Wildfire Riders

Moonglade has been a tranquil place for the past four years, by geography and guardianship spared the worst of Azeroth's many troubles. But any druid knows that the Cenarion Circle's sanctum is not entirely the natural haven it seems from the long view. Between one step, one moment, and the next, there is a great gulf, with the world stretched over it like leaves atop a pit-trap. These are the thin places, where the Dream bleeds into the world of mortals, and the unwise and uninitiated are beckoned by a world untroubled by the logic of the waking, the rules of the real.

The servants of Cenarius have done well enough, in the past, to rescue these travelers from their unexpected detours. But things are different now, with something other dwelling in the green havens of the Dream. There are snakes in the pit, and the thin places hold far worse fates than the aimless fantasy of lost dreamers.

And when the walls are so thin, travelers may cross from either direction.

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He'd stood escort to criminals, and he'd walked in funeral processions, but never had he felt as if he did both at once - and of course, the truth was, it wasn't either. Tarquin wondered when the defining aspect of his life had become irony. Still, they made one remarkable crew, with Threnn Bittertongue's slumbering body carried on a litter in their center and the woman that they might as well call Indarra walking with downcast face in the front, between Jolstraer's ponderous bulk and Aelflaed's teetering height. They made the Kaldorei look almost small between them.

Siest had been leading them through the tangled paths of the Barrow-Dens for half an hour now, her face raised to the air, eyes fixed on...on whatever it was they were looking for. Operating in these sort of uncertain conditions made Tarquin's nerves itch, and that was frankly reason enough for him to dislike the druid they'd hopefully find at the end of it. There was a fucking war on, and they didn't need this sort of inconvenience.

It was a moot point, of course, he reminded himself as he shifted the burden of the litter on his shoulder. Because of Threnny, throats were going to be cut. He could almost have thanked Fedwyn Earthsprung for making the decision so bloody simple, if only it the process hadn't been so bloody complicated.

Bricu cursed as he stumbled over a root, and Tarquin shifted a bit to keep the weight of the litter even as the paladin righted himself. The lack of proper sleep was telling - and not just on Bricu, either. Aelflaed in particular had looked half a corpse when they set out, the firm set of her jaw betrayed by her hollow eyes. He glanced over his shoulder at Philleas, drifting along in the back, who really didn't look much better - though he was of course more practiced at hiding it. Tarquin made a mental note, when this was all over, to pin the young Darrowman down and take his measure a little better. There was the makings of something finer there, and he'd have the time on his hands.

It was always like this in the moments before a big job. The pieces were set, and they all knew as much of the game as they had to; nothing left but to let his mind wander to what was next, because if he counted all the things that could go wrong, chances are he'd lose his shit and then where would they be? It hadn't taken long for him to realize that one of a leader's most valuable skills was controlling his worry - worrying about fucking near everything up to a certain point, and then after that not worrying about any of it.

When Siest finally stopped them, he almost forgot that rule for a moment. They were in a grove about one of the unmarked barrows of the dreamers - possibly the same one he had first found Indarra at when this entire misbegotten exercise began to take shape. The trees were gnarled and otherworldly, roots bursting from the ground like the bones of something unnatural in the world. Probably exactly like that, in fact. He really fucking hated this place.

Jolstraer apparently had the same reaction. "Ah've faught'n ell soarts o' places," he pronounced disgustedly, surveying the ground with a soldier's eye, "An' ah kin say wit' nae daht'n mah mind, tha's one o' tha utter mos' shite." He spat on the ground and turned to Siest. "Nah clerr grahnd tae make use o' numbahs, barrly th'room tae swing a hammah...ye shore 'ere's tha onnleh place tae fin'em?"

The ancient druid nodded; Tarquin doubted she understood more than one word in three there, but Jolstraer's meaning was clear enough even through his impenetrable border-lordling accent. "It is the thinnest of the borders," Siest said patiently, "And the only one that is...thin on both sides. To go through, and to come back, with the same footsteps. I am assured that is the...keystone."

"Shore ye ken yer business, lass," grumbled the paladin. "Wahll, tha hell wi' et, then. Ah lived thra worse." He began moving about the grove, muttering darkly to himself and occasionally grunting at a particular tree or bit of root. Tarquin caught Philleas's and Aeflaed's gazes and nodded them over to the old knight. It was his operation, but if he had to make a list of men he'd trust to set up an ambush with no other purpose than a swift and sure kill, Jolstraer Taborwynn would be very close to the top.

"Put 'er down," Bricu grunted, and they did so, lowering the litter to the ground carefully. Threnn was in her armor and the colors, a peaceful smile on her face, her hair carefully washed and trimmed. He made the mistake of glancing at Bricu's face, and immediately looked away - you couldn't look at a friend, even one you were angry with (or maybe especially not), when he had that expression on his face. Such pain was too naked to be borne. He looked at Threnn instead, which wasn't much better. Still, it had the effect of renewing his determination to see the day end with one meddling, lovelorn, ambitious old night elf stretched dead on the ground. Simple, quick, direct.

He finally looked back at Bricu, who had composed himself. "Aright?" he asked, not really sure what answer he could expect, and indeed he could already see the paladin's lips beginning to form some phrase along the lines of What d'yeh fuckin' think?

Thankfully, though, Bittertongue stopped himself. "'Bout what yeh might expect," he said shortly. "Let's be done with it." Tarquin nodded, and turned to Indarra, standing demurely off to the side, hands folded, watching their muscle scour the battleground. Wearing a high-collared robe, her hair coiffed about her clean-lined face, she looked very much like Indarra Leafwhisper, Delion's sparring partner, the prim, proper priestess who fled to Azshara when things got complicated. Only the faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips, only the way her eyes lingered briefly on Philleas, measuring him up and doing some unknowable calculations in her hand, reminded him that Indarra Leafwhisper had left them, and when she came back, she had brought some baggage with her.

