La Bella Morte

The room sways between madhouse and manor. The delicate filigree of violet and grass green swirls along a border of dusty beige curtains. The color of disuse, coupled with disinterest holds no mirror up to the couple that sleep opposite on the dirty rug of the Tranquillen home.  A picture window that was opened by a careless fist one night is the culprit for the air that was perfumed in salt and despair.

If there is anything that Synnaquin Bellamorte knows; it was that Trisfal Glade is not the place to spend a pregnancy.

The sun set over the misty riverbank, fireflies gathered and danced near her long ears with the sweet buzzing of cicadas in harmony. Shadows fell longer and longer as the fat sun ran to hide. The air was fragrant. What particular scent mixed with the oiled leather, crisp tart apples and musky scent of the rogue holding her was impossible to say. She was too focused on the beauty of the distilled light as it danced and weaved in the shadowy forest before the moonlight descended. The rough stubble of Dayne's cheek presses into her neck and Malisson turned to face him.

“… I want us to serve the Light truly,” confessed Darroc to his wife.

Marchioness Zalinara Dawnfire looked out of place in the sweltering room. She was diminished and small next to the garish design of bamboo knickknacks and potted trees that lurk in the corners of the humid Inn.

That was nothing compared to her face.

Shock, horror, fear… It was all there.

Commander Dawnfire was drowning his sorrow at the local officer’s bar, Twin something. His smile for the voluptuous Pandaren serving him was charming and irreverent.  “Lili was just about four feet… It was hard for her to climb that waterfall,” he winks at the server, his voice teasing. “I just helped her up the hill, it wasn’t a big deal,” he says modestly.

The curved server gives a soft sigh at his ‘heroic’ descriptions and refills his glass without charging. “You Dawnfire-chan, are why I am glad your people came to our lands!’ she enthuses. Darroc smiles at her before catching the clusterfuck of papers that explode to his left; like one of those confetti poppers gobbos sell. He could smell her. It was Faye.

Shaye.

"It was... Lily.”

“I don’t think you deserve him,”

Lilliana closes the distance between them. A cold, metal-clad finger traces the priestess's cheek, "Why am I undeserving?"

“Because you are wicked, and you have no respect or compassion. Because he couldn’t possibly love you after you married another,” Malisson says softly.

SCORE. That will probably end with...

Light help her, I am being so wicked. The Abbess would be so ashamed.

Malisson forces herself to return to the Spire.  She kneels to pray at the fountain and from beyond the smoking candles and residual whispered prayers around her; she barely heard the enraged Paladin approaching.

"What an unexpected pleasure,” murmurs Lilliana.

Jealous bitch, coming in on the right. Ironic since she fucked around with Jorsca, don’t you think Malleable Malisson? Or will you be Malice, today? Tsk, tsk.

She is hurting and deserves my compassion.

Doormat it issssss.

The rain came in torrents here. I wish I could say that it was what woke me up, but that would be a lie.

The tent was resilient for the most part.

Compassion, Tenacity, Respect.

It was incredibly hard to evoke all three when it came to Lilliana.

The scent of roses broke through the bitter salt of the ocean air.

His fingers close around reddish gold strands that rest on the pillow besides him.

Day Twenty Six, Jade Forest.

My companion is rinsing gore from his clothes in the small creek bed in the cave. He almost died last night. His eyes are shiny and hard like smooth emeralds when he looks my way. He was feverish from the wounds but is better now. The roots that I have been experimenting with are working faster then the few I brought from Azeroth. Rigel has been a constant companion to me, but I suspect that the beautiful Talbuk is a spy. Dayne's spy.

Every intention that he possessed fled at the sight of her. She did not resemble the woman he loved in any physical characteristics, but the earmarks of it were there. A piercing here or there, the subtle slope of her back that bore his sadistic mark and the most telling was that rounded belly that fit snugly in her leather tunic. The flashing eyes of an angry and wary victim.

Faye was back.

The young priestess moved between the cots with diligence and grace. The auburn coil of hair neatly tied back with a simple band. Her palms scrubbed red with disinfectants provided by the alchemical solutions made available to the other healers. She knew the Light protected but she would not invite further incidents of disease by religious devotion. She was a practical if nothing else. Living at the Shelter had certainly reinforced that. Malisson reached up to daub a bit of paste to the infected leg of the soldier she treated. The Orc’s face was a mask of sweat and delirium, whose fierce animalistic sheen is only compounded by the shadows of the humid jungle night time. The elf leaned back, her small hands gripping the much larger olive one as she squeezes lightly. “Mor’kar, your wounds are not fatal.”

The Orc nearly spat in her face, with his long ivory fangs glistening with froth as he grunts, “Quit yer yapping elf and take it out.”

Shaye was being a bitch to him. She was pregnant and being carried by some no-necked geek with a red ponytail and a goofball expression. Silvermoon’s finest was wearing on Darroc in a very smallish sort of way. A smallish yet frustrating way.

There were a few things that existed in Darroc Bastion Dawnfires world that absolutely infuriated him.

For example, he was not overly fond of Garrosh Hellscream and his heavy handed methods of dealing with the Alliance at the moment. 

He was not a huge fan of gnomes in any way shape or form. Which is precisely why he refuses to go the tailoring shops, despite the most obvious reason being that clearly he has no business being there, he was a noble.

The most recent thing that irked the absolute hell out of him was his ex-wife.

Lilliana Whitedawn.

His men were demoralized. It was a mask that each wore in turn. Soul-sick and weary, the fine lines of disgust and self-hatred that eats away at a soldier’s soul. Darroc Dawnfire had seen it all before in previous wars, in his own brothers eyes, hell, even his own reflection at times.

The morning sunshine filtered into my office as the door opened. My wedding was days off, but the preparations for war stood a close second in importance. I was content to let Lina handle the wedding, but my impending unit needed to be dissected for residual weakness and filtered before I left for Hellscreams post.

Jorsca left me.

I could smell the scent of running water and grass, sticky cotton candy and popped corn.

His scent was fading too fast for me to catch it.

She rests in virginal bloom,

Atop bones of foreshadowed doom

I could barely see the goblin out of the haze of smoke. He wore a very distinguished top hat that looked at odds with his tiny features. His nose was long and crooked, not a very confidence building appearance by a trustworthy account. Though perhaps that was the point. He wasn’t trustworthy, but he was afraid. That would have to do for now. Turgen Spigglebottom reached his small green fingers up to pluck one of my offered cheroots from the box with a pained judiciousness that made me smile. He was afraid of more than just my sudden appearance. He was afraid of losing my business.