't have time to send you notice," he said, glancing down at the woman in her sheer, feathered nightgown.
"You reek of alcohol and sex," the blond elf laughed. "You had time, you just chose to spend it at the first tavern you crossed," she accused.
"Fair enough," he said with a wince.
"Oh, I don't blame you, darling." She hesitated for a moment. "So… you wouldn't have happened to have brought your troll friend along?" she asked hopefully, peeking around him as if Kinzal was stashed away on the balcony.
"Afraid not, Effi," he sighed, feeling a pang as he thought of the troll. "I wish I could have, but he'd drag me kicking and screaming back to that place."
"Such a shame," she agreed sullenly. "Well, let me take you to the guestroom- you will have to forgive me, I have not had the sheets pressed," she said with a blush. "If I'd had some notice-"
"Yes, yes, I'm sorry," Strell huffed. "And wrinkled sheets are the last of my concern. Thank you, Effi. I don't think my sanity could have withstood another fortnight there," he said with a tinge of bitterness. But he brushed the thoughts of recent events away and willed himself to think only of the present and beyond.
"Oh, darling," she consoled, hugging his arm. "Think nothing of it. You needn't even pay me rent- though if you stay more than a month I will expect a visit in the night from a long-tusked troll, by your courtesy."
"Light, Effi, I'm half tempted to find you one just to put an end to this pining of yours," he chuckled.
"My goodness! Well, don't let me discourage you," she giggled coyly behind her hand as she wandered off back toward her own room.
Strell shook his head as he laid out his things and began to strip, abandoning his dark traveling clothes for something a bit more festive. Even if he felt torn on the inside, he should be celebrating, and looking the part would be half the battle to get him in the festive mood.
He emerged from the guest room in black leather and a subtly shimmering silver shirt, earning him a thrilled gasp from Effi.
"Where should we go?" she asked, the piles of curls atop her head swaying as she bounced in place. "Oh, I know the most wonderful restaurant! It only opened a few weeks ago, so you haven't had a chance to go at all. Their cheapest wine is twelve gold per glass," she said with a grin.
"Oh… Effi, I can't," Strell said after a moment. Her grin fell, replaced by a mute look of confusion. "I have only what gold I took when I left, and I can't afford to be caught pickpocketing or stealing from the bank. They'd cart me straight back home," he said with an apologetic frown.
"Oh, darling, that's nothing," she said, her sweet smile returning. "I can pay your way-"
"No," he groaned, shaking his head. "Not this again-"
"Strell," she said at once, taking his hands in her own. "I may not have noble blood, or a lady's fine graces, but if there is one thing that I do have in abundance," she giggled as he pointedly glanced down at her chest, "it is gold. If I don't spend it, then it just sits there, silly."
"No, it doesn't," the rogue argued. He knew it was lost, though. He could never resist her for long. "You're constantly loaning and investing-"
"Nevermind how I fill my coffers," Effira said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I speak enough about business with my sister. I want to have fun with you. It's my gold, and I want to use it to take you out. Please, Strell? Please?"
"Fine, fine, fine," he said with a sigh. "I'm going to eat something beforehand so I don't want more than a course, though. Got any fruit?"
"Oh, you needn't do that," she huffed, but she pointed out a bowl piled high with apples and grapes anyway.
Strell plucked up a fat, red-skinned grape and popped it into his mouth, savoring the burst of ripe sweetness. He allowed himself a satisfied grin and snatched four more, tossing them back in quick succession. Was it just his imagination, or did every taste seem richer with freedom?
The restaurant was impossibly lavish, following in the trend of the new establishments that had been rising in the wake of the city's reconstruction. After so much death, decay, and war, people wanted splendor. Strell found it hard to disagree with that notion.
Everything was gilded, from the banisters to the candlesticks, with airy curtains and heavy wreaths of roses and plush chairs that made him feel he was sitting upon a corpulent cloud. And the chandeliers dripped with crystals, so many that hundreds of sparkling points of rainbow were cast throughout the dining room.
Strell could see why Effira loved the place already, but he doubted it would last a year. It was the very definition of gauche, and even the patronage of wealthy merchants would eventually ebb. The nobles would avoid it like the plague, of course.
Still, the food was pleasing and the wine was dark and sour, as he liked it.
