Wildfire Riders

"Good Evening, Master Taborwynn, how are y--"

"PIKE! OFF!"

The roar briefly silenced the Pig & Whistle from its usual clatter and bustle, but Jol paid it no mind. He thumped across the intricate stonework and thundered downstairs to the spare room. It wasn't until a resounding bang announced his retreat that the common room picked up its bustle once more.

He didn't take long. Annalea and Varenna had cautioned him; she needed his help.

His help? His help?

"She didnae need me 'elp tae burn 'er 'ouse tae tha groun'."

She wasnae in 'er raight min'. Yeh knae at nae.

"Sae wot'm ah gonna do fer 'er? Wot? Sang ah trill, dance an' giggle, an' 'en she comes 'ome raight as rain!?"

The walls didn't have an answer for him; looking down at hands stuffing his meager belongings into saddlebags, he growled. "If'n ah ain' watch meself ah'll turn out jes' like 'er."

It was a bitter thought, and blew through him like the fierce winds that rippled down from the fearsome North. He paused then, his stomach churning, and the mess kit in his hands felt like hot coals. Dropping it, he stalked over to the small window that peered out at street level. Looking out over the cobblestones and the milling mass of adventurers and those who preyed on them. A week's passing, but it felt like months. A week since the flames, and the worry, and the guilt that had driven him deep within himself. A week since the tearful eyes of Tianna, of Matila's hushed, frightful description of her sister's passing through. A week he had spent under the foul film of drink, moving from place to place wearily. A week of sleeping within arm's reach of a demoness that he felt had been touched by the Light, one who wanted only his happiness--

"Pike all. Ain' nae room fer 'appiness annahmoah. Jes' moah pain, moah toil, moah work. Time 'nough fer tha dead tae be 'appah."

He felt a chill in his shoulders, remembering the devil's plan. Yva Darrows. For years he had kept himself at a wary arm's reach from the tainted deader, unwilling to put himself at odds with he infamy. Yet now here he was, working side by side with her, with a once-fearsome demon between them. Worse, he was beginning to understand the tricky witch. A morbid curiosity was growing in him on just what made her tick, and how deeply her guilt and remorse truly went.

Everything whirled around him. The world, the fog, the near constant drunken haze. It compressed upon his world, tightening his armor so he couldn't breathe. Out. It had to get out. That unctonrollable feeling inside that he had to unleash, that feeling of heat that flared up like a storm from the peaks. It began as a moan, then a yell, then a roar as it reached from some part deep inside and tore its way forth. The roar was furious, full of frustration and despair, of being cheated in life and being ridiculed by death. It was born into the air freely, and with it the world shuddered. Again and again it shuddered as the voice was made raw, as the pain of long life and constant strife was heard throughout tiny confines. Chest heaved, muscles relaxed. Head, weary head, so full of thoughts benign and malicious, sank against the wooden pillar that held up ceiling.

He didn't remember standing next to it. He didn't remember the fullness of his fury; his hand remembered then, screaming agony and pulsing with returned hatred. The tempered gauntlet was dusty when he looked at it, and flecks of wood fell from it as it moved. Peering around, his eye fell upon the column again, and a bevy of indentations upon it. Looking closer, he saw them, and matched his fingers to the grooves. The wood was gouged deep, and it bothered him.

He couldn't remember striking it.

He had to go. Returning to his saddlebags, he packed what was left. He knew Jhoryla would return eventually; they were in this together, for the moment. She had promised him a place to stay, and when her own place was no longer safe, he had promised to find her a safe place. But if rage fell on him so blindly...what was really safe?

Muttering, he through saddlebags over his shoulder, belted on his sword and slung his shield on his back. North. He'd go back North. Wherever else would he be? Certainly not home, not where he belonged, not where he was wanted and loved. He would not let himself grow accustomed to that. Never again.

No. He had given up his right to that long before. And thus far, he had kept to that bargain.

"Tha Laight be damned fer 'et."

Night in the Underbelly was still, the blanket of quiet covering shady deeds and less than scrupulous characters. The Cantrip wasn't the best of inns, or the most comfortable, but Jol Taborwynn had made 'arrangements' with the innkeeper, Ajay Green. Jol would keep the ruckus of Green's patronage to a minimum, and Green got to serve swill with both hands and drink his own grog with the use of his whole face. In return, Jol got a room big enough for two in the very back, undisturbed by outside noise. It was a side job, to be certain - Jol was a Rider first, and Riders had free reign to cause ruckus if'n they so felt. But it would do to give Jol and his new bunkmate a steadier place of lodging than movement from place to place every other night.

