Thank you to everyone that's taken the time to review and let me know what you think!
I'm sorry for any typos or weird breaks with established lore, I should have disclaimer'd at the beginning to let you know that I don't know what I'm doing.
The city guardswoman took Effira's letter and slipped it into a slender evidence book. "I am sorry you had to see this," she sighed as Effira continued to dab at watery eyes.
"It's just so morbid," the elf replied, absently adjusting the pile of pale, disheveled curls atop her head. "Whose blood is it?"
"We cannot know until we consult… specialists," the guard said hesitantly, her metal clad fingers briefly strumming against the gilded helm in the crook of her arm.
Warlocks, Strell thought from his shadowy hiding place behind one of Effira's bookcases. They could identify the blood if they had a sample to compare it to, if they had a body...
His brow furrowed at the thought, and for a moment he wondered again if they should have called out to the night patrol as soon as they'd found the bloody letter. Seeing the lieutenant in her gold-chased armor at Effira's door had been the first sign that something was amiss...
"Should I be frightened? Will the guard assign me a protector until this horrible man is revealed?" Effira asked desperately.
The guard shook her head and tried to calm the other elf. "Officially, there is no further recourse for you, miss," she said slowly. In a quieter, more conspiratorial tone, she added, "But the guard captain has asked that I take a week of leave to ensure your safety. I will not wear my guard colors, but I assure you that my partner and I will be ever near."
"Th-thank you," the tear-streaked elf replied, looking extremely grateful.
"As an added precaution, I would advise you avoid traveling alone for now. It would perhaps be safer to move in with a friend, someone whose address this malefactor is not familiar with, if not leave Silvermoon altogether."
"Leave Silvermoon?" Effira said in shock. "I cannot... my business," she muttered. "It would go to pieces without me here, I am certain."
"Have you someone reliable to stay with?" the guardswoman asked.
"Yes… yes, my sister," Effira said absently, her eyes vacant. "She is located in the Goldriver area."
The orange-haired guard nodded once, her long ears bobbing with the action. "I will be patrolling your apartment until then," she said, placing a gauntleted hand gently on the shaking elf's shoulder.
"Will you continue? Once I leave for Trilly's?"
"Yes, miss," she replied with another nod. "If you do not mind, the guard captain would also like to set up surveillance here once you are gone, in case your unsavory suitor decides to attempt a break-in, unawares that you have left," she explained.
"Oh, of course you may," Effira said with a sad little nod. "Just mind the cabinets. All new china, you know." She sobbed into the back of her hand, trying in vain to stifle her cries.
"My name is Valania," the guardswoman said as she helped Effira to stand. "Please, miss Dawnchase, begin making your arrangements and packing your things. You'll have until tomorrow morning to ready yourself, and then my partner and I will come to escort you to your sister's post haste. Until then, we will not allow anyone to enter your home unchecked."
Effira nodded and bit her lip, and even without seeing Strell knew she'd gotten lipstick on her teeth again. It had always been a bad habit of hers.
"Will you be alright spending the night here, miss?" Valania asked. "You will be safe," she assured the shaking woman, "but I would not fault you for being frightened to be alone. Are you in need of company?"
"No, I will be fine for one more evening, thank you," Effira said with a tight voice.
Guardswoman Valania bowed and turned to leave. She stopped just before closing the door. "Thank you for contacting us, miss. It's my honor to ensure your safety," she said stiffly, though her eyes remained soft. "Goodnight, miss Dawnblaze. Lock and bar your doors, and answer to none but me. We will be close."
The door shut with a click, and within seconds Effira had crossed the room to lock and bolt it.
"Strell?" she asked in a whisper.
The rogue slid out from behind the bookcase, approaching her with open arms. "Effi, I'm so sorry," he said in stunned disbelief.
"And here I thought I might be overreacting, as usual, when we called on the guard. Dramatic Effi! Always turning a molehill into a mountain," she shrugged. And then she sobered. "I wish I had been. I wish… I wish I had not dressed so extravagantly in the market," she said despondently. "So gaudy, so gauche. Red lips and jewels. No wonder he saw me in the crowd... This would never have happened to a lady, all restrained and refined. It is little wonder that they mock me."
"Nonsense," Strell scoffed, tugging her close and forcing her to look up and meet his eyes. "You have done nothing wrong, Effi. Nothing to deserve the attentions of some twisted killer, certainly. And you needn't worry- the guard is looking after you, and I am here. Captain Niandra may have a stick up her arse, but she's a good guardswoman and she'll catch this villain, just you wait."
"Oh, Strell… I didn't even think- when I told them they could stay here," she said at once, worry drawn across her face. "Where can you stay now? I can give you enough for a few nights at a tavern-"
"No, don't concern yourself," the rogue chided. "It is my trouble. I will call on Lirella and Mistren- I have been meaning to for quite some time," he added with a hint of a smirk.
"You scoundrel," Effira sighed, a hint of good humor returning to her. "Do not spoil their innocence too much, Strell. Now come help me pack, would you? I would like to leave here as soon as possible. I have much to tell Trilly," she lamented.
He followed her into her bedroom, helped lift her traveling trunk onto the bed, and then obediently folded and sorted through clothing as she directed him.
"Effi?" he asked as she handed him stacks of bills and promise notes and deeds to tuck into her trunk.
"Yes, darling?" she asked, the strain in her voice audible.
"I didn't tell you this before," he said haltingly, "Part of me feared I had imagined it all, that it was only really real in my own mind. Or maybe I just wanted to believe that..." He told her of the events at his family's estate that had left him so disturbed- the woman in the white gown, the dark shadow that had dragged her kicking and screaming toward the woods, that had beaten her relentlessly. And the cold gaze that he had felt upon him when he followed…
"Strell," she gasped. "And you did not tell the guard?" she asked urgently.
"My mother forbade it. She… she said I had hallucinated it. Everything returned to normal so quickly," he murmured, his eyes downcast. "Like it had never happened. It... it made more sense that I'd made it up. How else could something so horrible happen there?" He groaned at himself, feeling more and more foolish. "Only Kinzal spoke of it. He didn't just want me to forget…"
"Did you tell him anything? Before you left?" she asked quietly.
"No. No, he'd have realized I was planning something," he said stiffly. "I just… I just left. Not even a goodbye," he muttered, a heavy sense of guilt washing through him.
Effira was silent as she continued to stow her things away in her trunk. At last, as she piled powders and colored pigments on top of the laces and silks, she said, "I think you should go to the guard captain tomorrow. Tell her what you saw. Ask that she not speak of your appearance to your family in exchange."