"They have the best sautéed clams," Effira commented as they surveyed the menu. "And the cheese platters," she half growled, her eyes taking on a fervent zeal.
"You do love your cheese," the rogue replied with a half grin. "I should have brought you a wheel as a guest gift."
"Make it two," she said absently, her eyes roving the day's specials hungrily.
Strell laughed and laid down his menu, having decided on a dish of roast capon and buttered squash. "have I told you lately that I love you?" he asked, receiving a playful swat for his troubles.
He did love Effira, had been drawn to her since they'd first met at a ball, years and years ago. He had been taken by her daring and her utter disregard for the stifling conventions of such occasions; at the time, he had attributed it to a fiery disposition, though now he knew better. Effira came from a merchant family that had risen in wealth after the destruction of Silvermoon, taking over various shops in the wake of the decimation, and their unbound behavior was more from a lack of understanding of social expectations than any flaunting of them.
Still, she was the best company he could ask for, and the only person he truly confided in. It didn't hurt that Effira had inherited her mother's keen eye for business and tripled her family's fortune in a year, and with all that wealth the elvish woman knew how to have a good time.
Effi clapped excitedly as their handsome waiter popped a bottle of champagne and let it spill into her fluted glass, all the while waxing poetic on her beauty.
Strell watched it all sourly, sipping his red and glaring daggers at the slick elf as he practically draped himself over her. She was beautiful, in a way that would make her a prize at any brothel but earn her the scorn of wellborn women everywhere- voluptuous and painted up like a doll, with scarlet lips and ever-pink cheeks and clothes cut to flatter her from head to toe. There was no reason some random waiter should not pay her a few compliments, yet Strell misliked the waiter's flowery words and ushered him away with their orders.
"Strell," Effi complained as she picked up her glass. "Unless you mean to warm my bed, stop scaring them off," she said lowly.
"If these dregs are your only alternative, then you may gladly have me," he said under his breath, still staring hard at the waiter. He was pressing close to another woman now, and no doubt filling her ears with honeyed words as well.
Effira wrinkled her nose. "It would be like... like..."
"A dream come true?" he asked with a quick grin.
She kicked him under the table. "You know what I mean."
He did. They were too alike for that- she was the sister he'd never had, delightfully devious and gossipy but generous and loyal when it counted. He had a feeling they'd both just feel awkward if they ever tried. "Not him," he insisted. "Look at that snaggletooth."
"I think it's darling," she argued, smiling as she watched him pour for another table.
"I think he'd leave your bed cold and your purse empty," Strell countered.
"You think that about everyone I see."
And I am right, often as not. But he couldn't say that to her, not when he knew that she was painfully aware of that. "If my brother wasn't promised..." he said wistfully, though it was an empty thought for many more reasons than just Torril's engagement. His mother would never consent to see her precious son given to a merchant's daughter, much less one that counted Strell as a friend.
"You brother is so sweet, but I would drive him mad," Effira sighed. "He is a good man, though."
"Too good," Strell agreed. "He will make his wife proud in public, but she will weep in her lonely bed," he predicted.
"You underestimate him," Effi said with a wave. "Does he still pine for the city guard's captain?"
"Always," the rogue sniggered. "Just say her name and his cheeks glow. But he shares your interest in Kinzal."
Effira's eyebrows rose at that, and a small grin curved her painted lips. "Perhaps we would make a better couple than I thought... Still, this charming waiter-"
"Is a cretin. Look at how he fawns over that girl." He nodded in the direction of their waiter's newest woman to dote on.
"Fair enough," Effi said reluctantly, taking a long draw of her champagne. "He is no troll anyway," she added with a sigh. "Oh! I see your sweet little friend!"
"Sweet? What friends do I have that could be called- oh, it's Mistren," he said with a crooked smile as he turned in his seat and spied the younger elf.
Mistren was robed in the same slick attire as the waiters and waitresses, black trousers and tunics with white trims- though it somehow looked less striking and more frumpy on him- but his job was not to wait on the wealthy patrons. Instead, he was running himself ragged in clearing the dishes from empty tables and preparing them for new guests.
"Mistren!" Strell called toward him, wincing when the little elf nearly dropped a platter piled high with boar's rib bones at the sound of his name.