Fedwyn, of course, probably thought exactly the other way around. Well, fuck him. He didn't wear the colors, and that was all.

"Yeh ready, then, 'Darra?" he asked, without preamble. Her eyes snapped over to him, with a precision that avoided having to look at Bricu, or at least acknowledge his scornful and possibly murderous glare.

"There's a part of me that has been ready for centuries, and is far too eager," she said, her voice low and throaty. "And a part that would like to go curl up in a quiet cellar somewhere. Perhaps we can meet in the middle."

"He asked yeh a simple fuckin' question," snapped Bricu pugnaciously. Tarquin prepared himself for yet another round of "Shut the fuck up and focus," and yet, wonder of wonders, Indarra-Grizelle dropped her eyes to the floor and waited a couple moments before speaking.

"I'm ready," she said tonelessly. "Do it quickly, before I lose my nerve."

Bricu looked as if he wanted to say more, but what good sense remained to him in his cocktail of frayed nerves, sleepless nights, and boiling rage took hold, and he just turned away and paced back towards Threnn's body. Tarquin watched him for a moment, then shifted his gaze to where Aelflaed and Jolstraer were apparently measuring the distance between two trees with the young woman's claymore. "Lynch!" he called. Philleas detatched himself from the twisted tree where he was slouching and made his way over. He passed Siest on the way, and started slightly; perched on a stump with a distant blankness on her face, the druid had more or less become part of the scenery.

"Aye thin, boss?" Philleas inquired, looking as alert as he possibly could. Tarquin had a brief feeling that if he asked the other man to run ten laps around the Barrow-Dens while juggling a trio of daggers, they would soon be able to put off the mission for a carnival show.

"Yeh've the dreamfoil?" he asked pointlessly, and Philleas did, plucking it from the recesses of his armor, a dried bundle of near-colorless stems and leaves that were, like everything else the man kept on him, barely discernable by Tarquin's eyes from something you might put in a stew. He took Lynch's word for it, and the dreamfoil as well. "An' the ither?" This one took a moment longer, and was in fact two - a vial of thick sludge that was a bright, rich green, and another filled with a thin, bilious yellow-green substance. Both were very carefully labelled, a step of which Tarquin approved.

"This'un willnae kill," he said, tapping his forefinger on the cork of the thicker poison. "I bin tae work onnit wi' Deadnettle, as tae d'lute - 'tis a nerve-toxin, laik thy Service's 'Crippler.' It'll hurt a girt deal, but kinnae be fatal tae a man fill-grewn. This'un -" his other finger circled the cork on the one that looked like a baby's blameless vomit - "has nae bin mixed. It'll kill quick eno', if tha chooses."

One for pain, one for death. Tarquin looked at the two vials and wondered what the ruthless old patriot who had trained him in the black alchemy of poison would have thought about this. "Guid," he said shortly. "Use 'em both." Philleas nodded wordlessly and stepped over to the cover of a tree, handling his poisons very, very carefully, while he turned back to Indarra with the dreamfoil. The priestess was already pacing over to a low-hangin tree, its trunk split just above the ground and forming something of a natural resting place. She stopped in front of the tree, fingers busy with the laces of her formal, archaic robes, and he slipped by her and placed the dreamfoil snugly in the fork of the tree.

Indarra was wearing very similar clothes to the first time he had seen her since everything happened - tight-fitting maroon trousers, and a matching top that fulfilled the basic functions of modesty without going to any unnecessary effort. She also appeared to have gone to some effort to muss her hair. She stared back at Tarquin's calculating eyes with a challenging smirk, seeming to draw Grizelle about her like a cloak. "Well? Do you want him to be happy to see me or not?"

He couldn't help chuckling. "I'm recallin' what yeh said, wi'regards ta finally understandin' how I go' such a number ay itherwise intelligent folk ta put on thon tabards an' follow me." He jerked a thumb at the presumably otherwise intelligent people setting up the ambush behind him. "Think I jus' came ta some sim'lar realizations regardin' yirself an' air Kaidos." She actually went a little pink at that. In the thin places, it was hard to tell whether she was Indarra or Grizelle. He supposed that was the point. "Aright, then. Make yirsel' comf'trable."

She did, neatly folding up her robe into the tree trunk to cushion her, over the dreamfoil. And while she did that, his hand dipped under his cloak into one of the many pockets in his tunic, located the bit of piercing coolness that was their weapon, and slipped it out. When Indarra turned around he was holding it before her. Her smile disappeared immediately, and she took a step back. "That," she breathed. "That...I can feel it now. That is a monstrous thing."

"Maybe so," he replied, "but it's what we go' ta work with." She bit her lip, nodded in understanding, and lowered herself into her makeshift resting place. He could sense the Riders approaching behind him, Jolstraer's shadow touching the ground to his left, Aelflaed's armor clanking on his right, and Philleas no doubt at her elbow. And when Indarra's gaze flickered over his shoulder for a moment, he knew Bricu was there staring at her.

"You'll get me out," she said as he approached, and thought she strove to make it a statement of fact, he could hear the question she dared not ask. "If something goes wrong, you'll do your part."

He extended his hand, the ice-blue charm winking in the dim light as it danced across his knuckles. "Ay course, 'Darra," he said, his voice low and soothing. "Wir professionals." His hand darted forward and rolled the gem across her forehead. She gasped at the chill of impact, and then sank back into her robes, the color draining from her skin, her limbs twitching with shivers. Her lips tried to form words, but all he could get was the chattering of her teeth. And then the cold descended over her like a warm blanket, and her head lolled back.

