One Month Ago (Summit Prelude)

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Bricu
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One Month Ago (Summit Prelude)

Postby Bricu » Fri Aug 17, 2012 8:47 pm

After Kyree's third mention of how wonderful it was to live with the Bittertongues--Bricu let's her ride his horses, rams and a gryphon! Threnn tells her the best stories from the South! Naiara is so clever!--Jessen cut her off with a gentle lie.

"Only half as good as Moonglade, auntie." He said, only half looking at her.

"That's lovely, sweetlings. What else've ‘ee been doin' with the Bittertongue family?"

Jessen, still looking away from her, handed her a letter. She recognized the handwriting on the envelope instantly.

"Mr. Bittertongue said to give you this when we weren't near any guards," he said softly.

"It's all right Jessen, y’did right." She opened the letter and read the two lines written in Bricu's precise hand:

War is coming. We need to talk.

--
War. The word clanged like a bell in her head, even while she held back a snort of bitter amusement. Was there ever not a war on? Oh, aye, Horde and Alliance had paused their hostilities -- paused, mind you, but never outright ceased -- to bring Arthas down from his throne, but they'd gone right back to their squabbling afterwards.

Not entirely unprovoked, either.

She doesn't think of of Southshore, she won't.

But she does. Because she was right. She was right, and she was right, and she was right, and Sylvanas did all the very things Davien had been saying she would, lo these many years. Plague dropped on the farmers and spinners and smiths of a human town, covertly this time. Not in blankets and supplies intended for the poor. Not in poisoned grain. In vats this time, and with the apothecaries doling it out, openly. Gleefully.

She looks at her hands, pale with death from the first plague -- Kel'Thuzad's. She looks at her niece and nephew, orphaned from the second -- Uthas'. (And it strikes her: Kyree has been without her parents now longer than she'd ever been with, and the day isn't long off when the same will be true for Jessen as well.)

Not again. Not again. Not again.

Davien doesn't even bother with a pen. She scorches her reply beneath Bittertongue's with a fingertip, folds the parchment, and hands it back to Jessen. "I'll thank 'ee for returnin' this to him, then, sweetling." Jessen nods, and she sees his father in the gesture. When did he grow so tall?

She kisses them both, piles them with gifts of sweets and books and a basket for the Bittertongues, and sets off for the place she seared onto the page:

Shattrath. World's End Tavern.

--

The World's End Tavern had not changed much in the years since Illidan and his ilk were defeated. It was the same seedy dive filled with the same broken people that were drinking away the same terribly banal problems. At least it was a relatively safe place to visit. No prying eyes of SI:7 or Apothecaries or whatever other sneaky wee fuckers were there to gather secrets or murmurings.

He looked around the room: Drunk ogres, slick ears, draenei and broken, with the occasional orc or human for good mix. No one he recognized, no colors of note and, better still, no one giving him the once over. The perfect place for a minor treason.

He ordered a pot of tea--more expensive than their finest liquors--and sat in a back room, away from the ogres and the draenei. He told the barkeep, "Tell the woman in the floppy hat I'm in the back."

"And who are you, ser?" The barkeep slurred..

"Just a bloke with his tea." He handed him a leather purse that was surprisingly heavy.

"Very good, ser."

Bricu finished one cup before Davien Stonemantle, floppy hat and all, walked in.

"Kyree says y’let her fly on a gryphon. Is she healthy for that?"

"The missus seems that think so. 'Sides, she doesn't get far off the ground an’ I'm usually next ta her." Bricu said.

"Usually?"

"Aye, other times its Jessen. The boy can fly."

"I see," Davien said. She sat down across from Bricu, studying him carefully. "Trainin’ him for war, then?"

Bricu shrugged. "More like ta fly away from it. Not that he hasn't learned ta swing a sword. He's gettin' better at that as well. He'd be a keen pick fer the 7th legion.” He sipped his tea. “That's why he's not been ta Storwmind in months."

"Thankee"

"Don't thank me. It's only a matter o'time,t he way we're headed, 'fore he is facin' off against someone from your side."

"Y’were sayin' ‘ee had news then, 'bout this new round?"

"Nothin' specific mind yeh. This is only a small treason, not a full on description o'troop movements an' requisitions...unless yer willin' ta provide the same?"