"Ser Strell," he said shyly on his approach, nervously running his hand over the fluffy blond locks that had been temporarily tamed with gratuitous use of hair wax.
The rogue licked his teeth behind his smile. "You work here now? What of your job at that florist's?"
"I still work there, too, ser," Mistren said softly, his bright eyes turned down on the floor.
"Oh, poor dear. That is too much for such a delicate boy," Effi said, in between casting cool looks at the flirtatious waiter across the room.
Strell frowned at that. "What of... the gold?" It seemed so long ago, that day at the bank, but not long enough for him and his sister to have used all hundred and fifty coins.
The boy blushed scarlet and twisted the rag in his hands, and for a quick moment Strell wanted to pull him onto his lap and batter those lips with kisses, push him down across the china and tablecloth and take him there. But the moment passed when Mistren said, "Stolen, and we'd only managed to pay the rent we had due," the elf lamented. "But... perhaps we had it coming for how we got it, ser."
The rogue sighed and slid his half-eaten bowl of soup away disinterestedly. The twins' innocence thrilled him almost as much as their fear of chastisement made him weary. "You did nothing wrong. It was my scheme. Are you both eating well?"
"Yes, Strell," the blond elf said with a tiny smile. "If you visit, we'll make you stew and dark bread, as you like."
"I will," the rogue promised, the corner of his mouth curving. "And soon." And bearing guest gifts, he thought as he noted the loose fit of the younger elf's trousers. If the pair decided to repay him with their affection, all the better.
"Best return to your work, dear," Effi added quietly. "I see a woman with a lifetime of frown lines staring this way."
"Be sure you get our table when we leave," Strell added with a wink. "Else our blighted waiter might snatch up what gold we leave for you."
Mistren beamed and bowed low as he shuffled backward, very nearly colliding with a waiter smoothly carrying two trays stacked with dishes.
The next few days passed in a blur of afternoons touring Effi's production shops with her and evenings attending dinners and parties, late mornings spent in blissful half-slumber, and stolen kisses with the comely boys and girls that stood watch along the nighttime streets- though Strell was a better guest than to bring anyone into Effira's apartments.
He had meant to find work sooner, and to visit the shady rogues that shared the secrets of thievery and daggerwork in Murder Row, but his first week of unrestrained independence had taken him hard- there were no sharp eyed servants here, nor disapproving mothers, nor keepers to hold him in check. And certainly no dark and deadly forces dragging women away in the night...
The dark-haired elf was at liberty to laze about and galavant about with riffraff as he liked, which was as exhilarating as it was tiring. For now, though, there was little more that he wanted to do than roll from his bed into the kitchen, then maybe visit a tavern of ill repute or call on Mistren and Larilla.
The rogue at least mustered the strength to walk from the guestroom rather than roll, grabbing a cold pastry from a pan atop the counter as he shambled into the dining room where Effi sat amidst a pile of papers.
"Accounts?" he asked around a mouthful of food.
The blond elf nodded absently as she scribbled numbers into a ledger. "Strell, be a dear and burn the ones over there, would you?"
A stack of letters was piled by the hearth, all of them unopened and all quite recognizable to Strell. Not this lot in particular, but he knew them well enough. Near two dozen letters here, and doubtless each one had some grievance with Effira's cut-throat manner of business.
"How are your incomes looking?" the rogue asked off-handedly as he tossed the complaints into the feeble fire.
"Splendid. The crafting guilds are as quarrelsome as ever, of course," she added with a touch of bitterness, "but it is no cause to worry. I've had a new loom designed, actually, one that promises even better production. The old tailors will fall even further behind my girls..."
Strell smiled at that. Effira loved nothing more than efficiency, except perhaps gold; not even the sorrowful complaints of dozens of impoverished artisans could sway her from her pursuit of it. "I am not certain what skills I could offer, but-"
"Oh, darling, I would never hire you," she said at once, folding her slim hands in her lap. "I never hire friends. It makes it so much harder to send them away when they don't meet expectations. But that should be of no concern to you- you have my home and my purse, as ever. If you need gold, simply ask!"
The rogue smiled gratefully to mask his mild disappointment. Having to ask for gold was just another tether, and Effira had done more than enough to aid him already. He would seek employ somewhere...
Once I get settled, he told himself. Strell straightened out his wrinkled shirt as best he could before settling down in a chair next to Effi.