"Well, tha' wis a bit less pleasant than I wis hopin' fer," observed Aelflaed with forced calm, her hands tight about the grip of her sword. Jolstraer's black expression spoke volumes - as did Bricu's, but entirely different ones. Philleas didn't appear particularly troubled, but he could have been too tired to care. And Siest, of course, said nothing. Tarquin approached her.

"Siest? What d'yeh see?" Tarquin approached carefully, the gem still in his hand. The druid did not reply for a few moments, then turned to look at him. There was something oddly youthful about her face, and he thought it was the braids, but then he realized that her eyes, usually half-lidded with sleep, were wide open and intent on something far beyond him.

"She is approaching. The old one is turning his eyes to the thin places now; he hears her footsteps. The mother of Bittertongue's child is there, too, in the house of the dreamers." Her eyes narrowed, but not with weariness. "They are whispering in his steps. Perhaps they have always been. A thousand hungry mouths. It may be hard to hear."

Tarquin added another mental note to his growing list, concerning Rider involvement with things likely to make him wake up trembling. A thousand hungry mouths. He turned to his Riders. "Get yeh in position, then. Jolly, where'm I comin' in from?"

"Ye're tha reserve," grunted the huge old man. "Ah'll cahm in firs'oaf, an' Aely'n Bric'll flank tha buggah. Ye covah Siest thir, keep 'im watchin' fir ye tae strike -"

"-so as he's too busy watchin' me fir ta keep a guid eye on Philly then, aye." He nodded, unsurprised by the brutal simplicity of the plan of attack. "Yeh're spot oan, Jolly. Let's get oan't."

Siest's voice rang across the grove, louder than he had ever heard her speak before. "Earthsprung comes!" she called, something like anger on her face. "The serpents are at his heels, but he is coming to the thin places for his prize! You must be silent; his eyes and ears are half within. Guard your thoughts." Tarquin nodded shortly, and Jolstraer and the young northern couple fanned out across the grove. He and Bricu lingered for a moment, watching each other wordlessly. Then he took a couple deliberate steps over to Threnn's body, where the gift he had left with her rested on her folded hands. He reached down, picked it up, and put it back on with a certain sense of relief. And though there was no reaction from her sleeping form, these were the thin places, and everything had an echo.

Bricu looked at him while he settled the wide-brimmed hat on his head. Then the paladin stuck out one gauntleted hand, and the two clasped wrists wordlessly before Tarquin strode away from the center and took his place near the wide-eyed druid. Bricu leaned over and kissed Threnn, then stepped back into the grove, unsheathing his heavy-bladed axe.

"They are speaking," hissed Siest in the silence. "She is weaving. It will be soon." And Tarquin didn't know whether it was simply the ominous weight of the druid's words or a true sense of the abyss between their footsteps, but he could feel a distinct wrongness, something between a chill and a scent, the tenuous connections of the tissue that bound the world. Whatever Fedwyn Earthsprung had brought to their meeting-place with him, it was worming its way through the bowels of the world. He checked the straps of his armor, shifted one of his boot knives, and waited.

It would be soon.

(before the Brute Squad Gathered in Moonglade....)


Bricu recognized that the largest dent in Threnn's armor was his fault. During his last tantrum, after his dear sister in law was done goading him into a fight, he threw Threnn's breastplate across the room. Now he worked at the forge in Dalaran, pounding out the imperfections and blemishes that were his fault. Still, this is the bloody easy bit, he thought, this is only hard labor. Fueled with the rest of Annie's Dreamless Sleep Potions, Bricu worked Threnn's armor back into shape. She was going to need it soon.

At first light, the start of his vigil, Bricu carried his wife's armor back to their new suite at the Ledgerdemain Lounge. Haemon, in his cat skin, sat near Threnn. He was awake and focused intently on the cat asleep in Threnn's lap. The flick of Haemon's ear was the only sign that he had heard Bricu enter the room.

"Oi, Haemon! Yer shift's over. What the nether are yeh starin' at?" Bricu said.

Haemon shifted to his elf skin, then nodded towards the cat, "She is dreaming. They are both dreaming." He reached forward and scratched the silver tabby behind his ears.

Bricu grunted. "Figured that much. Cheers mate."

"Blessing be upon you and yours." Haemon said, then showed himself out.

Their cat only moved from Threnn's lap when Bricu set the chair down next to her. The tabby watched him with a flat, blank expression. He jumped down to the floor and circled Bricu's legs, purring all the while.

"The only cat I wouldn't skin, yeh know that, right wee one?"

While the tabby purred, Bricu sat vigil next to Threnn. Armed with this jeweler's tools, he set to repair all the filigree and detail work on Threnn's armor. Her armor was near immaculate to begin with--the repairs were minute and minor--but Bricu poored over each and every detail, from her greaves to her gauntlets. Only when each individual piece of armor was checked over did he begin polishing it. He sat, hunched over and squiting, for hours before polishing the armor clean. More hard work, he thought, but better than tomorrow's work. Only when he finished polishing the armor did he look over his still sleeping wife. She had shifted some in her sleep, but not enough to disturb the blankets he had put over her. Tarquin's eponymous hat, the one he put beside her back in Valliance Keep, rested over her heart. The small bump in her belly began to show more clearly now. He rested his hand there and said a small prayer:

May the Light keep watch as you peacefully rest,
And as you awaken, may each day be blessed with loving kindness, compassion and grace,
And many tomorrows in the Light's warm embrace

He stood carefully, so as not to disturb the salt ward on the floor. He took his time putting her armor back on the stand, then covered it with an oil cloth. He took a few moments to tidy up his tools, then waited for the next friend to sit with his Threnny.

--

Annie came with warm bread, fresh cheese and a mug of tea. They ate in awkward silence. Since they formulated a plan to save Threnn, Northman and Al'Cair went head to head in a battle of stubborness. While this did not preclude eating together, it limited any type of conversation.