"She still might turn me over to them anyway," he said with a sigh. "I am not on good terms with her."
Effira nodded, as straightforward as ever. "But this is more important, you understand?" She looked Strell in the eye, unflinching. "Whatever they tried to convince you, however much they tried to pretend otherwise, something happened there that night."
A chill crept up the rogue's spine as a pale figure flashed in his mind, wet with tears and rain.
"Someone is likely dead because of it, and I cannot help but feel that what you saw is connected to… this," she sneered, her doll-like face twisting uncharacteristically. "Trust in yourself, Strell," she added with a fond look. "You have a good head on your shoulders, darling, and a good heart in there, too."
She snapped down the lid of the trunk and secured it with a heavy lock so well-crafted that it would have sorely tried the rogue's patience.
She didn't have to ask Strell to stay in her room with her. He wordlessly locked the door and then pulled the heavy trunk in front of the door as a barricade. With half a dozen knives on his person, he laid down beside her and stared up at the ceiling, crossing his legs and folding his hands over his middle.
"Thank you, Strell," she murmured as she buried her face against a cream colored pillow, one large green eye still peering over at him.
"Good night, Effi," he said with a gentle smile.
They said their goodbyes quickly the next morning, and as lieutenant Valania and the other guardsman arrived at Effira's door to shuttle her to her new home, Strell slipped out to the balcony and dropped onto a nearby rooftop.
He knew the path to the justice building by heart- he had been led there dozens of times, shackled and drunk and in various states of undress. He moved there now with a sense of purpose heavy in his heart.
When he failed to flirt with either of the guards at the entrance, they seemed to realize it as well. Syrel- an easygoing elf with a nasty scar from a burn spread across one cheek- led him down the halls he knew so well, his usual grin exchanged for a concerned half-frown.
"Captain," said the lanky guard as he rapped against the doorframe of her office.
"Yes, Songstrike?"
"A certain Dayborne is returned to us," Syrel said with a little nudge to the rogue.
Guard Captain Niandra turned from the window, her eyes wide as they settled upon Strell. "Dayborne," she sighed. "Your father has been worried sick about you," she said sternly, though there was relief in her eyes as well. "Thank you, Songstrike. I will handle him now."
The guard saluted her and left, pulling the door shut behind him.
"I'm not here about that," he said quickly, already crossing the room toward her. "And I ask that you don't send for my father-"
"You are a lordling gone missing," Niandra said flatly, "and you belong in your father's care, not running amok in my city and getting embroiled in matters of blood-"
"Please, Captain," he said urgently, licking his lips as he reached forward and grabbed her hand, anything to make her stop and listen. "It's about these murders." For murders were what was going on- he'd pieced together that much from the lieutenant's visit, even if there was little gossip of slayings on the streets.
His words made her lips thin into a tense line, and in her silence the rogue recounted his tale of the woman he had seen by the woods of the estate, her bludgeoning and the dark figure responsible for it.
"Yes, I am aware, Dayborne," she said heavily, wrenching her hand away and turning back to the window.
"You know?" Strell asked in surprise. "B-but… my mother tried to sweep it under the rug-"
"Yes, I am aware of that as well," the captain muttered, her face darkening. "Thankfully, your father sent me a letter by messenger the morning after. I am aware. It's just that there is little I can do," she said as she pinched the bridge of her nose.
"What do you mean? Can't you go… search for her? For a body? Anything?"
"Dayborne. My hands are tied. My men and women are stretched thin. I cannot reveal all of the details to you, Strell, but know that I am pursuing as many leads as I can."
"It seems like you're not revealing any details at all. To anyone," he said with a touch of irritation, thinking of Effi more than the welfare of the public at large. "You said it yourself- your guards are spread thin, and it's a hard thing to prepare yourself against a threat you know nothing of."
"Take it up with the wellborn council," Niandra said sharply, and Strell knew he'd hit a sore spot. "It's all I can do to encourage the cityfolk to exercise caution without the council breathing down my neck about 'inciting needless panic'. Wait for some lord or lady's child to be the next slaughtered, their tune will change," she said bitterly. A moment later she inhaled sharply, looking abashed. "I didn't mean... I apologize-"
"No, I know how they are," the rogue said with a sympathetic look. "A few urchins and whores disappearing is nothing worth upsetting the public over..."
"Yet the victims aren't prostitutes or smugglers, none that we'd normally chalk up to Arcelia or other nefarious sorts. They are merchants and merchant's daughters, crafters and crafter's sons. Washerwomen and stable boys and would-be rogues... and every one of them sin'dorei." Niandra spared a glance up at Strell, the press of her lips softening just slightly. "No lordlings or young ladies yet, but mark my words- he grows bolder."
Strell thought of the crimson letters and grimaced. Just how close had Effi been to receiving a visit from her bloody suitor? "Thank you for sending guards to look after Effira."
Niandra looked up and gave him a small, tired smile. "I should have known you'd hide in her shadow," she said with a soft snort. "And no thanks is required. I was ecstatic to send someone in time. The lieutenant was practically barreling out of here to reach Miss Dawnchase before anything could go awry, and her partner, too. That is one life preserved," the guardswoman muttered, a brief and weighty silence descending. "There are too few of us left for this," she said, her fist clenching.
"How many?" he asked, almost nervous to hear the answer.
"Counting your woman in the woods?" the guard captain asked, the shadows under her eyes pronounced as she glanced up from her desk. "Twelve. Light preserve us, twelve within the last three moons, and that's only the ones we know of. Hawksong and Goldenbreeze pour through the records of disappearances and unclaimed dead even now, but separating this slayer's work from runaways, common slaughter, and Arcelia's dabbling in slave-trade is no small feat." She sighed, her brow creasing as she looked at him. "I've filled your mind with far too much darkness, Strell. I am sorry. I forget how young you are."
"It's not like I'm an innocent," the rogue said with a quick grin to cover his disquiet.
The captain almost seemed to shudder at that, her whole body sagging slightly. "You're not as worldly as you think, Dayborne, and I'd like to keep it that way. You'd be best served by returning home and attending to the rest of your studies. That is my parting counsel to you."
"You're not going to tell my father, are you? You promised," he said quickly, his knee knocking into the chair in front of her desk in his hurry to draw close in supplication.