He stuffed the last of the pastry into his mouth and frowned as he picked up a crimson envelope from the table. "What's this?" he asked, flipping the offensively bright letter over and raising his eyebrows at the wax seal that displayed a rose in full bloom.
Effira cupped her blushing cheek with a hand. "Oh, another letter from my mysterious gentleman caller," she sighed. "So romantic…"
Strell did not like that at all. "A red envelope? Crass," he commented as he broke the seal and fished out the note inside.
"It's not crass, it's a sign of his passion for me," she protested. "Yes, go on, read it. You'll find he's a true and proper gentleman, and a lovely poet besides."
"Oh, a poet," he said with mock admiration. "Such a rare gift! I certainly never hear lordlings string together a half-dozen rhyming phrases and then name themselves 'poet'," he muttered scathingly, earning himself a furious frown from his host. He flipped the letter open and gave it a cursory glance over. "Doesn't look like it was penned by a three-fingered hand," he noted. "I'm surprised you manage to harbor interest for anything that isn't seven feet tall and blue-skinned at this point."
"Oh, don't be silly, Strell," she chided as she went back to her sums. "It's like you with your pursuits- fun for a time, but not to settle down with. This is a man I could marry," she exclaimed, pressing a fluttering hand to her ample chest.
"And what does this charming man write to you of?" the rogue asked as he set to reading. His sneer grew more pronounced as the seconds ticked by. "Oh... really, Effi?" he asked with an exhausted sigh.
She snatched the letter from his hands and read it herself. "What's wrong with this?" she nearly screeched. "'But the roses of my garden can comfort me no more, for I have lain eyes upon the sweetest blossom of them all. Soft as petals and with hair gold as sunshine, lips as red as the blood drawn by thorns- how can any flower compare to your beauty? I beg your favor, sweet rose, to meet me at last-' What's bad about that?"
"It's terrible writing, that's what," Strell argued. "And how did this man come to know of you?"
Effira giggled to herself and glanced down at her lap demurely. "Well, he first saw me out at the market, and being made too shy by my elegance he followed me home and took my address," she explained as she smoothed out her fluffy skirts under the table. "When he worked up the nerve to write me, he spoke of how the sight of me in that bustling bazaar caught him off-guard- how out of place I looked among the peons! And now he writes me weekly," she said with a happy sigh.
"And do you write him back?" Strell asked with an arched brow, markedly less taken by the mysterious suitor's romantic flair than his friend was.
"Oh, no, of course not, not after I responded to the first letter," she said as though it was obvious. "Such a familiar exchange with a noble I have never even met? It would be unseemly."
"How do you know he's actually a noble?" the rogue asked suspiciously.
"Strell," she chided, flashing him the letter, "do you really think some commoner could write like this?"
"Yes," he said as he snatched the parchment. "I do. There is an entire community dedicated to deceiving the wealthy out of their fortunes, Effi, and their forgeries regularly fool even the guards at the justice building. I would know," he muttered, snatching up an apple and taking a noisy bite out of it as he scanned the sappy letter.
"I do not know why you cannot just be happy for me," Effira said quietly from her chair, her gaze steady on her small gloved hands as she slowly spun her pen. A bit of black ink dribbled from the tip and stained the white lace on her fingers.
The fire in the hearth was crackling away merrily now, well fed by the letters the rogue had disposed of. It made the small dining room a bit too warm, but neither of them made any move to put it out or open a window.
Strell's eyes softened after a moment, and he sighed. "I will be happy for you once he has made his intentions open and courted you as is befitting a woman of your station," he said as rose and stood beside her chair to hug her. "You deserve to be dined with and taken to parties, not treated as a secret penpal."
A slow smile curved Effira's pink-painted lips. "Thank you, Strell. B-but… I am not of noble blood," she reminded him, her voice wavering. "Such a courtship is not something I can demand."
The rogue scoffed. "It is almost fashionable now for nobles to marry into new wealth," he told her truthfully. "The lords you seek will look at you, then your bank vault, and then take a knee to propose."
"Well," she said with a little laugh. "That is what I want."
"Then you should have it," he told her as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "But... see that you make them work a bit harder for your hand, and always keep hold of the purse strings."
