Wildfire Riders

The steel-hulled icebreaker affectionately called the Northman’s Fury shuddered against the dock under a master handler’s touch. Bare-chested sailors lashed tossed thick ropes to handlers on shore, who tied the ship fast to thick pylons which had withstood the motions of man for many years now. The ship’s many passengers were dressed in myriad colors and layers of armor of varying cut and thickness. Most bore the scars of battle and of cold, their armor frayed, or stuffed with wool or fur. Some were ornamented with the spoils of victory, but those had taken better ships; faster ships, without the stink of common folk or of bitter regret from the front lines.

One of the many beleaguered push her way to the railing without much care who she shoved from her way. Her plate was oft dented, tarnished, and still covered in muck and gore from the damned north. A fresh bandage wound round her head and over her eye, and it was still an unnerving sensation to have your perception of the world altered so easily.

The ramp was shoved onto the deck from the pier, and once it was lashed down another segment of the weary remnant from the War of the North shambled home to Stormwind.

“..moving, keep moving!” a sergeant bellowed from atop a crate, with hard-eyed footmen clearing the path with spears and halberds. “Discharges proceed up the dock to the left! Those still required in service proceed to right! Have your papers ready for the clerk!”

The woman dug her cold hand into her dented breastplate, pulling out a carefully folded yet quite rumpled parchment. It was sealed, but she knew well what was written within. She proceeded to the left, taking up a post in line behind a pair of dwarves puffing away on thick cigars.

“Next!” the clerk called out, stirring the woman from her observations. The line had shortened quickly, but she was in no hurry to present herself. The folded parchment remained clutched in her hand.

“Name?”

“Sadiraia.”

“Surname?” the clerk demanded testily.

“an Taborwynn,” she replied, pride in her voice but a dull glare directed down at the man before her.

“Unit?” the clerk asked, ignoring all but the information he sought.

“Fourth Lordaeron Militia.”

The clerk looked up at her and snorted. “Four? Didn’t think there was enough left for two. Papers?”

The parchment in her hand was crumpled further in a white-knuckled fist, and she thumped that fist down on the table and uncurled her fingers with due effort. Doing so made her hands hurt worse, but she had learned to live with that and many other things by now.

The clerk cracked the seal with a thumbnail and read through its contents, and didn’t bother hiding a roll of his eyes. “Another crusader. As if it’s a pass on serving like a good King’s man.” Muttering, the clerk inked his seal then pounded the stamp into the parchment rather gruffly. “Cathedral District is--”

“That way. Yeah, I know,” she responded, yanking back her papers and shoving past the footman beside the table.

It was no secret that times were bound to be hard, and those loyal to Stormwind were none so eager to lay down arms to feed the poor. To hear the news from the soldiers’ lips, most sided with their King on burning out the Forsaken once and for all, and licking the Orcs to boot. As if now was the time to send a weary army back into battle.

Sadiraia shook her head at the thought as she passed into the further depths of Stormwind. Returning to war was not on her current list of priorities. She made he way along the canals, not batting an eye at the Grand Cathedral of Stormwind as she passed it like a leaf in a stream. There were no questions or answers she sought in their light-damning confines. Right now she wanted to be where folk were folk, and where folk could put their backs into a job for the sake of the job if nothing else.

With a stubborn set to her shoulders, she topped a rise in the cobblestones and turned her way towards Old Town.

"You're a real son of a bitch. But ya alreadah knew that."

The Traitor Wind swept down from the Headland, blowing the faint smell of char and the amber-hued leaves into a swirl about her as she knelt there. The words spilled out as she knew they would; the content unscripted but the emotion pure. All of her worldly possessions had made the pilgrimage with her; her horse, her armor, her sword and a shield she’d had specially made while fighting in the Grim North. A shield she’d had made in honor of him. Bastard.

“Where in all Lordaeron did it evah say to jus’ give up? Let yerself be beaten?” She knelt in front of a patch of Stratholme Lillies, growing in an unruly patch where the worn walk to the front door used to be. “Everywhere I go, people learn my name and they heap treasure on your name. They forgive your loud mouth.” She plucked at the grass with a free hand, tearing it from the earth frivolously. “They forgive your bloody curse of drink,” she said ruefully, tilting back the dented flask that occupied her other hand. “They forgive the hearts you broke in your wake.” ‘Ow you murdered.

“But never a mention of how you spoke of me fondly. How you loved mother.”

‘Ey forgive tha wrongs ya done.

She took a series of long dribbling gulps, draining the flask and not caring what amber contents spilled over her stained tabard. She didn’t really care what people saw when they looked at her - from the torso that was over-muscled for one her size, the unappealingly small chest that made her look boyish, or the oft-broken nose and teeth that had withstood abuse by angry hands. She didn’t care anymore.

You care. Enough ta kill.

Reaching out, she clutched a haphazard handful of lillies and tore them from the ground. “’Least you could do fer momma, ya bastard.” Straightening, she turned and began to walk back down the path with her odd gait, as if used to more weight on one side than the other. Halfway to her patient horse, she stopped and turned around.

Tell him.

“Oh. An’ ‘nother thing.”

“Fuck you.”