"I made no oath to you," she said wryly, raising a hand when the young elf began to protest. "But I will indulge you. I will tell your father that I saw you and that you are safe. I… appreciate your candor on this matter of your woods, Dayborne. And I appreciate that when you were confronted with peril, you chose to risk yourself to try and save an innocent."
"Am I cut of a cloth for the guard yet?" he asked with a teasing grin.
The captain smiled benevolently. "A guardsman follows orders, Strell. I fear you will never be suited for such a capacity," she sighed. "Go on. But be careful. This elf slayer..."
The rogue paused at the door, his hand on the bronzed knob that still felt a bit warm from the last hand to turn it.
Niandra worked her mouth for a moment, silent but for her beleaguered sigh. When words did finally come to her, they were thick with some emotion that Strell didn't quite want to place. "Go on, then," the captain said with a quick wave, her attention once again turned to the stacks of reports and records cluttering her desk.
Strell left the justice building feeling more shaken than he had when he arrived, paying no heed to the guards flanking the walls as he left.
He hit the city streets and, for a moment, felt utterly lost. Even with only half the city recovered, Silvermoon sprawled- but nowhere here was really his. He might be tolerated at the haunts of rogues for a night or two, and the taverns and whorehouses would certainly welcome him so long as he had coin, but nothing offered the same comfort as his closest friend's abode had.
Strell plodded out a path through the broad, sunlit venues, his knapsack heavy on his back. A handful of little urchins recognized him when he passed by the entrance to the Red Row, but he shook his head and they looked to other passersby for coppers instead.
He wandered to the Bazaar, all a-clamor with merchants and farmers selling from stands and carts pulled by stout hawkstriders, half considering buying a pot of the fried vegetables or soup that street vendors sold. Orcish was mingled with Thalassian as adventurers of all sorts of repute resupplied or sold off their spoils, and above it all the sweet aromas of spice and fresh produce blended in the air…
A stand with dozens of woven baskets, each filled with a different array of tea leaves, dried flower buds, and whole spices drew him in for the longest time, the simple smells proving to be a surprising comfort to the elf. But it was at a fruit seller's stall two spaces over that he heard a familiar voice feebly haggling over a price and truly perked up.
"Larilla," Strell said exuberantly, spying the small elven woman holding a basket containing a meager selection of vegetables.
She set the bundle of herbs back down and thanked the disgruntled seller before turning to the rogue. "It's good to see you, ser!" the freckled elf said bashfully as she smoothed out her plain dress with the tattered hem. "It feels like it's been forever."
"It does," he agreed, an impish smile lighting up his face. Seeing her made him feel lighter, as if the bloodstained letter and murders and woman in white were all part of some bad dream. But… they were not, and he sobered as he took her gently by the elbow and pulled her to the side of a stall, where it was marginally more quiet. "Larilla, there have been disappearances as of late, killings-"
"Oh, isn't it terrifying?" she said at once, her stubby fingernails immediately at her mouth.
"You know, then?"
"Yes, but… it is such an odd thing, ser, as though no one wishes to speak of it. I mean, that isn't odd," she added quickly. "Who would desire to talk of something so dreadful? But it is almost as though we are not to be reminded of it."
"Yes," the rogue agreed, thinking back to the captain's comment about the council. "You know to be cautious? How is Mistren? Are you both still well?"
"Yes, of course, ser. We fixed the locks for our windows and even bought," she leaned in close to whisper, "a knife. The kind for killing, not cooking," she explained further, looking deadly serious.
"Oh," the rogue replied, his brows raised. "Yes, that is… that's good. I meant to ask as well- I had promised Mistren I would visit, but being in between residences at the moment... I know it's terribly rude and I hate to impose, but would it be possible for me to-"
"To stay with us? Strell Dayborne, stay with us?" she asked gleefully, bouncing in place. "Yes, please do. It is the least we can do to repay you for all that you have done for us over the months."
He smiled gratefully and adjusted the bag slung over his shoulder. "I seem to recall your brother mentioning something about having your renowned stew when we last spoke," the rogue added as he picked a few coins from a pocket and flipped them through his fingers. "Should this suffice to buy all you need?"
Larilla tried not to smile as she took the gold from him and tucked it inside her dress. "Enough for bread, too!" she said with a little nod. "Thank you, Strell. I… we've been… well, you needn't wait on me here- I'll be another half hour at the butcher and the only milk around time of day is outside the gate. You know where the apartment is," she said with a little bow. "There is an extra key. Hidden," she said, leaning in again. "Under the flowerbox to the right of the door."
He was still smiling as they parted ways, his heavy bag feeling less burdensome as he traced the familiar route to their small abode. In spite of all the recent troubles and blighted mysteries, there was comfort in the easy acceptance of the twins. One of their homecooked meals had a great deal of appeal as well; the pair was as skilled in the kitchen as they were delightfully awkward in bed. Strell had only ever had one stew in all his life that left him scraping his bowl for more- and Larilla and Mistren guarded the family recipe with a dedication that surprised him, even going so far as to shoo him from the kitchen as they worked.
They would do well to be rid of this, the rogue thought as he fished the extra key out from under a long terra cotta box filled with sun-bleached soil. A few scraggly weeds and hardy blooms stood stubbornly there, clinging on despite an obvious lack of attention. He tucked the key into his vest and decided he'd strongly encourage them to rethink hiding it two feet from the entrance.
The rogue unlocked the door and twisted the knob slowly, a small part of him genuinely concerned that the twins might be a little on edge and perhaps a bit eager to put their 'killing knife' to use.
"It's Strell," he called as he pushed the door open, even cautiously rapping on the frame. "Don't stab me, please."
He was greeted with silence.
Strell shut the door behind him and tossed his things onto the worn divan by the door, then walked to the middle of the cramped area that served both as a kitchen and a living room, his boots making quiet thuds against the wooden floor. He frowned, eyes narrowing as he spotted the male elf's worn shoes lying by the door.
"Mistren?" He was definitely home, likely indulging in an afternoon nap in between shifts. Strell grinned impishly at the thought.
Mistren was a heavy sleeper, the very opposite of his sister, and very prone to slumbering in incredibly awkward positions- Strell half hoped to find him upside down and naked, as he had the first time he had surprised the twins with a late night visit. His devilish joy that night had quickly evaporated when he found that the pretty young elf couldn't be roused from his slumber whatsoever and Strell had been left to tend to himself alone in their bathroom instead.