It had been a long night. Lying there in the pair of small beds pushed together, staring up at the ceiling, he continued to wonder just when the nights had become so long. He was tired, and his side hurt like it was on fire. Subconsciously he touched the bandage wound around his ribs, finding it was damp, but not yet soaked through. It had slowed, at least. It had been difficult for him to dress on his own, but he had no desire at all to let the form sleeping within arms' reach know just how bad a hit he had taken. Those soft spots in his armor weren't as small as they used to be.

Moving his head slightly in the dim light, he looked over at her, lying there. Both of them were clothed enough to get moving in a hurry if necessary, and there was space enough between them to fit another person on the bed, so long as they didn't mind sleeping half on two mattresses. From what he could tell, she was asleep - or what passed for sleep. Her breathing was slow and even, and she didn't move.

Narrowly avoiding a grunt, he slowly pulled himself up from the bed and moved over to the window that looked out over the dingy Underbelly. The lamps cast small pools of light down the wooden planks, but there was plenty of shadow in between them to allow the night's business to continue uninterrupted. Part of him felt like stomping down those planks and looking for some business for him to get into - whether it be the easy way or the hard way. He liked the hard way better.

His wound wasn't what was keeping him awake, and he knew that. It was something Jhoryla had said earlier that had set him cold to the bone, a feeling he disliked more for the memories it was attached to than for the source of the feeling. Yva Darrows, he could agree, was most certainly a tinderbox ready to go, as the roguish woman had confided. But him? He was quick to hit, aye, but that wasn't so much a tinderbox as a man eager to get a job done with brute force.

There was a shuffle behind him, and he cast a quick eye at her. It was just her stirring in her sleep, nothing more. But he continued to watch, to make sure; he was coming to know her well. Too well. Something in him seemed to sense that she needed him for something, though the only clue he could figure was to keep her from lashing out in a way she feared. Keep her contained, in a sense. Perhaps.

He knew, in other parts of his mind, how it might look. He and her, sharing various apartments and seen together nearly constantly, when the two weren't doing their part for the Alliance. Tae 'ell wit' wot 'ey thank, he thought. He knew the right of it, that there was nothing going on. Yet, a voice whispered in the darker reaches of him. He forced that down with a quiet grunt, turning his gaze back out over the Underbelly. Damn what the woman would think. Light damn her for what she had begun.

That was it. Jhoryla had been right, though he refused to admit it. One name had the ability to strike a spark that could set a whole armory of powder kegs off in an instant. Day by day, he felt more and more resentment and frustration welling up in him, and though he could not fathom the cause, he knew what - more precisely, who - it was pointed at. The memory of the burning embers flashed in his mind, of the smell of charred wood. It was as foul as a midden heap to him, and the thought of hit made his hands clench, growing cold. Cold. Just like the vile Northrend that waited below their meager room. His business would be finished here. It would end here. How, he knew not, but the feeling in his gut told him that it would end here. Soon.

He needed rest. He needed his anger to be banished for four hours at least, to allow him time to recoup and perhaps for that damned slash in his side to quit bleeding before he opened it up again. The temptation of a dreamless sleep potion taunted him, but he fiercely denied it. Dreamfoil? Never again.

He stood watching the shadows, wondering which one was inviting him.

The night skies over Stormwind twinked without care, the stars casting down their gaze and watching with curiosity at the brief sparkles that were humanity's short and fervant lives. Jol envied them, but it was an envy that was lacking its usual vitality when forged from him.

Tonight, his heart just wasn't in it.

The glss pot, half filled with a gelatinous ointment, served as a simple reminder. Thrennody had done what little she could to see just how bad the pervasive wound in his side really was, but he would not let her do more. It reacted to the Light as a bear might react to a cat; a nuissance, and one that ould not deter it. Knowing that, and where the wound had come from, made the message clear. Jol, for all his strength and tenacity for standing his ground, could not bring himself to say it aloud. Part of him was terrified. Another part...

Resigned.