"Oh, Strell. You know I would sooner choke a man with my purse strings than let him take them from me," Effira said with a sharp grin as she dripped hot honey-gold wax onto a letter and sealed it.
Strell shrugged out of his cloak as they dragged themselves through the door, exhausted from a night of dancing and carousing and one very ill-thought out plan to go frolic naked in the fountain in the Court of the Sun.
Effira's makeup had run in such a fashion that she looked half a monster, her eyes dripping black and the scarlet on her lips so smeared that she looked as though she'd gone cannibal.
"Not waterproof in the least," she said in a strangely flat voice as she passed the mirror in the entryway and stopped to survey the damage. The pale curls normally stacked upon her head had gone limp and fell in bedraggled clumps to her shoulders, and at some point during the evening her feathered blouse had been stolen. Now she was dwarfed in the silky undershirt that Strell had been wearing underneath his own attire, with her cloak wrapped tightly about her for good measure.
"These friends of yours are idiots," the rogue complained as he kicked off his soggy boots and frowned at the dirty stain they had left on the carpet.
"We both followed them in, so what does that make us?" Effi asked as she set to plucking pins from her hair and making ghastly faces in the mirror. In truth, she seemed almost delighted by the frightful appearance of her makeup, but maybe that was the lack of sleep and the waning influence of the wine.
"Drunken idiots," he said, and they both chuckled softly. The cold spray of fountain water had sobered them quickly enough, as did the sudden screeching of the magical wards set up to protect the royal fountain from such follies.
Strell frowned as he felt something stick to his damp foot, and when he glanced down he saw a red corner peeking out from under it.
"Oooh, another letter from your dark and mysterious suitor," he teased as he tossed her the sealed red envelope that had been dropped through the mail slat.
"Oh, splendid!" Effi cackled as she slid a long nail under the flap and tugged it open, now sounding as deranged as she looked.
Strell groaned as he stumbled into the guest room and tore off his shirt. It had been ruined when some overly flirtatious friend of Effi's had slid up against him, eager to seduce- so eager that he didn't realize his lit roll of bloodthistle was pressing into Strell's shirt until it started to smoke and smolder.
He balled up the burned silk and threw it into the bin in the far corner, frowning as he recalled how much that particular shirt had cost. He didn't like the idea of having Effi buy him clothes, but perhaps a discount on some of her merchandise...
A sudden shriek from the other side of the wall made Strell pop his head out of the guestroom, eyes wide in alarm. He had a dagger at his hip and another, slimmer one up his sleeve, and both were in hand within a heartbeat. "Effi?"
But Effira stood alone in the entryway. She had covered her mouth with both hands and stood with her back pressed against the wall, eyes trained fearfully on the parchment lying opposite her on the floor.
"Effira? What is it?" Strell asked as he flew to her side, sheathing his blades so he could hold her close as she continued to draw slow, shallow breaths through her fingers.
"The l-l-letter," she wailed, pointing a shaking hand at the offending piece of post. "H-how dreadful," she cried into the back of her hand, further smearing her lipstick as she tried to wipe her nose and mouth.
Strell took one of her hands and squeezed it tightly, hoping to reassure her as he bent to pick up the letter. From here he could see that it looked… muddled, the script sloppier. No, that wasn't right- when he pulled it closer he saw that it was as elegant and controlled as ever, but the ink had blotched along the edges and bled from the swirled Thalassian letters as if it had been handled before drying completely.
He gingerly picked up the letter between his thumb and forefinger. The rogue could smell it, as sharp and pungent as a fresh cut.
Not ink. Blood.
Torril liked the sound of Kinzal's voice. He liked it better than his own, truth be told. There was something lyrical about the way that he said things, the way his words seemed to roll out in that deep, smooth tenor. Sometimes Torril would close his eyes and imagine that he could feel everything the troll said wash over him like waves of saltwater.
The warrior's accent had taken time to understand, though. More than once he found himself smiling and nodding and hoping the troll didn't ask for his opinion on whatever he'd just said; if Kinzal noticed, he was kind enough to not draw attention to it, and they somehow managed to hold long conversations anyway.
The warrior told him about Orgrimmar (it was hot and dusty and smelled like swine, mostly), about the Barrens (where there was grass so tall that even he could barely see over it), and about his experiences adventuring across the continents and into Outland (which involved fetching things and killing various beasts more often than not). On a few occasions he had found items of note, like armor that fetched a fair price in the cities, but mostly it seemed like an endless shuffling from one village to the next, taking silver and leftover armor in exchange for handling their problems.