"Mistren?" the rogue called again as he headed down the dim hallway. He'd feel like a cretin for intruding on their bedroom if the other elf wasn't here after all, but the rogue groaned and pushed onward. He was feeling upbeat for the first time since the letter, and he'd be damned if he was going to waste the moment sitting out on the divan, bored out of his mind.
If Mistren wasn't drowsing too hard, they might have time for at least a little nuzzling under the covers before Larilla got back and cooking began… and if he was well and truly unconscious, Strell might at least have a bit of fun inking spiders onto his face or building another fortress of pillows around him.
He grinned as he knocked rapidly on the bedroom door, more out of formality than actual purpose; if Mistren was slumbering on the other side, there was no way he'd hear it through his thick cloud of sleep. A warhorn wouldn't wake the fluffy-haired elf once he started dreaming.
"Mistren," he sighed as he creaked the door open, immediately catching sight of the younger elf sprawled out across his unmade bed with his black tunic hiked up and his belt half-off. "Hibernating bears sleep less, you vexing elf."
Strell frowned, cocking his head as he pushed the door the rest of the way open. He could tell that something didn't quite fit here, though what it was...
No, it wasn't right. Not with the angle of his arm in relation to his body. Not the strange color of Mistren's bedspread. Not where his head was, too far to the left, at too sharp of an angle-
Strell's stomach suddenly flopped and turned as his mind at last fit the pieces together, as he finally made sense of what his eyes had seen from the start.
His head- Mistren's head, a voice in his mind screamed shrilly- was not attached, not like it should be. It was cut open at the base of his neck and jerked to the side, held onto his body by only the slenderest sliver of flesh and skin. Under his body was a stain that nearly stretched the length of his bed, the blood having turned an unsightly brown on the young elf's green sheets.
Strell rounded the bed, though he couldn't say what moved him to do so, and was met with the sight of jagged meat and glistening white bone and much too much blood. He shook his head, but the rogue couldn't manage to tear his eyes from the gore- he had seen Mistren just a week ago. Or was it less than that? More?
He had wanted to take the gentle blond in his arms, then. Now he recoiled from the elf, covering his mouth with his sleeve as he retreated until his back hit the dresser and sent a lamp toppling to the floor. It was Mistren but it wasn't- it was pieces of a person, remnants, no spirit left at all.
Strell felt his mouth twist as he worked to contain a wail, or a retch, or some curse. Did he cry for the friend and sometimes-lover he'd lost, or swear vengeance, or turn from the ruin of his corpse? He didn't know, so he bit down on the next choked noise that tried to escape.
Mistren had been working a second job for extra gold and had just bought a knife to protect himself and his sister, had hidden their key under the bottom of a pot and thought himself safe. Whatever was giving Strell the strength to bear it all cracked and broke; he slid to the floor and vomited until his vision blurred and his chest ached, and even then it wasn't enough.
As far as he could recall, Niandra had been exceedingly kind to him. He had gotten up at some point and tried to put Mistren's head right, which could technically be considered tampering with a body, but she hadn't even had put him in irons when the guards showed up.
Strell still didn't know what could have possessed him to do such a thing. You couldn't put someone's head back on after it had been sawed off. It didn't even fit, anyway. The meat and bone was all too mangled, and even when he'd gotten everything lined up there had still been that angry, uneven seam across his throat, and that was when he had sat back down and cried until Larilla showed up and the guards eventually came.
Niandra had sent a messenger for his father. Strell couldn't bother to feel upset about that, not with Mistren…
Dead was the word he didn't want to say. People died in Scourge invasions, in far off lands like Draenor and Northrend, in the ugly parts of Silvermoon, like Murder Row. But elves like Mistren didn't wind up beheaded in their own beds- he had been arranging flowers and cleaning tables, not thieving and fencing goods. He should never have died.
Niandra promised she would have Larilla watched as well- closely watched, as she was to be moved into the guard's barracks for lack of a safer place to go. Strell took the captain's word for it; he couldn't speak to the girl, couldn't see her without imagining her neck torn asunder, too. The brief looks he'd exchanged with Larilla convinced him that she didn't want much part of him, either.
Here, there- places seemed to blur together, the rides in between passing in silences that left Strell's mind to inevitably wander back to the apartment that was empty now, cleaned of all traces of the boy who'd been slain in his bed.
By now he was ash, probably, and more than once the rogue had started to choke a little as he wondered if there were bits of Mistren floating down on the breeze from the hill where the funeral pyres were lit.
As for his homecoming, there was little that Strell remembered later. His father had been there, certainly, but he didn't think his mother or brother had helped guide him back upstairs. However, he did recall with disturbing clarity that Kinzal was not a part of it.
The lack of Kinzal worried him, frightened him a bit, if he could be honest with himself, though the others mattered less. The troll had stayed by his side during the dark spell after his fall from the window, and he had taken that comfort for granted. Now there was no Kinzal, no sleeping draught, no respite at all. The rogue found himself questioning the value of many things as he laid abed now, found himself feeling along his own throat and thinking of his training and how easily muscle and tendon there could be cut. Bone was harder, but you needn't sever bone to kill... or to die.
Strell didn't sleep that first night, instead staring blankly at the ceiling with one hand clasped protectively over his throat. When summoned for breakfast come morning, he moved like a shade, disjointed and ghostly light as he made his way to the dining room. The hallway was wallpapered in a rich red with an overlying pattern of golden flowers, the chandeliers touched with red gems, the poppies and roses in the vases, all red.
Red, red, red. Why is everythingred? the elf thought despondently as he seated himself at the table and unfolded his napkin in his lap. Crimson and maroon and vermillion, all put blood fresh in his mind.
He nibbled on dry, toasted bread but left the table abruptly when Torril made to pass him a jar of berry jam, sudden nausea overtaking him.
Strell quickly discovered that the sight of meat sickened him as well. His father planned meals of only vegetables and grains when he had to be in attendance, and the young elf could at least manage a dozen or so bites of squash and barley stew. After a few days, though, his mother protested at the coddling- the chef had roasted a small pig at her behest, and Strell vomited across the table when the stout old elf had set to carving it in front of them.
He began to take meals in his room after that, which he was grateful for. Here he could pick at his food for hours as he pleased, and none of it with the gristle and bone that made him see again the twisted cords of flesh that had once been part of his friend.
And here he could pine for his lost keeper without gaunt, sad-eyed Torril watching him, haunting him as surely as any ghost. He didn't need his brother's silent reminder of what was lost- his own guilt was enough to plague him, a snide voice reminding the rogue that he had left the troll behind first, had forgotten him as soon as other distractions arose. But for all that he berated himself, Strell missed Kinzal even if he had no right to. He missed him with a ferocity that had left him to sob into his pillow for hours at a time, for all the good that did.