His shoulders were slumped as he plodded down the cobblestones of Stormwind, not caring where he was led, only that he kept moving within the city's confines. All of this time fighting in the North, he should have expected it. Years before, there had been ample immunity. But it was fallacy to think that would last forever.

Build a better mousetrap, and someone builds a better mouse.

If his strength were any judge, there was time yet. Time to see things through. Time to set things right...

No, some things couldn't be set to right. But maybe he could bare his sins and die shriven.

Death. As chilling a thought as the biting winds of the north. The Lich King still lived; Arthas Menethil still trod with solid footsteps. Another of the few who had followed him - and been scarred for it - would fall. An old man dies, and evil lives on. He hated the thought, hated it with his last breath...but felt unable to change it. Helpless to fate.

Sergeant Taborwynn had never before in his life been helpless.

Hungry. Beaten. Heartbroken. Afraid. But never Helpless. Each time he had pulled himself up and come to his feet yet again, standing right where he had fallen, and daring to take another step forward. Some folks might admire that. Others might think it the epitomy of arrogance. "Don't you know when you've been beaten?" they might ask.

Well, today, he just might know.

Thrennody Bittertongue was worried. He wished that she wouldn't be - she had better things to concern herself, by his mind. He'd had his time for quite a while. Now, it was the time for her, and for Bricu, and for ap Danwyrith and Ceil, Kaidos and Indarra, Annalea and Fingold, Feliche and Bellesta...

Miahala.

He'd failed her. Light, how he had. And she had made his failure known to him. What he had thought he might one day settle into had been brought crashing down in fire and anger. He had broken her - how, he did not know. But she had been broken by the thug's brutish hands as surely as if he had beaten her physically. He was only a man, a man of war. Four of them in the span of his lifetime, when as little as a generation before him had known only peace. He had thought he might have peace, once. But those same thug's hands had taken care of that quickly and brutally. Another's orders. But his hands.

He would not tell her of his deathblow; another secret of him hidden from her. She should know, shouldn't she? No matter the current state of it, they were still man and wife. But he wouldn't; Threnn knew, and she was one too many. Like the old bear, he would take care of his tasks, then lumber off into the wilderness to meet his end on his own. His terms. And to keep everyone else safe. A thug's end - without a note, without a trumpet blaring or mourner's cry.

He had stopped his walk, leaning on the railing of one of the many bridges over the city's canals. A thug's hands; he peered down at his leathery palms and huge knuckles that had made so many indentions over the years. Jhoryla had said it with a touch of scorn, but it was the truth of things; they were just thugs.

"Onlah thugs," he muttered, but it didn't taste right to his mouth. Something yearned to be so much more, but he could not put a name to it. Straightening slowly, with pain in his side, he held out his sword arm, staring at the hand that wielded steel expertly enough. Shield and sword were all he worried about these days, but there was something more. Something else that he had long since stopped using.

Concentrating, he closed his eye. He reached deep within himself, reaching for a well that he feared had long since gone dry. It went deep, to dark recesses, and the further he reached, the more fervant came his need. Fear tried to overtake him, but something would not let it.

Hope.

Hope guided him, and the well's bottom was found. there, deep down, what he reached for beckoned him, shimmering and pulsing with kindness and warmth. He plunged into it, drawing upon it like a man dying of thirst. It filled him, and his eye opened to find his hand beginning to glow.

Pain shrieked in his side, nearly doubling him over, but he refused to let go. The warmth that filled him was sweet laughter next to the building nightmare in his side. Stubbornly he refused to let go, drawing more of the Light into him. Pain swelled, reaching a crescendo that sent him to the cobblestones, his body clenching as if trying to ard off the pain that beat at him. The Light fled him then, and he lay there cringing, sobbing without tears as the pain lashed him, then receded.

A thug would not survive that.

Long minutes passed before he was able to clear the ice from his lungs and breathe, deep, slow breaths. Hope faded, but not competely; it simply waited for him, far in the distance, but ready to come to him quickly if he wanted. He wanted nothing of it, then.

His time was running out. And there was so much left undone.

Pulling himself up weakly, he staggered down the cobblestones. Above him, a lone star streaked across the sky, leaving behind tears in a cascade of midnight.