Davien smiled, "Oh, sweetling. I've been warning against Sylvanas for many years. Now, my warnin’ come true and what do we have to show for it?"

"Not much more than ruin....but we can stop the next one."

"Like y’r wizard from Theramore?"

“Not like that bint, cryin’ o’er some bloody murderous fuck,” Bricu said with a sneer. “No. By brokerin' the peace our leaders refuse ta. Guild ta guild. Order to Order. If we get enough ta the table an' push our boses enough..."

"The Eye isn't favored by the Warchief or Sylvanas."

"No, but yeh know folk. An' yeh lot have your secrets an' leverages. Yeh could bring folk ta the table."

"An’ if violence occurs?"

"Then we prevent it, Davien. Face it: the only way ta keep yer folk safe is peace. Otherwise, someone in yer colors might be the very ones ta..."

"I am aware of the stakes, Bittertongue. No need for such a crass manipulation. What do we need?" she said.

Now Bricu smiled his most infuriating--and most familiar--smile. "Lass, all we need is a few good folk who can talk an' listen. Somethin' yeh can manage?"

"Aye," she said. "An' sometimes they'll even heed my words."

"Only sometimes?" He poured himself another cup of tea, and held the spout questioningly over the second cup.

Davien nodded, waiting until he set the teapot down to reply. "Are 'ee tellin' me all those new grey hairs o'yours are from the wee one?"

There was a pause, and for a moment she couldn't tell if it was the kind that preceded a Don't yeh dare ask about me daughter, yeh fuckin' deader, or the simple reflex of a man not used to conceding points during a debate. In the end, he chuckled and rubbed at his beard, the red and grey bristles scratching beneath his fingers. "Fair enough."

"I can talk to 'em, an' catch Gharr's ear, too. It might be easier if our side still had Janje t'put out the call, but Razor Hill's not seen its priestess in long an' long." She sipped her tea and sat back, her face clouding over for a moment as she thought of all those lost and drifted away. "So what is it y're proposin'?"

Bricu swirled his tea cup for a moment before answering.

"I'm proposin' the same deal we had with Uthas: But this time, instead o'joinin' forces, we gather as many o'our folk as we can an' see if we can stop from slaughterin' each other. Just a..."

"Another peace summit? Like the Plaugefather and the priestess? What will make this one work?" She held the cup in both hands, warming her fingers.

"No fuckin' clue. Maybe this time the Light itself will descend on the masses an' show us a way ta co-exist. Or maybe we'll get arrested by a joint task force o'blood thirsty wankers. Bein' partial ta irony, I truly fa'or that one. But the fact is, lass, here's what I see unless we figure a way ta make it work. Kyree an' Naiara killin', or bein' killed, by someone in yer colors in the not too distant future."

Davien sipped at her tea slowly, considering Bricu's--and her--words carefully. "What o'Jessen?"

"Lass," he said, "If the crown gets their hands on him, he's liable ta be fightin yer colors by month’s end."

Davien's teacup hit the table with enough force to rattle the silverware. "He's not t'be fightin' at all. Y'keep him in the Hills an' don't let him anywhere near Stormwind."

Bittertongue regarded her mildly. "An' how long until he runs off ta join the Garrison on his own? He's me ward, not me son, an' he's taken ta the sword like yeh'd not believe. He gets his blood up, an' he's goin' ta want ta enlist." He paused a moment, the gruffness leaving his voice. "Like his da, he says."

Jessen. When she thought the name, she saw both father and son, brother and nephew. She conjured other faces, too, all those lost to other people's wars. "Well, then," she said, and lifted her golden eyes to Bricu's pale green ones. "What would 'ee have me do?"

"All I ask is this: See who on yer side o'the wall'd be interested in peace. Even if its a fleetin', half muttered statement that 'it'd be nice not ta kill a human.' Keep track o'those folks...an when the time comes, bring 'em ta me sit down."

Bricu finished his tea and set the mug down. "The way I see it, there isn’t much time left. Talk around town is a new push fer recruits, more folk bein’ pressed inta service... So we’ve probably one good shot before e'erything is gonna go ta hell. An' we need folk ta be there ta talk an' listen, otherwise... Well, our Colors get orders ta kill each other. If we can sit down with each other, then we can force the bloody issue with the Wankers in Chief."