Torril came to him the third day after Strell's return to confess, his eyes rimmed with red and his face drawn.
"I'm so sorry, brother," he cried as he knelt next to the bed where Strell sat cocooned in blankets. "It was my fault, all of it- I kissed him. I kissed him and a servant saw and mother had him gone before dawn. I did not even see him leave…"
Strell initially found it hard to muster pity for his brother. So much of his sadness was still tied up with Mistren- and with himself, in truth. But he managed a sliver and hugged Torril close, pulling him into his bed as he sobbed about the hours they'd spent together, talking and sparring and exploring the grounds. His guilt seemed immense, so big that it had swallowed his sibling up.
"I thought… he'd be happier," the paladin-in-training said in between sniffs and stifled cries. "And me, too. I didn't… I didn't m-mean to ruin anything," he swore as he buried his face against Strell's chest and neck and hid from everything around him.
And as the rogue stroked his older brother's flaxen hair until he quieted and drifted into fitful sleep, he wondered what this could mean. The paladin had made a play for his heart only to have it burn him as well as Kinzal- it was possible that he'd never chance on love again after such an experience, and that would be as saddening as anything else that had happened in these last few weeks.
After that night, Torril took to following Strell around nearly anytime he wasn't curled piteously on his bed, though they both made for poor company. With his training and studies put aside, the paladin seemed like a shade of himself, barely a thing to keep him from fading into the background. His utter silence didn't help in that regard, either.
Strell knew he was little better. Sullen and lethargic, he could feel how starkly changed he was from only a month ago, a week. But when he saw the tendons in his hands began to stand out against his sallow skin, the hollows forming in his knuckles and collar and cheeks, he panicked. Irrational, he knew, but he couldn't help but think that a decently thick layer of flesh between skin and sinew might aid in putting thoughts of certain skeletons to rest.
He was still rattled, but he ate a little better; Torril still followed him like a shadow, a daytime ghost to mirror the ones that found him at night, but Strell felt a little more assured with him at his side now, heartened by his presence. It was terrible that this was what brought them back together, gave them common cause... but what was there to do but make the best of it?
On the eleventh day after his return, Strell's senses returned to him.
At least, that was how it felt. He woke from another uneasy night of visits from the woman in white and Mistren with a vigor that surprised him. The deceased elf had taken to ambling through the woods just beyond his reach, laughing and singing as he darted across Strell's bloody path toward the woman, his head swinging and flopping from the narrow band of skin and tissue that tethered it to his neck.
He was always a little nauseous when he awoke after that dream, but on this morning he felt as though a sickness had passed. He didn't want to lie in bed and relive the past or sleep until day and night became an indistinguishable blur. A part of him would always be wretchedly sad for Mistren, just as a part of him had changed when he laid eyes on his body pieces, but he wrapped that bit of him tight, as he would have bandaged a wound, and tried to forget, if only for a little while. He just needed... he needed...
"Kinzal," he sighed as he pushed his blankets off, wrinkling his nose at the smell of musty air and stale night sweat.
The troll was gone, but he might yet be in the city, trying futilely to find honest work. Strell had left him behind and few things he regretted more... he would not sit and weep as his last chance passed him by.
He bathed for the first time in days, scrubbing himself raw and pointedly ignoring his gaunt reflection in the full-length mirror as he toweled off. He dressed as nobly as he could, though there was nothing to be done for his slightly wasted appearance, and barged into the study in her wing of the house.
"Hire him back."
Yvine set down her long fountain pen and considered him with a cold smile, appearing not the slightest bit shocked at his sudden arrival. "So your brute can force himself upon your brother again? I think not."
"Kinzal did no such thing. Torril would tell you that himself were he not sobbing over it up in his room." She frowned, and he knew he had her there. Her firstborn was her fondest treasure, and she was made unhappy by his distress. "He takes fewer meals, he forgoes his training. He hasn't spoken a word since he cried to me about it all. Soon enough, people will talk. He blames himself for Kinzal being dismissed," the rogue stated evenly.
"And you would have me rehire the troll purely out of consideration for Torril's feelings," she said in low accusation.
"It is as much for me as it is for him," Strell admitted. "And for Kinzal. He does not deserve your ire, nor the loss of a well paying job well away from Northrend."
"Your troll deserves nothing but a boat back to his hut." His mother's plum-painted lips drew back in a brief sneer and she turned her head to stare into the hearth instead. He saw the indecision in her eyes before she could hide it, though, and the worry for Torril that made her doubt.
"Perhaps when I next leave, Torril will wish to accompany me." His mother's mouth tightened and Strell had to stifle a smile. It was a bluff, but what was important was her uncertainty. She had not expected her golden son to weep through dinners and shun his studies for days on end, and now the fear of losing him was strong.
"If the troll remains in the city, I might consider it," she said as she scratched something onto a slip of parchment and tucked it into a drawer. "As ineffectual as he was at keeping you from shaming us, he at least managed to keep you out of my sight."
Strell grinned.
"Torril. Torril, get up," he groaned, strands of long, dark hair falling into his face as he struggled to push his brother up.
The paladin in training lurched to his feet on Strell's third plea, his tall frame proving startlingly narrow. Food seemed to have lost its savor for him in the last two weeks, and between that and the lack of training, his muscular body had begun to whither.
Torril's eyes met his brother's questioningly, though his interest seemed minute.
"Do you want to go find Kinzal or not? Mind you, I don't need you to come with me," Strell said as he buckled his belt and checked his sheaths for their daggers.
The blond elf perked up at that, however slightly. He looked doubtful, but nonetheless he set to dressing himself in silvery-threaded cottons and fine, light mail.
They left under the curious, watchful gazes of the servants and gardeners. As Strell readied his favorite hawkstrider- an ill-tempered but affectionate bird with a tendency to nip on ears- he couldn't help but wonder which of them had flown to his mother like some winged little imp, eager to tell her of some indiscretion on the part of her beloved son. Torril obviously placed all of the blame for the troll's departure solely on himself, but Strell was a bit more generous.
The girl Kinzal had been helping to read handed the reins to him, and the rogue kept his expression cool and blank as he studied her. Not her, he decided after a moment. He hadn't suspected her, not truly, but his mother had a way of turning even decent elves into her creatures. But the stable girl- Tarana, he remembered- looked as grim as the brothers, her small mouth tight as she watched them mount.