"Last errand ta run 'for we get this in action lass. I'll see yeh tomorrow."

"Sleep well." Annie said, starring at the Bittertongue's cat.

"I plan ta. Cheers Annie."

"Good night, brother-mine."

It was nearing dusk in Dalaran. Bricu walked to the gryphon master, ignoring the merchants hawking wares and the soldiers returning home from the front against Arthas. He paid for his fare to the Dragonshrine, and braced himself for the cold. It was going to be a long flight.

--

In exchange for a number of jobs done well, the Keepers of the Emerald Dragonshrine didn't promise Bricu gold or treasure. They promised him a good nights sleep, sheltered by the guardians of the flight. The reward was priceless. Bricu found the clearing he was promised and set up his camp. Then, wrapped in a blanket he borrowed from Valliance Keep, he gave into his exhaustion and slept. For the first time since Threnn was taken from him, he dreamed.

There were no fires of Stratholme of the screams of dying comrades on the battlefield. His head didn't echo with the words of the words of Bloody Princes or bloodthirsty merchants with wicked mothers. There was no tin whistle or Arathi plains. There was the cool sea breeze through the window of their Manor House in Azuremyst. Too much air, I'll catch a cough.Bricu started to close the windows and he noticed his hands--they were wrinkled and covered in liver spots. He looked at them for a moment before shuttin the windows.

When did I get so old? he thought. He chuckled to himself and reached for his smoke pouch. His cigaretters were already rolled. "Och, that's right." He said to no one in partiuclar, "They do that for me now. Cheap ass Riders short on' the tobacco." He wandered downstairs, where he knew Threnn would be siting.

She was sitting in the solarium, surrounded by a horde of children, which was her want. She was reading from a book of fairy tales, a book twice as old as the children around her, but she look up to Bricu when he entered the room. She smiled at him with her blue-grey eyes, but did not miss a single word for her audience. Her hair was silver now, and she was thinner than she ever was, but she still sat straight and solider like. He walked passed the children, mussing hair here and there, towards the thick glass that opened up to a eastward view.

He looked towards his one time home. It was in more capable hands now--hands he trained--and the right work was still being done. The Red and Black hadn't faded from memory, despite the hardships, losses and betrayals. Here, in the house he built with Threnn, he reflected on a life full of piss and vinegar. Bricu hadn't smiled that broadly since his wedding day or the birth of his children.

"So this is how it ends?" He said to no one in particular.

"Not yet," Threnn Whispered. "not for a long while still." She wrapped her arms around him.

When she kissed his cheek, he woke up back in the Dragonshrine with the sun shining brightly in his eyes.

"Good morning Bricu." The keeper, Nishera, was standing somewhere to his left. "I trust you slept well."

"Too well lass, too well. Thank yeh though, it was damn well needed."

"You are welcome here any time. Thank you in the fight against the scourge..." Bricu smiled politely as he tuned her out while he prepared his gear for the long ride home.

--

Haemon was sitting vigil when Bricu returned. He was curled up, in his cat skin, near Threnn. She had shifted again in her sleep, her head was tilted more to the left now, but she hadn't woken up. Not that he expected her to. He set the heavy box he carried on his new work bench and began to sort through it.

Haemon spoke a greeting. Bricu grunted in return. Sensing another foul mood, Haemon spoke his blessings and trotted out of the room.

With Haemon gone, Bricu set the items down on the table. Twelve bottles of rose water. Unscented olive oil soap from Kalimdor. A self-warming wash basin. Sacred Oils from the North. New small clothes and padding for the armor. Fresh linen towels. Bricu washed his hands in the basin provided by the Legerdemain, then filled new wash basin with the rose water. he shook his head once, to clear his thoughts, then set to the hardest task yet.

He placed Tarquin's hat at the foot of the bed and shooed the cat away. For his part, the cat moved to Bricu's chair and watched in fascination as Bricu gently pulled the blankets off of Threnn.

Bricu took Threnn's night gown and small clothes off and put them at the foot of the bed, near Tarquin's hat. When the rose water was warm enough, Bricu washed his wife. The only words he spoke were ones he borrowed from Brother Sarno as he blessed the rose water. Threnn didn't stir when he lifted either arm. She didn't squirm when the towel tickled the small of her back. She didn't kiss him back when he leaned forward to kiss her while washing her hair. She didn't look in glee as he put another ring on her finger. Threnn simply slept. When the work was done, and Threnn was in fresh small clothes, he whispered to her, "Me knight in shinin' armor's been blessed with rose water. So save the bloody day an' come home love."

Bricu replaced the padding in Threnn's armor before he dressed her in it. It wasn't worn nor rotted, and the padding she had in would be more comfortable; however, since she couldn't help Bricu in the task of dressing her, the stiffer padding would make it easier for Bricu to place her in the armor. The more comfortable padding would have bunched up and made her life more difficult if she woke up.

When. When she woke up.

Legplates. Greaves. Breastplate. Spaulders. Gauntlets. Sword over the Breast Plate. All told, dressing her took hours of work. Sleeping in her armor, Threnn was one part valiant knight, one part fairy princess. Bricu's heart ached at the sight of her--but he was too busy to weep. There was still more work to do.

He purchased the oil from an old Arathi tradesman who moved to Dalaran just before the war broke out. Tashyia told him where to find him. She had also taught him the proper blessings and signs--the Old Ways--and how to bless his bride before battle. Her forehead annointed, Bricu prepared himself for the coming fight. He kneeled in front of his wife, still sleeping in the strange bed, and he let his anger and grief wash over him. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists. He propped his axe against their bed, and waited for the knock on the door.