Jol Taborwynn tied Daeric off to the hitching post outside of the Blue Recluse of Stormwind, eying the open door warily as patrons moved to and fro. Matila had been gracious enough to tell him what he needed to know, and for the first time in weeks, he had wanted to know where Miahala was. His armor was on, as it usually was, but he felt he needed it not to save him from whatever fury he might incur; no, this time, it was to save her from seeing the crack in his normally stoic and hardened visage.

He didn't want her to see him in pain. Seeing her own would be hard enough, for him.

Tightening the straps on his breastplate, he took a few deep breaths and tested himself. The pain was steady, but he had begun to grow accustomed to it. So long as another of his coughing fits did not assail him, he would do well enough. He'd take it easy, and slow; that would be best anyway, so as not to stir her. He felt ashamed to have to think of her that way, easily startled by him, but he had no idea just what he might encounter inside. Slowly, he strode in with that easily-recognizable swagger of a man used to seeing his way through anything.

Had this been just a few weeks ago, there would have been no predicting how Miahala would've reacted. As it was, however, she was doing better. Her mind had calmed from the frozen rage that had overtaken it before. Jaim was still there, but she was getting better at ignoring him. What that said about her in relation to listening to herself in other ways, it could not be said... but it was what it was.

Mia had spent much time with her children. Sadie was often busy, a young Paladin out in the world, but Tianna enjoyed the time with her mother. Mia was living humbly, staying with Matila at the Orphanage these days - but when she needed to get out for a little while, she usually went to the Blue Recluse.

She liked to be in the Mage District. It was like Dalaran, but more peaceful. The Blue Recluse was a nice place to go and was far safer than other bars in the area.

Sitting at one of the tables, a scattered few other patrons here and there, Mia enjoyed a glass of white wine - light and easy on the constitution - while otherwise lost in her own thoughts, though she did not look at them. That usually didn't end anywhere good, so she just let them pass by her mind's eye like dried leaves caught on the surface of a passing stream, drifting off to points unknown.

It was the heavy tread of plate boots on wooden planks that caught her attention. True, even among the mages, there would be the occasional strong armored person, but it wasn't as common a sound here as in other places. Lifting her head, her eyes caught sight of the person making their way in, slowly and steadily. It took her a few moments to recognize who it was and then to try to discern the feelings inside.

Shock. This had been the last place she expected him.

Fear. What might he think of her, after all of this?

Sadness. He must hate her, to have waited so long.

Resignation.

The rancor was gone now, having died quietly somewhere in the past days. Even the other emotions were muted, and simply... tired. She didn't know how he was feeling, but he had come and she should make the best of it.

"Hello, Jol," she said quietly as he drew nearer her table.

"Miahala." His voice was thick, and the inflection in which he said it, spoke of something more than just a name. His face was calm, as smooth as the rough-hewn stone that he seemed to have come from. But in a way, the manner in which he spoke her name felt distant to him. "Yeh...awraight?" Curse his tongue for simplicity.

The mage smiled ruefully and brushed a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. It was a question that was so simple, and yet so exceptionally complex. "I am... all right," she responded after several long moments. "I am not as I was, neither whole nor incomplete, but I am a far cry better than I have been... of late." There was a wry edge to her words to imply all that she had not said. She paused then, frowning slightly, before looking at the tabletop. "I am sorry," she said quietly, flashes of a house tumbling to the ground in flames flashing before her eyes.

He inhaled slowly, letting it out and in turn snuffing the embers of anger he had hoped would not arise when he first considered finding her. His own memories of eeing the ashes and the charr-filled rooms were blurry, intermingled with so many others that were eerily similar. "Sae'm ah," he said quietly, and without invitation withdrew the chair across from her and eased himself into it. "Whurr...tae b'gin nae?" he asked hesitantly.

"I don't think we do, Jol," Mia said with a... distant sadness. There was warmth in her gaze, and not the sort that sent men ducking for cover behind the first non-flammable object that could provide cover. Yet, the warmth - while being affection - was not the burning coals of passion or love, as it had once been. It was tempered now into something else. "I wonder if we ever really did," she said, considering. "Began, that is... or if we just... were, for a time."