Torril had few such experiences to share- he'd never left Eversong, but for the time they had taken to the sea after fleeing the country for the coast- and so he thought he would have had nothing to say at all. Somehow, though, Kinzal coaxed stories out of him that he'd never have thought to tell.
The troll seemed curious about paladins, and was courteous about the Light, though he preferred not to speak of where he placed his own faiths. Torril was glad to tell him the lessons he'd learned with the Light's Hand from the handful of renowned paladins that remained after the Third War. He told Kinzal how it felt when the Light coursed through his blood, as if the sun itself had poured into him- and what it was like to heal. That was harder to explain in words.
"It's like being a channel for water, or a rod for lightning," he said as he sat cross-legged beside the warrior on the grass. "It's... do you mind if I just..." The young paladin raised his hands and let them hover a foot above blue skin, his fingertips curling questioningly.
"Go righ' ahead," the troll grinned. "I got me a blister on ma heel, if ya don' mind," he chortled amusedly, wriggling his thick toes.
Torril's lips moved silently as he drew the Light toward him, a faint golden shimmer surrounding each of his hands. He laid them flush against the bare skin of the warrior's long, sinewy leg, just below his knee. "Do you feel it?" he asked, his face flush with excitement.
Kinzal nodded, his eyes wide at the dusting of light that danced over his skin.
"That's how it feels, but stronger. I don't even sense myself right now, or only barely- I'm as vast as the sky," he said softly, drawing in a deep breath. "Light as the wind. I always picture golden clouds roiling in the heavens, and myself among them..."
He let his hands curl into loose fists as the flow of Light to the troll slowed and stopped, though he felt it linger on inside of him, a tingling warmth that made the burden of his plate grow light and let his heart soar.
The warrior's lips peeled back in a smile that softened his eyes. "I wouldn' wish Northrend on anybody, but ya'd be good dere," he murmured.
Torril smiled uncertainly. "The Scourge... it would be good to see them defeated. To have a part in it, I mean. But... it's a terrible place, is it not?"
"Terrible," the troll agreed, "an' cold. Never enough light up dere."
The thought made the elf shudder. He'd grown so used to the ever-warm air of Eversong that he wondered if he would ever manage to survive in a lightless place like Northrend. "There is the Ghostlands here, and the Dead Scar..."
"Every time I see it, I tink of Dragonblight an' Zul'drak," Kinzal confessed, that far-off look slipping into his eyes.
"It's a distressing reminder to all," Torril said softly. He rose from the sun-warmed earth and offered his hand to the troll. "Come, we should visit the pavilion. The trees are in bloom- honeyblossoms. You'll swear you had a pot of honey right under your nose," he added with a quick smile.
The paladin pulled in a silent breath as the troll took his hand firmly and levered himself up. His skin was calloused and burned with warmth, the strength in his fingers undeniable.
They walked toward the thinly forested area that sheltered the pavilion, down at the bottom of the hill that their house crested. Torril was pleased with himself for suggesting it, and even happier that Kinzal had agreed.
Sometimes the troll would begin to speak of his own time in Northrend- never for very long, but enough that Torril began to understand his personal reasons for fleeing back south. It always left him sullen and sad after, it seemed, and the elf thought it best to distract the warrior before whatever dark thoughts that plagued him settled in.
He was used to it, in a way. His order often found straggling adventurers returned from the frigid continent waiting on their steps, pleading for some healing or potions or prayers to fix what was awry inside of them. But there was no elixir to mend that, no way to right the wrongs and horrors they had witnessed. The kindest thing was a gentle sleeping draught, but even that proved problematic. The last thing we need is another addiction, he thought, reminding himself of the words Alliser Goldensong had once muttered to him when they had been forced to turn away the haggard veterans begging before the order's house.
They'd had to do that before, too, in the first months after the Scourge had descended upon them. Perhaps a handful of elves had survived the undead occupation, hidden in cellars with rats or underneath rubble and bodies, just fortunate enough to go unnoticed; but the bulk of the populace crying for help had come from elves returning to the city after their flight, like him and his family, distraught over the loss of their homes and friends and family. Nightmares plagued them, though few had them worse than those brave mages who helped clean and rebuild Silvermoon...