Indarra slept and it was too cold. She couldn’t feel her fingers or toes. She couldn’t feel anything. All she could do was wait, and eventually, after what felt like forever, she dreamed.

It didn’t take long for the cat to come slinking from the shadows, curling around her thoughts with that dulcet purr that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

“I smell dreamfoil, Grizelle.”

In the scape, her hair grew longer, her posture relaxed, her clothes faded away. She was suddenly in a tub, standing before him, water to her hips. Was this his doing or her own? She couldn’t tell. The scene was foreign and all too familiar at the same time. She smelled peacebloom and heavy incense. She felt a warm breeze on her skin.

Wasn't I wearing the maroons before? But where did . . . I have no idea how this works.

“Hello,” she said in old Darnassian, confused by the change in her voice. It was deeper, less refined. What was a happening to her when she couldn’t control the inflection in her own voice? She wasn’t sure she really wanted the answer.

The sound – so strange to her ears – seemed to please him. His tail twitched. “You sound right again.”

“I suppose I do.”

“So you remember it all then?” He shifted from his feline form into the seven and a half foot tall man her memory liked to torture her with, and her stomach cramped. Until then he’d been The Cat . . . she’d not assigned human traits to him or his horrors. Now it was hard to deny that this was someone she had loved for a very long time. She should have felt nothing, she supposed, but she did feel something. It was pain, like someone had punched her in the stomach.

“Yes, I . . . “ She swallowed past a lump in her throat. “I remember.”

“Then where are we?”

“Our old rooms. Hyjal.”

He smiled at her, but then it faded, and he found something interesting to stare at on the wall. “Why are you here? You do not willingly come. It's not even remotely safe.”

“They froze me and in the cold I sleep. There was a charm made by some witch, and they used it on me. It was Bittertongue’s doing – the charm that is. The rest of it you can blame on the Riders looking for Threnn.”

He turned to peer at her, searching for a lie, but it wasn’t there. They had frozen her, the charm had been made by a witch. None of her words were mistruths. “And where is the hunter?”

“Busy in Northrend I’d presume. They can’t exactly tell him their plans. He’d have protected me from all of this.”

“I see.”

A pregnant pause grew, and Indarra glided up the steps of the tub. A pile of white towels was stacked on nearby table, and she grabbed one, wrapping it around herself. He smirked at her modesty, and she realized this was a newer thing. Before, long ago, she never would have cared about her nudity.

“They,” she licked her lips, continuing towards him. “They have me outside of the Barrows Den. They wish to trade me for Threnody’s return.”

He tilted his head. “Or this charm will kill you?”

“No, I don't think it will, but Bricu would.” Again she spun her truths, knowing that the lies were traps he'd tear apart with ease, but the facts were irrefutable. It seemed too easy, this bandying, like fabricating the necessary illusion from half details was something she'd done since the beginning of time. The truth was, she had been doing it since the beginning of time.

“I see.”

“You've said that twice now.”

“I suppose I have.” Anger flashed across his face and he turned his back to her. Indarra reached a hand towards his shoulder, forcing her fingers to clamp on his bare skin. It was warm, and felt all too familiar, and she shivered in spite of herself.

“Go get me. If you bring me here like you did with Threnn, bring Threnn to them, they'll be satisfied for now.”

“Yes, for now. But sooner or later your hunter will not be, and then what? They come back again?”

He was right, she knew, but she needed him to not out-logic her. She needed him to buy into an urgency that didn't exist. “Yes but this is your place. They'd stumble here. I don't even know what I'm doing, so how could they? Bloody hell, where I sleep I have clothes on. I show up here I do not. It's your will that holds power, not mine or theirs. They can search for you all they want, but you will know how to avoid them even if I do not.”

“And Aleros Crescentwing and . . . “ His eyes narrowed. “And something as old, equally as old, is on the other side of the veil. A woman that hears the dream's voice and listens with an artist's ear. We can't run from them all.”

“Bricu will kill me given the chance!” Part of this was supposed to be play acting, but saying those words again, a bit of true panic showed through because it was not a lie. She was completely defenseless on the other side of the dream and he wanted her gone. Her body was ripe for the plucking, or stabbing as it were, and he would have no compunction about sending her away. It was only Tarquin ap'Danwyrith's hand that stayed him, and if Tarquin dropped his guard for one moment . . .

“His employer,” she said. “Is the only thing keeping that man from smashing my face in with a hammer. You must believe me.”

“Oh, I do. But I'm trying to decide if you're still worth all of this. You've been such a disappointment so far.”

His honesty shocked her, and she tried to snatch her hand away, but he reached up to capture her fingers in his own, refusing to allow her freedom. Her magics licked at his fingers, and there was a hiss as his skin burned under the sting of her shadowflame.

He flinched, but a smile twisted his lips all the same. “Now this is something Grizelle would do, burning me for my impertinence.”

“Oh shut up. You'd be a complete fool to torture everyone to get me to this point and then decide it's not worth it, and you know it.”

She didn't have time to react, because he was pulling her towards him, pressing his body to hers. The shadowflame danced away as he dipped his head towards her. They stared at one another, noses just inches apart. Where once she'd have found the intimacy as natural as breathing, now it scared her, and she trembled as his hands wrapped around her biceps.

“You're right, of course,” was all he said. “I am not going to waste everything in anger. You can make it up to me.”

He dropped his lips to her cheek, and then her ear and down her neck. Her shaking got worse, and she hoped he mistook it for desire and not disgust, which was the only thing she could muster in the midst of all of this madness. Her mind wailed for Ulthanon but it was no use because he was not outside. He was somewhere else, ignorant of the risk she'd taken for Threnn Al'Cair Bittertongue.

A group of northerners who likely didn't truly care if she lived or died were outside, instead, and wasn't that a comfort.

You have to trust them. You have no bloody choice.