He grinned, the same infuriating grin he had flashed over the years, "That work fer yeh?"

"One shot 'fore it all goes t'hell," she echoed. "Aye, I'll see who I can muster." Davien set her own mug down. She stood, adjusting her hat. "I hope y've the right o'it, Bittertongue. I'm tired o'the fightin'. Been tired of it long an' long." She'd been young when the plague took her, undeath halting her forever at twenty-four, twenty-five, but as she spoke a weariness settled in that made her look thrice that. "All the best t'Threnn an' y'r wee one."

She looked for a moment like she might reach out for a handshake. Instead, with a wink and a smile, she tipped the brim of her hat and ambled out of the tavern.

Bricu watched Davien leave the tavern, wondering who would watch her leave--if anyone would even bother to do the simple arithmetic of human and a forsaken sitting down for a pleasant chat. As he wondered, he rolled three cigarettes and chained smoked the lot down to the ends.There, in a cloud of smoke, he sat and pondered treason at the End of the World.
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Ulthanon
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Re: One Month Ago (Summit Prelude)

Postby Ulthanon » Sun Aug 19, 2012 12:24 am

Inhale, exhale. Watch the gromsblood shoot from his lungs and cut into the air like daggers, writhing outwards from his mouth like jagged crimson tendrils. Run, run, leap, jump, shoot. Too close for guns, switching to spears. Feel the warmth of orcblood as it arcs out from the halberd's sweeping kiss. Appreciate the legitimacy of this action, of this moment. See it as the only true thing you've said in a week, a month. The setting doesn't matter- The Alliance needs this gold, this lumber, these smithing supplies, these horses. The Alliance needs grain for the horses. Was that a man just then, propping up a wooden cutout of a horse? Are those two men in horse costume, comical X's for eyes, trotting along in near-intentional dis-synchronization? Are there any fucking horses left to fight for? It doesn't matter. All that matters is that, whatever the lies that named this Basin, a true moment has been shared with the orc. I want to rip your throat out with my teeth and wear your blood as clothing. This translates quite elegantly from Darnassian to Orcish.

"I'm proposin' the same deal we had with Uthas: But this time, instead o'joinin' forces, we gather as many o'our folk as we can an' see if we can stop from slaughterin' each other."
The words drifted up to him like smoke and just as ephemerally. More words, more wind, a breeze to carry himself away on. Shattrath, came the thought, and a moment after it, Bittertongue. Hell of a bender, to wind up in the Crater City, but at least he came around during something interesting. But Bittertongue doesn't practice his speeches- no no, his particular brand of eloquence is entirely, shall we say, off the cuff. But that begs the question, who exactly is his cuff offing at?
"Another peace summit? Like the Plaugefather and the priestess? What will make this one work?"

The deader? Davien?
That idiot is trying to bring a peace with the Eye?
He'd have doubled over laughing if he wasn't so damned tired.

Inhale, exhale. Watch the silverleaf leave a shimmering pastel haze in the air. Count the number of glittering points of light in the smoke; their number equal only to the number of legitimate grudges against the Horde, equal only to the number of times these grudges had been swept under the rug by some meaningless fight over a flag. Whitewashed with some hollow rhetoric about the importance of snow-covered towers, their once alabaster flagstones long since stained black by the char of a million fires. He was tired, but not of fighting- his sloth lived in his heart, and it would only quicken when his spear and bow and claws and teeth were given legitimacy, birthed from their constricting womb of half-peace like some laughing, goat-horned forest sprite. He would dance and play his pipes and chase every nymph in the wood. He would gut the first man who tried to stop him, skin him from his bones, use his skin as a rug and take another nymph on top of it. Then, and only then, his heart would beat and his eyes would glow and his soul would shake off this miasma of civilization, that oil-slick on the once clear waters of his mind.

The deader left on her own accord, as she had come. She shuffled off, either a cruel caricature of life or a blatant mockery of death. He couldn't tell which; he doubted it mattered. She, to her credit, wasn't even one of the bad ones. When she spoke of the importance of peace, he liked to make himself believe that she might even mean it.
He looked in his pouch. He was out of cigarettes, his herb packets nothing but stems and seeds.

Why the fuck am I covered in blood?
[Fells] says: I LOBE DACNIEBG kiTTLES


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