Kinzal had the nightmares. Torril had long suspected it- the dark beneath the troll's eyes spoke of restless nights, and few who had served where he had came back without such scars- but it wasn't until they were both lulled into a nap by the baking sun during a trip through the woods that he knew for certain.
The warrior's shouts had awoken him from a deep sleep and a warm dream of drifting under the ocean waves, but Torril's sleepy stupor had cleared immediately as he watched the troll writhe and wrestle with some nightmarish force that only he could see. The paladin knew better than to interfere, thanks to one similar incident years ago that had ended with his first broken nose, instead waiting until sweat dotted Kinzal's brow and his movements stilled to wake him.
The troll had had little choice but to admit it after that, and added that he'd become accustomed to taking sleeping potion during Strell's recovery from his fall.
Torril wasn't terribly surprised by that. He had seen the relief such potions gave to people that carried these dark dreams... and the lengths they would go to in order to get it. Often he had drawn guard duty over their stock of sleeping draughts and pain potions, and more than once he'd had to incapacitate desperate, would-be theives. "There is no shame in that," he had assured the warrior. "But such medicines are powerful, and deadly, and... addictive."
"An' expensive," Kinzal had added with a toothy smile.
The paladin nearly winced to think about it now. Kinzal was large, but even orcs and tauren had been known to drift into endless sleep from accidentally swigging too much draught. Besides, there were other ways to lessen the pains of terrible memories- ones that Torril was determined to see through.
The pavilion was one of the elf's favourite places on their estate, surrounded on all sides by thin, delicate trees with golden bark. In bloom, the boughs dripped with white-gold honeyblossoms, and you could peel apart the petals to find fat drops of nectar to taste with the tip of your tongue.
It was the perfect place for good memories to be made, ones sweet enough to block out the old, no matter how haunting.
Kinzal pulled his thick-bladed broadsword from the sheath on his back and held it out one handed, as comfortably as if it had been wood and paint rather than gleaming cobalt and steel. A falling honeyblossom landed on the flat of the horizontal blade and the troll grinned.
"Are you going to spar with the flowers, or me?" the paladin asked with a shy, teasing grin as he pulled out his own sword- it was shorter, with a curved taper toward its tip, but his nimbleness made up for the warrior's greater reach. He felt heat rise in his ears and cheeks as the troll laughed and tipped his blade to the side, dumping the blossom onto the ground that was littered with them.
Kinzal had echoed one of Torril's mentors in urging him not to let his swordsmanship fall behind his healing, and the elf was grateful for it. He'd been trained by esteemed paladins for years, had all the technical skill they could impart... but little actual testing in battle. On guard duty he warded off feebly armed commoners and rogues with cheap daggers that bent and snapped against his heavy plate, and in training he learned honorable combat.
Kinzal, however, was not above using tricks that the paladin's mentors would have decried. Their first few bouts had been a painful lesson in how much he had yet to learn, but the troll was a thorough teacher. Torril managed to use a few of Kinzal's tricks against him this time, finding the sun and angling himself to make the glare from his polished plate and sword into a weapon itself. Torril liked that trick well enough- it was just another way to use the Light, wasn't it?
The warrior cursed him, though, loudly and angrily... and proudly. But maybe that had been a trick too, because in his glee over having successfully bested the troll at his own game he lost sight of the warrior's long blade. Kinzal walloped him with the flat of it right on the side of his rear, so hard that Torril felt the welt rising even with all of his plate and leather.
"Trolls have no paladins," Torril stated afterward, when they were laid out in the pavilion with their swords next to them, their breathing finally slowing. He felt sore all over, especially on his hip and backside, but it was a good soreness, the sort that led to strength.
"Nah," Kinzal said with an easy shake of his head. "The rest of ya don' need 'em."
"The rest of us?" the elf asked, raising his head from the pillow to stare at the troll.
Tusks and teeth flashed in a broad smile. "A troll paladin'd be unstoppable. Erryone else'd jus' have ta quit, mon."
"You're saying trolls would make better paladins?" Torril asked incredulously, a half smile on his lips.
"'M sayin' dat trolls are better everyting," Kinzal chuckled. "An' da day da Darkspear get some paladins is da day our empire rises."