“We can't keep them waiting,” she said with a gentle shove to his shoulders. “I doubt Bittertongue has that much patience, even with his employer there.”

“Mmm.” He kissed her forehead with a purr, and then he was heading for the hazy space between dream and not dream, his body rippling from a kaldorei man to that of a cat. He lifted his head, his eyes going to narrow golden slits. “Threnn is nearby already.” He looked at her once, really looked at her as if he was trying to stare into her soul, her mind, to see what was really there. She held her ground staring back.

And then he was gone, hazing into the Stormrage Barrows Den.

One night, as she was sopping up the last bits of soup with her last few bites of bread, a new cat strolled into the Pig. He stopped on the first step leading down from the entryway and took stock of the room. At first, Threnn thought it might be Fedwyn; this cat was sleek and black, and about the size the druid had been when he'd first appeared to her in Stormwind. But this one's face was too kittenish, his form too lean.

The tabby stopped lapping at his dish and mrred inquisitively. He wandered over to the newcomer and gave him a welcoming sniff. The black cat stood still for a heartbeat or two before sniffing right back. After a moment, the two seemed to find one another satisfactory -- the tabby returned to his dish; the black cat began to wash.

Threnn watched them both with amusement. Her finger held her place in the history of Stromgarde she'd been reading, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see the name "Arrick" asserting itself on the page. The word "quivering" appeared as she turned to look. Sighing, she closed the book and beckoned to the black cat. "Hey there, new kitty. Do you want some cream, t--" The kitten blinked up at her.

His eyes were a deep black-green, no slitted pupils. No pupils at all.

She'd seen those eyes before.

"Kh--" she started, but stopped at a twitch of his tail. Threnn nodded and held a finger to her lips. She'd never thought of cats as having familial resemblances before, but as she looked, she swore she could see Aleros in him, and Skyborne. The knowing grin -- even on kitty lips -- was all Seylon.

Then, by some feline signal she didn't understand, the cats began tumbling. The tabby pounced, the kitten rolled beneath him, and they were off, streaking around the Pig -- hopping up on tables, diving under chairs, thundering up one set of stairs, racing along the balcony and thumping down the other side. It was a good thing Elly Langston wasn't here, making the rounds. They'd have tripped her up ten times over.

The cats took off again once they made it to the landing, squeezing through the railings and pausing again in the hallway. The tabby got a hold on the black kitten, pinning him down and gnawing on his ear while the black kicked rabbit-like with his back legs.

Threnn couldn't stop the giggle that broke free at their antics. The sound was rusty coming out of her throat; she couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed here, or whether she ever had. The cats looked up at her, caught in their moment of indignity. But rather than breaking apart or continuing with the game, the two of them merely... stared.

Yellow eyes and black-green, holding her with the weight of their gazes. As one, they turned their heads and looked out the door, then back at her. She nodded once and stood, settling Tarquin's hat onto her head. Then the kitten kicked once more, spilling the tabby off of himself, and took off out the door, into the night, the tabby chasing right behind.

Threnn hurried out after them and found them tussling around the base of the mailbox. They paused again and raced down the street, towards the canals. She caught up to them again as they broke apart and ran over the bridge. They led her like that, along the streets, past the darkened buildings and the gently lapping waters of the canals, all the way to the Harbor.

The cats pounced and tumbled and nipped their way down the ramps to one of the long docks.

Waiting at its end was a single ship of Kal'dorei design, a long, low-slung vessel adorned with elven scrollwork. Tails held high, they trotted up the gangplank and disappeared from sight as they hopped down to the deck. Threnn followed, climbing aboard and glancing around. They sat side by side at the tip of the bow, no longer wrestling. Two long tails hung down, one black, one silver-striped. Both cats gazed out to sea.

She stepped quietly up behind them, trying to see what held their attention. But all that greeted her was the night-dark sea and the lonely flash of the Stormwind Light, shining despite its lack of a lighthouse keeper. She glanced back towards the docks, as she'd done the day they'd sailed North, in awe of the city rising up above them.

Stormwind was receding into the distance. A strong wind caught the sails and the crewless ship picked up speed. Lanterns lit themselves, suffusing the decks in a pale yellow glow. Every now and then she heard the thump of bare feet tramping along the planks, as the ship passed through the dreams of sailors and seafarers. Threnn caught occasional glimpses of the dreamers. The first few were humans, checking the rigging, writing things in a ship's log. But as they went on, there were more and more Kal'dorei, until every face she saw was dusk-tinged, and every pair of eyes glowed the color of the lanterns.

They paid her no mind as they went about their business, but every so often, one would come and address the black kitten as though he were the captain.

Constellations changed their positions in the sky. Coastlines, too, varied -- rocky beaches giving way to sheer cliffs, the cliffs becoming dense forests, all in the space of a moment. Threnn plucked an apple out of the air and settled down behind the cats. "You're pulling us through their dreams, aren't you?" she asked.

Khallar's head swiveled towards her. His tail twitched once. Threnn could have sworn he was grinning with pride -- aren't I clever?

And the answer, of course, was yes. If Fedwyn decided to look in on her, he'd likely think she was simply exploring again, learning her way around the dream. Their final destination would seem like nothing more than another point on her impromptu tour, at least at first. She knew better than to ask aloud where they'd end up. Instead, she reached up and scratched Khallar behind the ears. "Your mom and dad are going to be so proud of you. Or maybe really pissed at me. Probably both."

He purred at her, then went back to watching the waves. The silver tabby hopped down from the rail and curled up in her lap. Naptime.

As the sky lightened, the smell of salt air faded. It was replaced by the deep earthy scent of the forest -- pine trees and rich soil. There was a hint of woodsmoke in the air, too.