Strell nodded a goodbye to her as he and Torril began to trot away. He didn't miss the faint smile she gave them even as she crossed her arms and squared her shoulders.
"Where to look, where to look," the black-haired elf muttered as they got underway. He chanced a brief glance at his silent companion and sighed when he found the paladin gazing vacantly at the gravel of the road ahead.
"Torril… will you at least tell him 'hello' when we find him? He might come to think you hate him otherwise," he said coaxingly. At home, Torril's vigilant silence didn't seem so out of place among their dim rooms and the general atmosphere of disappointment, but under the sweeping skies and towering branches… it wasn't like the paladin to pass up an opportunity to talk to him out of their mother's sight.
The blond remained mute, his only response being a visible tightening of his jaw.
"Very well. Ajax, no, no biting Ody," Strell snapped, whapping his hawkstrider on the side of its winding neck as he made to tug out more of Torril's mount's feathers. The raven-black bird beneath him squawked in outrage before heeding its rider's sharp tug of the reins and turning back to the road, still clacking its beak irately.
"We should start in the inns and taverns by the main gate first," the rogue said with a careful look at his brother. Inns and taverns first, and brothels… hopefully not at all, the brunet thought with a tinge of anxiety. The last thing he needed Torril seeing was Kinzal tangled in some whore's sheets- he'd be bringing the paladin back home more out of sorts than when he'd left with him. "They're the most accommodating to adventuring sorts. I imagine we'll be sorting through quite a few trolls, though."
If he had hoped to perk up his brother, the attempt failed. Strell chided himself and decided to bite his tongue for the rest of the ride to the city. Trolls didn't interest Torril- Kinzal did.
Strell tried not to think about the awkward position that left him in. He assured himself repeatedly that he was in need of Kinzal's companionship more than anything else, and that any affection the troll held for his brother was not his concern. He could watch them grow close... could probably assist the pair, even, if they did pursue anything. Light knew Torril would need the help.
The rogue told himself that his strictly physical attraction to the troll was perfectly understandable- any curious young elf would feel the same after being in the hulking troll's company for an extended period of time. Fel, even Torril-the-blushing-virgin got enticed- how can anyone blame me? No, what he felt was just unavoidable lust, easily pushed to the side now that Kinzal had made his preference clear. It was done, settled, and Strell would be happy just to have the troll back for the sake of his sanity, yet...
Yet as much as he wanted to deny it, and as much he hated himself for it, the elf knew that he still harbored a hope that somehow-
No, he told himself sharply, nearly shaking his head as he clamped down on any little whisperings before they could start. This was not the time- and there would never be a time, because Kinzal had already chosen and it was Torril that won out, as his brother often did. He couldn't fault the troll for that, nor his brother, but...
But then there was the way the warrior spoke to him, his kindnesses during his recovery from the woods, how he teased and joked, his undeniable arousal that night in his room. He was willing to kiss your brother and lose his job, but he turned you away, something inside reminded him, making the elf swallow thickly.
The rogue turned in his heels and goaded his hawkstrider along faster, a swell of relief filling him as Silvermoon's great walls came into sight. He didn't like where his thoughts went in all of this silence, not at all.
There weren't quite as many trolls as he'd thought there would be- handsy orcs and leering undead aplenty, which he worked quickly to steer Torril away from, but few trolls, and even fewer of them were towering, redheaded, and mohawked.
The bartenders and innkeeps were quick to wave him off when they saw the pair of elves weren't going to be customers, turning instead to cater to the boisterous hunters, warriors, and shaman that filled every common room of each establishment.
"Come on, Torril," Strell muttered, pulling the collar of his cloak higher around his neck as he tugged his brother toward the door. Three taverns so far had been a wasted effort.
"Ey, mon," a thickly trollish voice said just as his fingers brushed the handle. The rogue glanced up, puzzled by the voice that reminded him so strongly of Kinzal yet wasn't.
He met the amber-eyed gaze of a female troll languidly stretched out by the fireplace, her golden-yellow braids piled high atop her head in a fashion that called Effi to mind. She smiled and beckoned him closer, and with a wary glance over his shoulder and a reassuring pat on Torril's arm, the rogue complied.
"Hello," he greeted as he found a place beside her on the area of plush rugs before the hearth. Blue skin tinted warm by the firelight was bared lasciviously, her cotton robes falling open to show a generous portion of her chest. "Who are you?" he asked, squinting slightly.
"A troll," she said, her voice low and husky. "I hear ya be lookin' for one. Normally I'd crack a twiggy lil' elf like you in half, but between da two of ya…" she pondered, her tongue tracing over pointed canines as she studied both of them intently.
"Ah, no," Strell said as gently but swiftly as possible, already feeling Torril shifting nervously behind him. "We're looking for a specific troll. A warrior that was staying at our house for a while."
"Oh," the young troll woman said, a disappointed frown curving her pierced lips. She sat up, abandoning her sultry sprawl for a hunched crouch. "Who ya be seekin'?"
"Kinzal… ah, just Kinzal, I guess," the rogue shrugged, wondering briefly at the trolls' lack of surnames.
"Kinzal?" The troll grinned suddenly, her sharp eyes alight. "Whatcha want dat ol' grump for?"
"You know him?" the elf asked eagerly.
"My muddah's cousin," she answered, her chin lifting a little. Suddenly her expression fell, replaced by something more apprehensive. "Ey, don' go tellin' him about anyting, okay?" She seemed a little shy and self-conscious as she grabbed up her staff and pulled her robes around her more securely.
"Of course," Strell agreed. He knew that feeling well enough to sympathize. "Have you seen him at all lately? We're hoping to hire him again."
The troll priest blushed darkly and glanced away. "I heard he was stayin' at dat other inn, so I came here… 'm not hidin', I just… it's my first time away from Orgrimmar, no family snoopin' around," she explained nervously. Then she pushed air from her noise with a quiet snort, her frown becoming more disgruntled. "But den, dere's always family around. Even here."
A month ago, Strell would have bought her a drink and complained of his own family with her. But he didn't have time to commiserate with Kinzal so close. "What other inn? Do you know the name?"
"Sometin' about a dragon," she said with a shrug. "Or was it two dragons?"
"The Three Dragons," Strell supplied for her, already bouncing to his feet.
She was amused at his exuberance, cocking her head at him as she bared her small tusks in a smile. "An' if I should come up at all," she said with a wary glint in her eye, "I was prayin' ta da loa when ya saw me. Got it, elf?"