The elf chucked a pillow at the warrior's grinning face. "So long as you crush the Amani," he allowed.
"Of course we'd do dat," the troll said with a disgusted expression. "Amani, Gurubashi, Drakkari- who needs 'em?" he spat.
They lazed in a drowsy afternoon half-slumber after that, with Torril letting his eyes go unfocused as he watched the drifting petals and leaves from the trees and Kinzal idly stroking his tusks as he stared at the wooden ceiling.
"What's fo' dinner tonight? 'M already hungry," Kinzal said perhaps twenty minutes later, arching his back up from the cushions as he yawned.
"I think mother and father have some engagement," the elf answered. With my betrothed's parents, was what he didn't add. It never seemed right to think of her when he was with Kinzal. She was kind and gentle and had never done him any wrong, but... "We can ask the kitchen to make what we like. I recall the cook saying he'd recently gotten a few smoked geese," he offered.
"Sounds good," the troll said with a content smile, his eyes drifting shut.
"You can eat the flowers, you know," he added, rolling himself over until he lay flat on his stomach, his head pillowed on his folded arms. "The honeyblossoms. If you're so hungry right now."
Kinzal plucked one up from where it had fallen on a fat pillow and glanced over at him questioningly. "Da whole ting?"
"If you like," Torril said with a shrug. "But what I like to do is just drink the nectar. Here, look. We'll need to find one that hasn't fallen yet- those are the best, always."
Kinzal groaned as he pushed himself up and followed the elf out under the trees, his bare feet crushing fallen petals and strengthening the sweet scent of the flowers in the air.
Torril jumped in place as he tried to reach the blossoms hanging from a drooping branch until Kinzal laughed and plucked one for him, not even needing to stand on his toes to reach it.
"You open it like this," the young paladin-in-training instructed as the warrior leaned close to watch him gently peel back the petals. When the last of them was pushed away, the blossom made a sort of cup around a large, glistening droplet of honey-sweet nectar. "Then you just drink," the elf said with a tentative smile, glancing away as he poured the pale amber liquid onto his tongue.
He watched as Kinzal picked his own blossom to try with, though his large fingers crushed the center of that one and he had to pluck a second. Torril helped that time, his smaller, nimbler fingers opening it up for the troll.
"Tastes as good as it smells," the warrior said as he tried it, and then the rest of the blossom as well. "But ya right... 's better witout da petals. We should bring a few back, I tink. Dessert, eh?"
Kinzal chuckled as he grabbed hold of the branch and shook it, sending a cascade of white flowers down onto himself and the elf.
Torril managed to catch a dozen or so in his arms, but more seemed to have settled in his hair, the ones with sticky nectar seeping out of them clinging to the golden strands. The warrior apologized and began picking them loose while he tried to stifle his grin, his large hands gentle as he combed through the elf's flaxen hair.
And Torril dropped the honeyblossoms in his arms and stood up on the tips of his toes, pushing himself up until he was able to meet Kinzal's lips with his own.
He had kissed before, but never like this. Kinzal used his lips, his tongue, his teeth. He tasted like honey and smelled like salt and the crushed petals, coppery and tangy and sweet. Torril pressed himself closer to the towering troll, feeling alight with a smoldering flame wherever they touched.
Was it better than the wash of Light that he felt when healing? His head swam as he tried to decide, his thoughts pushed aside one by one until he was left with none at all, and nothing to distract him from the sensation of rough tusks dragging across his skin as Kinzal twisted and turned his head to better take his mouth.
One of his hands had found its way to the troll's abdomen, slipping under leather and cloth to brush against skin. Torril shuddered as his fingertips trailed over the rises and dips of defined muscles, rough scars, and coarse hair. This is like what Strell does, he decided, though the realization was not enough to convince him to stop just yet.
But he would. He told himself so, even as he pressed eagerly against the troll's larger frame. He had vows, and though he wasn't breaking them yet, he was leaning against them hard- vows that had no room for kind-hearted troll warriors...
Just another moment, and then I'll stop, Torril assured himself as he ran the tip of his tongue along Kinzal's.
He was so enthralled with every touch and taste of the warrior that he never noticed the prying eyes of the gardener, nor saw her turn and flee toward the east wing.
Shit will actually begin to go down starting next chapter.