They'd stopped moving - the boat no longer rocked, the breeze no longer threatened to steal the hat from her head. The tabby leapt up beside Khallar again when Threnn rose to see where they'd ended up. At first, she took in the shore beside the boat. The gangplank lead down to an expanse of the greenest grass she'd ever seen. It rolled along, sloping gently upward towards the treeline.

Her gaze came back to the coastline. It... curved. She pivoted as her eye traced its line. But this was no bay or inlet. No break in the land would let the boat sail back out to sea. This was a lake, and the town nestled on the other side of the water was unmistakably Nighthaven, making this Lake Elune'ara.

"Moonglade?" she started, but when she turned back to the bow for confirmation, the cats were already gone. Two sets of eyes peered up at her from the shore, two tails swished back and forth. If they were human, they'd be tapping their feet and muttering "hurry up."

Threnn hurried.

Khallar and the tabby dispensed with the chasing game this time, instead stalking through the trees, their ears and whiskers twitching with urgency. When they reached the Barrow Dens, not one of the three -- kitten, cat or human -- hesitated, heading right inside.

Threnn had been here once, in the waking world, when Fedwyn had first sought her help. There, she'd seen druids slumbering in alcoves all throughout. Here, the alcoves were empty. It made sense -- their bodies might sleep, but they themselves wandered the Dream, just like she was doing. Why stick around in the Barrow Dens?

Khallar and the tabby waited for her in one of the alcoves. The air felt different here, thinner, lighter.

No, it wasn't just the air. It was everything. Fedwyn had told her the Dream was strong here, blurring with the waking world. But how could she use that to her advantage? Could she find someone's dreams and, from this place, break the silence Fedwyn placed on her if she tried mentioning the vine? Was that what Khallar wanted her to do?

She looked down at him. He blinked up at her. "Kitty, I'm not sure what you--"

The kitten took a step towards her and vanished.

"...bloody..."

Then he was back, twining around her ankles. He looked at her and mrred.. Vanish. Twine. Vanish. Twine. He walked over and bumped his forehead against the tabby, who was only too happy to join in the game. Now both cats were doing it, flickering in and out of sight as they wound around one another.

There, in the Barrow Dens, you will skip along the edges.

They stopped and peered up at her. Khallar trotted over and stretched up onto his hind legs, placing his paws on her knees, looking up into her face with an expression that said, Do you see?

"I think I get it, kitty," she said, bending down to place a kiss between his ears. The tabby got one too, before she straightened again. Her smile was huge, filled with hope and anticipation, and maybe a little bit of triumph. "Home, yeah?" she said to them, and prepared herself to try stepping through, the way Khallar had shown her. Her hand moved to adjust the angle of Tarquin's hat on her head, but instead of finding the brim, she frowned as her fingers closed upon empty air.

That's when she heard the voices, muffled but familiar, through the veil of the Dream.

And from much closer, on this side, came Fedwyn's angry rumble.

“Earthsprung comes!”

Phileas glanced over his shoulder at the druid’s call. He saw Tarquin giving last-minute orders, simply with the slightest of glances and nods, and marveled at the other man’s force of personality, not for the first time.

With a shake of his head, the young rogue found what he judged to be a good spot – coiled up on one of the twisted roots like a fox on the stalk. Once he had settled himself, Phileas took a deep breath and slowly let it out, reminding himself of all the things those who had taught him, trained him, made him a killer had told him. “Th’ most important thing, boy, and remember this always – the eye is faster than th’ ear every time. Ya wanna catch someone’s attention, make a sudden movement. Ya wanna avoid notice, keep it slow and smooth till you’ve struck, they’re dead, and jus’ don’t know it yet.”

As he waited in the gloom and shadows, Phileas thought back to when he was younger, and the games of “hide-an-tha’ll-seek-me” he’d played in the fields and trees around Darrowshire. The same principles applied then as now, he reckoned. It was game on, and wouldn’t be done until Missus Threnn was safe at “home.” Allez, allez, out’s in free, Missus Threnn…time for some’un else tae coun’ tae hundred an’ be “it”. Thy Bricu’s had enow o’it, an’ so hae all we. It’s gettin’ late – we need tae go an’ be home i’ time f’r supper.

He glanced at his daggers, and at the sheer coating of odd-colored toxins on them. For a moment that felt like eternity, the enormity of what was resting on his shoulders hit him. He wanted to hand his blades to Tarq and run, he wanted to kill the bastard that had come so close to destroying family ties, he didn’t know what he wanted to do. The moment passed, and his focus returned. It was just another death, another day in the life. An’ if I keep tellin’ mysel’ that, eventually I’ll believe it, mayhap.

Another deep breath, in and out, and he was ready. Live or die, win or lose, he was ready.

Game on.

Once, on a very boring day in Stormwind, a cocky young SI:7 agent had undertook to develop a mathematical formula for the passage of time when one is waiting to commit a murder. It was pure nonsense, of course, an exercise in circular logic and numbers for their own sake packed with little jokes that only other Service agents of a certain age would understand. But it still came to Tarquin's mind, now and then, every time he crouched behind makeshift cover preparing to write an end to some poor fool's life.

He checked the surrounds for the hundredth time in a few hour-long minutes. Jolstraer was standing in front of Indarra's sleeping body, an impassive, hulking statue. Bricu and Aelflaed flanked the grove from the treeline, two tall red-haired shapes, one trembling with nerves, the other boiling with fury. Siest knelt in her trance on the stump, eyes wide and blank, and Philleas was...he was somewhere out there. Tarquin approved. He watched the clearing, rehearsed the fight in his mind, and thought of cold - of the Fallen North, of the Bitter Sea, of the frozen nightmare beyond it. You had to be cold. His eyes fell on Threnn's slumbering body. Cold.