"Even if he does catch wind about your... experiences here, I've got enough dirt on him to make him think twice about telling your mother anything," he promised as he gathered up Torril. The troll grinned and nodded, her hungry gaze already shifting away to a ragged young elf that had just wandered up to the bar.
"Thanks!" Strell called over his shoulder as he ushered the paladin out into the dark, nearly tripping over his brother's heels in his hurry.
Torril's mail clicked and clanked lightly as they jogged the short distance to the inn with the rounded sign featuring three red dragons' heads, their arched necks forming a circle. Inside the common area it was dim and smoky, with the murmur of adventurers exchanging insults and stories as they drank and ate underlying it.
Strell scanned the faces at each table, not caring if the patrons took offense at his stares. Orcs with yellowed tusks and mildewing undead, shaggy-furred tauren and a handful of more worldly elves mixed in... but no blue-skinned trolls.
The elf took his brother by the arm and ducked behind the protruding fireplace to check the emptier tables in the back. It was dimmer and quieter here, each of the round tables occupied by just one or two customers. At one an orcish mage whispered with an elvish one- or at least Strell had thought they were mages before one relit a guttered candle on their table with a spark of fel green flame. Another table was occupied solely by a tauren that was methodically sharpening a set of hunting knives. And at the next table...
A blue-skinned troll with arms wrapped in copper and a crest of coarse red hair that brushed elvish ceilings when he stood, his small, sharp eyes already on the pair of haggard elves. Strell's relief when he finally laid eyes on Kinzal must have been visible, but it seemed it was their changed appearances that garnered more attention from the troll.
"Ya both look like dead walkin'," Kinzal said by way of greeting. Amber eyes were lined with concern for the gaunt rogue and the tight-lipped paladin as he set down his mug and used his feet to scoot two chairs out for them. "What are ya doin' here?" he asked in a low hiss, his gaze shifting to the grizzled veterans and foolhardy beginners that populated the bar and commons of the inn.
"We're here to bring you back," Strell answered as if it was obvious. Then he repeated the words to himself in his head and shrugged weakly, the entire endeavor suddenly feeling feeble and small. And he was tired- more tired than he realized. He took his seat heavily and gratefully accepted the troll's mug when it was slid over to him- dark beer, bitterer than Strell liked it, but he swigged down a mouthful nonetheless.
"Bring me back," Kinzal repeated, his voice flat and skeptical. The troll tapped his large fingers on the grimy wooden tabletop, sparing one remorseful, slightly curious glance at the paladin before looking back to Strell. "An'… what? Keep me hidden in ya closets? Bring me scraps ta eat?" he asked in a rough, scratchy voice.
"No," the rogue replied at once. "Back as a… a guardian," he said carefully, "although I don't think our mother will permit you and Torril to occupy so much as the same floor together," he added with a wince.
Kinzal swallowed as he shifted his sights to the blond elf, his brow creasing. "Ser Torril, I… I understand if ya be upset wit' me, an' I wouldn' blame ya at all ta oppose dis," he said with a dejected hang of his head.
There were a few long seconds of silence in which Strell's gaze darted back and forth between the other two at the table. Kinzal sat hunched, looking as though he anticipated a diatribe on his indecency; the blond elf's lips were still pressed tightly together, his hands folded in his lap and his ears drooping.
"Torril isn't speaking," Strell explained hesitantly, leaning forward to catch his brother's eye. Kinzal spared him a curious glance and then turned back to the other elf, obviously lost for words.
"I will," the paladin said in a voice barely above a whisper, his cheeks reddening at both of their stares, "when I can be certain my words and actions will harm none." And then he was silent again, his pale lips sealed tight and his face as impassive a she could make it.
"Torril, you kissed someone. A rather handsome someone," the rogue said with an approving gesture to the warrior, who shrugged at the compliment. "That is no crime so grave as to warrant a vow of silence," Strell told him softly.
Kinzal let out a long, troubled sigh and dragged his chair a little closer to the paladin's. "I appreciate dat ya came here wit' Strell ta get me."
Torril nodded once, his eyes set straight ahead.
"An' I don' blame ya at all, if dat's how ya be tinkin'," the troll said heavily. "But I shoulda... I shoulda kept my head. 'M sorry, Ser Torril. Didn' mean for all dis ta happen. Neither of us did." Kinzal let his head tip back and groaned. "No loa gave me da strength for dis," he said under his breath, shaking his head. "I wasn' ready for ya elves." Even Torril managed a ghost of a smile at that.
Strell sighed and rapped his knuckles against the wooden table as he surveyed the sullen paladin and the slightly drunk troll before him. "Well, Torril has no objection to your return and neither do I. You'll receive three-quarters of what you were originally paid," the rogue informed him with a slight grimace, "but if it's any consolation, they've more or less given up on me. No pressures to teach me anything or keep me in line, really. Does all that sound… acceptable to you?" he asked awkwardly as Torril excused himself with a bow and headed outside to ready their mounts.
Kinzal's red fan of hair bobbed as he nodded. "Ain' home. Ain' even better den a decent inn, ta be honest," the troll said with a shrug of his wide shoulders, "but I… well, I don' exactly know anyone else in dis place," he said quickly. "An' I suppose I missed ya sorry ass," he added to Strell, his lip curling slightly. "Though I dunno why ya come afta me now- didn' ya run away from me couple weeks back?" the troll asked with a little irritation.
The rogue bit lightly on the inside of his cheek. "I'm sorry about that," he said to the warrior. "I am, really. I… I regret that I ever left. A-and things change," he added as he stood and checked the clasp on his cloak. "I won't be running again."
The troll's brow furrowed as he followed the elf through the inn and out into the night, but he said nothing.
They found Torril waiting by the stables, the two hawkstriders tied to a post while he gingerly held Loktak's reins. The red-scaled raptor seemed more concerned with sniffing and snuffling the paladin's limp blond locks than greeting its rider, though it did finally chirp in response to a quick kiss on the nose from the troll.
Kinzal thanked Torril and heaved himself up onto Loktak's back, groaning as he settled into the saddle.
Strell slipped atop Ajax and gathered up the reins to ride, smiling softly as he caught sight of Torril's relieved expression. "So, ser troll," the rogue said playfully, "are you excited to see the Dayborne estate once again?"