Jol considered this with a frown, and nodded after a time. "We were...'ere fer each othah, when times were 'at 'ere wors'. 'Et..." He frowned again, fighting back the coughing fit, while burdened with other painful thoughts. "'Et wos fer tha bes'. Tae remin' us 'et life ken goe oan. 'Et 'ere...wos alweys sommat wort' livin' fer." he looked up at her again, with that lone eye confused yet filled with emotion he didn't dare otherwise show. "Ah cannae ferget tha angah. But 'et's born o'sommat othah'n angah. Ah ken 'ope."

Miahala looked at him for a long moment then. The look in her own green gaze was unreadable. "I've had a lot of time to think, lately," she began finally. Carefully, she reached her hand across the table. It remained there untouched for a long time; just when she began to withdraw it again, he reached out and clasped it in his own, unwilling to let himself let her withdraw. "I've figured out some things. I never really thought you'd been unfaithful to me. I..." She took in a careful breath, looking at their hands. "I think I've known for a long time that our marriage was a purpose, rather than a lifetime... but I wasn't willing to admit it, or to admit that its purpose was over.

"In my refusal to face the truth, reality... well. Reality broke me. My mind needed something to explain it, and it latched on to foolishness." She closed her eyes and shook her head. Jaim was sitting beside her. 'Sometimes things are just hard to admit,' he said. She ignored him. "It latched on to foolishness and I'm... ashamed of that, but," her eyes opened and she looked at him again, "but I was also losing control. I never did so, thought so, intentionally to hurt anyone."

"'Renna...tol' mah 'ow she foun' yeh. A'fuhst ah couldnae brang m'self tae...realize 'et. Ah wos tae focused on turnin' angah on yeh; felt like yeh b'trayed mah. As if'n yeh did...thangs...jes' tae 'urt mah moah'n wot yeh'd dae tae sum'unn else." He sighed then, his brow furrowed. "Ah knae 'et...ah cannae be tha perfec' man tae be wit'. Ah tried, once. But...'ere's ne'er gon' be ah paht o'mah sat'sfied in ah 'omelah life. 'Et ain' 'cause o'wot ah dunnae 'ave. S'moah...wot ah cannae...let meself be." He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, ignoring the growing pain in his side.

She nodded slowly. "It's a lot of things," she said quietly. "But now... I think we can safely say it's over." Mia smiled sadly. "Though there will always remain a part of me that loves you, for all that we were... whatever it was... I don't want to tie you to me, not after everything I've realized, or everything I've done." She shook her head with a soft sigh. "I'm going to be heading North again soon, to start work again. I'll see to it before that, though."

To let you have your life again, without me holding it back, she thought to herself, but not with anger or hurt - just an earnest desire to let him be free of her; to let them both go on with their lives.

Jol sat with a weary frown, feeling a jumble of thoughts and words floating through his head. He wanted to tell her secrets old and new, to at least part ways knowing that he had not kept anything from her. He wanted to offer his sword to protect her, if not in the oath of love, then the oath of friendship. He wanted so many things, and yet none of them he coud give voice to. Most of all, he wanted to fight down the settling feeling of...relief. Of closure, of chapters ended and his own final one ready to be written. His final test would be not to absolve or forgive those who trespassed against him, but to find the Respect, Tenacity and Compassion that he had long since set aside. And for the first time in his life since everything had shifted between them, he felt the loss of something he quietly knew he never had.

"Laight...be wit' yeh, lassie," he said softly, a hint of defeat in his voice.

"And with you," she said just as quietly, though with less of the defeat. It hurt her to hear it, but she knew there was no avoiding it. She too had felt it, but it had been back when she'd made all these realizations. Now there was simply... quietly sorrowful acceptance.

Getting to her feet, she slipped her hand from his and walked over to his chair. Resting one hand against his rough cheek, she leaned down to kiss the other. "Take care of yourself, Jol," she whispered in his ear and then... she was gone.

Jol was left sitting in the Blue Recluse, the warmth of her lips fading fast from his cheek. And with that, she walked out of his life for good.

~ Jolstraer Taborwynn & Miahala Sha'hal Taborwynn

Let it be known that on this day, upon petition by Miahala Sha'hal Taborwynn, there has been found sufficient cause to annul the Taborwynn marriage. This action is recognized by the Cathedral of Stormwind and Jolstraer Taborwynn and Miahala Sha'hal Taborwynn are now released from their vow.