And then Siest cried out "He is coming!" and the fury blazed up in him, almost surprising him. He heard the hiss of Bricu's breath in the treeline, the muttered curse from Jolstraer, as the world folded about them. The thin places were like paper, and like paper, the edges were too thin to be visible. But something was coming along the edges, walking them like bridges, bending the world to fit. He watched the ancient druid intently, as she trembled on the stump. Her voice was feather-light. "He is following her. Your Threnn. She is...guided, I do not know by whom. She -" and Siest's finger shot out, and crooked, and sure enough Threnn Bittertongue's body was stirring.

It had to be now.

"Hauld yir ground!" Tarquin called, knowing without looking that Bricu wanted to rush to her. He would have too. Did, a little bit. He slipped a hand into the many-pocketed cloak, felt the reassuring weight of the white witch's charm, like some old luck-token. It glistened blue between his fingers as he withdrew it, and he could feel the cold through his gloves. It puffed cold into the air, too, as the hilt of his dagger impacted it and turned it to powder. Simple enough. They could have let Indarra go, recovered Threnn, and been done with Fedwyn Earthsprung forever. But then, well, who the hell would they be?

The gust of cold air swept from the falling powder of the charm, stirred Jolstraer's shaggy hair, and drifted across Indarra's pale face. She took in a great shuddering breath and jerked awake, her arms reaching up to hug her slim frame. Just looking at her made Tarquin feel cold. And then the world folded again, folded in halves and quarters and eighths, crumpled like a bank-note in a defiant debtor's hand. Siest screamed, crow-shrill, and with no further warning Fedwyn was among them.

------------------------------------------------

He'd underestimated them. No, that wasn't entirely true - he'd known well enough that Bittertongue would try something, and had a pack of brutish, callow humans at his heels. And the one in the back, the bearded wraith in the hat, he'd smelled on Threnn's footsteps for a few days now. A schemer and a liar, as twisted a mind as these children could produce, and as predictable in its pointless complexities. No, there was no problem there.

But Grizelle - no, Indarra. For them to enlist her, for her to go along, was outside the scope of his thoughts. She was his and always had been. She would drive Indarra's friends away with her rage and mistrust, break the bonds between them with her ancient wanting. So it had been. And now this trap, unfolding before his eyes, a simple, simple bait-and-switch that could only have been accomplished with her foreknowledge. For the first time, he admired Indarra. Admired her like a weaver's artistry. Something beautiful that was made.

Then there was the old one, a voice of some dim familiarity. She was a druid of his time. Perhaps she remembered him. Whoever she was, she'd slipped into the Dream so noiselessly that he thought her watching eyes simply part of the landscape. He wondered if these humans knew how deep her roots went, how much power they drank from the twin worlds.

He would kill her first.

Fedwyn Earthsprung leaped among them, dancing along the edges, a sleek black thing of claws and fangs and above all movement. A broken-down hulk of a human was the first in his path, one eye covered by black leather beneath a primitive horned helm. He darted past the man, heading for the stump, and then spun away as a sword cleaved the air before him. A tall woman, her eyes wide with fear and rage, pulled the sword up with one hand and reached out with the other. Golden light spun through the air and transfixed him, refracting through his nerves. The pain was transitory. He leaped, batted her leg like a toy, tearing holes in the useless armor. She crumpled to one knee, snarling.

More pain! The huge man was on him now, their Light, their unknowable madman's light, sparking about his hammer. Something crunched in Fedwyn's side. He rolled away, the bones uncrumpling and fitting back together as he did, and tore forward, clawing at a hastily raised shield. Behind him, he felt the Dream reaching out, saw the old druid's hands weaving in the air. The woman with the sword was on her feet now. He rolled away, danced back and forth on four legs, then leapt over both of them, spun in the air, and pounced onto the man and knocked him down. Claws ripped at steel; ancient hungers surged in him. The woman's sword flashed down, and he flattened himself, let it pass overhead, and then swiveled to spring at the woman.

"Fuckin' bastard!" Bittertongue, behind him, with yet more burning Light heralding his coming. A great axe was in his path, tearing a line of blood along his sleek flank. And a plated fist, smashing his muzzle. Fangs splintered. Damn these children! He rolled away, hit twice more, bleeding freely; as he passed, he saw movement in the treeline. The thin man, in his black hat, moving along with him, crouching behind the old druid as she wove more green life-strings about the one-eyed knight. He'd not even engaged yet!

And then he saw Grizelle, her eyes unseeing, crouched in the hollow of a tree convulsively rubbing at her cold shoulders. Understanding hit him like a blast of freezing air. She was my weapon; this is her way. This is their way too. The beast had served him well enough, ancient instincts keeping him alive for millennia with the hungry jaws of the Nightmare at his back. But a predator's frenzied cunning would not overcome Indarra's allies; it was, in fact, exactly what they were prepared for. An angry animal, burning with the frustration of a dream denied. He was Fedwyn Earthsprung, and he had to be...cold.

He backed up a few paces as they regrouped and spread out about him, then slipped into the thin places, teetering on the edge of the Dream. He heard the babble of their angry, panicked, confused voices; heard the old one's hoarse voice calling out above them. Evading him and the Nightmare both had taken a toll on her. He almost wished he didn't have to kill her to get to Grizelle.

"He balances between!" she was saying, in their grunting, meat-chopping tongue. "He will flee, or else pounce - even the ancients cannot sustain themselves along the edges for long." Clever, clever old woman. But not enough. There was a third option. He shed the cat's skin, rising up tall and lean and cold. The Nightmare was a hungry, monstrous thing, but it thought with a thousand thousand minds, with all the complexity of any dream. And where there were thoughts, there were desires. Where there were desires, there were bargains.

He spoke impossible words, and the pitching deeps opened beneath him to listen.