The troll sighed triedly. "I did miss da beds. Ya really come ta appreciate a nice, clean bed afta ya find... well, I won' tell ya what I foun' in mah sheets," he said darkly. After a moment, though, apparently unable to resist sharing the terrible news, he added, "It was an imp. Dere was a dead imp in da bed an' it was sticky."
"Huh, I thought the Three Dragons wasn't that kind of inn anymore," Strell murmured ponderously, a sly smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth as the rogue pressed his heels into his hawkstrider's sides and led the trio out onto the cobbled city streets.
"Shut up," the troll laughed, his voice low and gruff and generally pleasing to Strell's ears. "Wasn' at da Dragons anyway- some place called Da Whisperin' Sista. Like fel I be stayin' dere afta peelin' back da blankets an' findin' dat," he said with a little shudder.
Torril was shaking his head and blushing all the way up his neck and to the tips of his ears; Strell was still laughing too hard to speak. It felt good, despite the ache it left in his cheeks- and he realized he hadn't laughed like that in far too long.
"What?" the troll asked in a suspicious growl, his gaze shifting to the elves on each side of him as the three rode abreast through the great gates and wards of Silvermoon.
"That's... oh, Light, how did you pick that place?" the rogue asked as he wiped the corners of his eyes. "It's always been for the... the more experimental," he said carefully. "The proprietor is notorious for being a warlock that lets his demons get very involved with the business. Not stuff for the weak of heart... or the soft of flesh-"
"Alrigh', alrigh'," the warrior interrupted, his own cheeks flushing rich purple.
"I've never seen you so flustered," Strell said amusedly. Except for the time I was on top of you, he thought before he could stop himself. He didn't want to think it, just as he didn't want to think that the troll cut a handsome, intimidating figure in his full plate, especially under the dim light cast by the blue and yellow lanterns lining the roadway.
"'M not flustered," Kinzal insisted, his large hands squeezing tight around Loktak's reins.
"And here I'd thought we'd found your weakness was sin'dorei..." He tutted and shook his head. "Demons. Even I think that's a little much."
"Dere were no signs," the troll said defensively, "an' you," he added, jabbing a finger in the rogue's direction, "be da one needin' ta take a vow of silence."
Strell shrugged and smiled blandly, realizing how sorely he'd missed teasing and talking. "Am I striking too close to the truth for your liking, ser troll?"
Kinzal was muttering about 'striking someting' when Torril edged his hawkstrider up ahead of theirs, Ody's white-lavender plumage swishing in front of the troll and the other elf as he took the lead. The blond glanced back over his shoulder and looked at the both of them expectantly.
"Are we moving too slowly for Torril?" Strell asked with cautious optimism. He'd half expected his brother to trudge along the entire way in silence, his vacant gaze set far ahead of them as he followed blindly.
There was a long moment of silence, stretched out as the rogue and the warrior shared a hopeful look.
The blond elf smiled ruefully and turned back, shaking his head slightly. "There was a time that you'd always race me home from here," he said quietly, nodding in the direction of a thick tree-trunk long ago split by lightning.
It was a bit difficult to make out by faint moonlight and the dim glow of the lanterns, but Strell saw that it was indeed the tree they'd always used as a marker for when home grew near and the perfect starting point for a race- not too long to tax the hawkstriders while still allowing them a good run. "So there was," Strell agreed as they ambled past the old tree. "There was also a time that you broke your leg when you fell while jumping the creek-"
"At least I never cried when I lost," Torril said smartly. He gave his brother a knowing look then turned back around in the saddle.
Strell pressed his lips together, briefly surprised by the sudden sass. "I think I prefer you being silent," he muttered, feeling heat rise in his cheeks as he noticed Kinzal watching the pair of them amusedly. He turned in his heels and goaded Ajax faster, his hawkstrider squawking shrilly as it nipped at Ody's white-lavender tailfeathers. "Last one to the stables has to muck the stalls. For a week," he added with a devilish smirk. "Kinzal?" he asked, looking expectantly to the troll.
Red hair swayed as the warrior shook his head. "I tink I'mma stay outta dis grudge match. Go on, I be followin' in case ya fall off an' bump ya little heads on da groun'," he said with a little wave.
Strell gave Ajax more rein as he sized up his brother- it had been years since they'd done this, and even more since they'd dared to race at night. Ody was a stubby-legged, stout bird, bred to hold even a plate-clad elf, yet he still managed to hold his own against Strell's slim, swift mount.
But win or lose, it was worth seeing Torril's awkward smile again and hearing his nervous laugh. They'd stopped racing after he'd broken his leg; their mother had been furious, so cross that she'd threatened to have the stables cleared out entirely. It heartened Strell to see him ready to try again, even knowing what ire it could bring...
The dark-haired elf grinned to himself as Kinzal readied to give them the signal, putting his weight in the stirrups as he lifted himself lightly off the saddle. He glanced over and saw Torril doing the same, watching and copying his stance. His brother quickly flushed dark with embarrassment and began to sit back down in the saddle, but Strell just laughed and gave him a little nod.
"No, like before. There you go, now lean forward more- but not too forward, or we'll be fishing you from the creek," he advised just before the troll dropped his hand and their hawkstriders burst into a gallop.
Torril and Ody were still at his side when they crested the second hill, blond hair and pale feathers whipping back behind them- he might have been laughing, too, or that could have just been the cold whistling of the wind past Strell's ears. It was odd that something they had not done in a dozen years was what made him feel normal for the first time in months, as if they were still the companions in mischief they had been in their youngest years.
Maybe... we are again? he wondered as he saw the paladin trying to make a shortcut through a thicket to their left, looking a great deal less ashen and hollow as he bounded between thin saplings, whistling and bird-calling and grinning unabashedly. Strell hoped so. He could live without a great many things if he had his brother and Kinzal both by his side- he was convinced of it.
The rogue shouted encouragement to Ajax, fighting against the noise of the wind and the tight feeling in his own throat. He was a finicky and tempestuous bird, but he hated losing almost as much as Strell did; the elf let the hawkstrider have his head and simply held on for the ride, trusting his mount to remember the swiftest course back to the stables.
Strell let out a noise that was a mix between a laugh and a sigh as they leapt cleanly over a half-rotted log lying across the trail- it had been a very long time since he had been eager to return home.
ASAUSUUHFHGJLKJ
The good news is that I've pretty much finished the sex scene for the next chap, so you can all look forward to that awkward reading experience soon.
I'm estimating about one chapter of love-triangle BS and romance stuff before plot kicks back in and fictional lives get ruined.