The parchment was carefully folded up and placed in her traveling bag along with the other important things. Miahala had been told that a copy would be delivered to Jolstraer, whenever they were able to find him. Since she had told him, he wouldn't be surprised upon receiving it. That was worth something. They had parted on amicable and honest terms. That was worth a lot.

Now, Mia set off to begin her life again. She had kissed Tianna good bye and given her sister a hug. Matila would continue to watch the little one while Mia was away, as always. The orphanage was filled with the giggling of little kids on sugar - ever since Sadiraia had gone on a cupcake baking spree and brought a bunch of them by for the orphans.

Matron Nightingale was... pleased, and not pleased, in the same turn.

In the center of the square, Mia pulled the energies of the arcane into her and tore a hole in the fabric of space and distance. She felt lighter now, like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She smiled as she stepped through the portal into the bustling of Dalaran, but it was a... normal smile and not like the ones she'd been smiling some of the more recent times she'd been here.

Mia pulled her pack higher on to her shoulder and wove through the crowds. She headed for the terrace of the flight master and walked to the edge. Far, far below she could just make out the colors and shapes of Crystalsong Forest. She took a long look, because it was beautiful and she liked the image in her mind but she did not intend to go there today.

Summoning Dorant, her great armored gryphon, she took a deep breath and mounted the saddle. "To Icecrown," she bid him. There was business to be done there and tasks she had as of yet left unfinished.

His body shifted back slightly, putting his weight onto his powerful hindquarters as he drew up his wings and then sprung into the air. The ground and sky beneath her passed quickly as she leaned closer to his armor, cutting down on the wind sheer that caught her in the face. There was great freedom in this moment and she let it envelope her.

In due course, they reached the snowy expanses of Icecrown. The snow and the ice, from whence its name came, stretched out as far as she could see. Mia was no Paladin, but even she could sense the taint of the undead upon the land. This was why she was here, for where there was this much trouble in the world, there were plenty of tasks to be seen to.

As she dismounted, a moment came upon her where she felt the... lack of Jol's presence. She had not much been here without him and the memory was strong, for an instant, and then it passed and left in its wake a sort of... quiet, sorrowful relief. A strange mix of emotions, to be sure, but few things in life were ever clear cut and even less when it came to matters of the heart.

Jolstraer had not... seemed his best, when she had seen him, and she had the impression that it was more than just seeing her. She didn't know what it was, but did know that if he had wanted her to have the knowledge then he would have told her. Mia had learned very long ago that no one could force Jolstraer Taborwynn to do anything he chose not to. Except perhaps his daughters, on occasion.

It was, naturally, cold. The wind bit at her and she pulled her cloak closer around her as she made her way forward. Her task here today was simple enough: slay undead... for the undead lit on fire just as well as anything else.

So, she got to work.

Time melted away in a haze of flashing blue and red, orange and white; in the crackle of fire and the crunching of ice. The spell of frostfire was particularly useful, she had found, and she cast it to its full extent. Body after body collapsed in her wake. It was exhausting and exhilarating at the same time, but that was the way it always was... or always had been, before recent events. It was a relief to feel it again.

Sometimes things just don't go the way you plan, or hope. Even the most vigilant can be caught by surprise, and the most cautious can be hurt.

Miahala never saw the sword coming.

A grotesque, ancient and weak weapon - yet still sharp enough - wielded in the hand of a moving corpse was what punctured her side. It went clean through, not being broken or deflected by her ribs; a lucky hit that slid right through them. Mia's arcane hold upon the powers of fire and ice fled her in the wake of the pain and she instead spun around with her staff, catching the rotting skull full on and knocking the body away from her.

Staggering back, she looked down at the weapon that protruded from her. The ice will slow the blood down, she thought as she watched rivers of red flow freely over her body. The dull purple and black of her robes, from ribcage to boot top, was suddenly turned crimson. She couldn't move or think. There was no ability to heal and so she could only watch.

The mage collapsed to the ground in just moments, although it had felt like an eternity. It had happened too quickly, once the blood had begun, and there was nothing to stop it. She fell into the ice and snow, staring up into the clear sky. Before her eyes, she saw her daughters. She saw her husbands. Family long dead. Each one flashed past and then faded as life fled her.

"Forgive me," she whispered to no one, and none would ever know to who these words were addressed. It didn't take long for the snows of Northrend to claim her body as her world ended, surprisingly, in ice.