Wildfire Riders

He ran a rag over the bar, catching a glimpse of himself in the polished mahogany finish - sun beaten skin, a trim black beard, blue eyes, and a spray of wrinkles around his eyes letting him know he'd lived hard for his thirty eight years. Losing his parents, then later his wife and child to the black fever hadn't been easy. Not only had it robbed him of his youth, but he wasn't sure he remembered how to smile. Every time he tried it looked like the worst kind of grimace.

“Gimme another ale!”

Evan's eyes flicked to the man at the end of the bar. He was one of Lordaeron's finest, and he was slouching in his seat like someone had ripped the bones from his body. Too much alcohol would steal the metal from anyone's spine, even a weathered military man bearing the blue crest. Too bad barbecue sauce and grease was now staining the white embroidered trim of his precious tabard.

“Ye 'ad enough. Find yer bed, mate.”

“Shut the fuck up and give me another.”

Evan tossed the dishrag over his shoulder, folding his arms over his chest. His shirt went taut over a well muscled frame.

“Och, ye dinnae want tae cross me. Get yer arse 'ome. ”

The captain stood, needing to brace both of his hands on the wood to maintain his balance. “I'm a captain of the fourth infantry, you twat. I think I'd know when I need to . . . ”

He never finished the sentence. The blackjack took him on the ear, hard enough that the crack could be heard over the chattering of the other customers. He sprawled forward, his face thunking off of the bartop, leaving an unattractive smear of spit and blood in its wake. The din of the bar died as the soldier plummeted onto the floor.

Evan eyed his patrons, tossing the club into the air where they could all see.

“Let it be a warnin', ye lot. Act like a whore's cunt, ye get treated like one 'ere. I dinnae give two shites who ye may be. ” He licked his lips and nodded. The blackjack went back to its place behind the bar, and he walked from his station to loop his arm beneath the captain's arms and drag him out the front doors.

He handed him off to his stable boy with a grunt.

“Put 'im next tae 'is nag. Fresh blanket an' water for the morn, ye ken?”

“Yessir.”

When Evan walked back inside, all eyes were on him. He paid it no mind, returning to his place with the Southshore bourbon and Junglevine wines. He pulled out his best stout, a dwarvish brew with a rich barley smell to it, and began to pour.

“All right, ye bastards. A round on the 'ouse, aye?”

*****

It had been a busy week. Lordaeron troops were moving through Brill, and The Lord's Lady benefited from it in coffers near splitting with profits. In the dim light of a gas lantern, Evan tallied his numbers. It was late, at least three or four, the crowds having stumbled their ways home an hour or more ago. He was on his inventory page, surmising the best way to rush orders of peach and cherry grog from Ironforge, when the pounding started on the front door.

“Who the fek is tha'?” he said, hefting himself to standing. He made his way around the tables, avoiding the spikes of the chair legs pointing in the air like stalagmites. Turning them up at night made sweeping the floor a whole hell of a lot easier, but it was a bitch to move around in the dark.

He pulled open the deadbolt, allowing just the door chain to remain in place as he peeked outside. There was a party of five, a wiry looking youth at the head of the group. Evan's eyes caught the crest of Stormwind on the young man's cloak, and he stopped himself from spitting on the floor.

“Good eve, Sir. Our lord fell from his horse, and we need a room and healing.”

“I got the room, but the 'ealin' will be comin' from elsewhere. Ye'll wanna run up tae the church an' ask the abbot 'bout tha'.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

Evan's hands worked the locks open, and he stepped aside to allow the traveler's entry.

“Watch yer 'eads. Room down the 'all on the right thar.”

They had an older man in a makeshift travois, and he could see he was in a bad way. His skin had dollops of sweat and he'd gone as pale as paper. His gray hair was plastered to his scalp like he'd been in a rain shower, but there hadn't been a cloud in the sky for days. Evan watched the cloaked figures move him slowly, navigating around the tables as best they could.

“Leave it to a fekkin' southron tae fall off 'is 'orse an' die in me bar,” he murmured under his breath, pulling a chair back so they could swing the travois into the hallway.

He thought he'd been quiet. He hadn't been quiet enough. The last figure in the line, the one who wasn't carrying, stopped in their tracks.

“Excuse me?”

A woman's voice, and an unpleasant one at that. There was something shrill about her tone that set Evan's teeth to grinding.

“Eh?”

“Did you just say something about my father falling off his horse? You wouldn't be that bloody callous at a time like this, would you?”

Evan watched pale hands move up towards the cloak hood, and then he watched them pull the wool away. He didn't have the best lighting, but he had enough to know that the young woman he was staring at was incredibly pretty - no, not pretty, striking. She had rich brown curls that hung past her shoulders, huge blue eyes, a sprinkle of freckles over her nose, and high cheekbones. He was fairly certain her mouth was just as nice as the rest of her, but he couldn't be sure because it was twisted in the sneer he'd seen on so many noble mouths, the kind that said he was no better than a pebble in a silken shoe. It made his own chin go up a notch, and he braced his legs, his hands going to fists at his side.

Ye fekkin' arse. Lass is bare twenty if she's a day an' yer ready tae do battle.

The realization amused him, and he forced himself to relax.

“I said 'leave it to a southron tae fall off 'is 'orse'.”

“And what, you think you're clever?” The girl moved forward, full on glaring up at him now. Her head barely reached his shoulder, but the way she held herself made her seem so much bigger than she was. She had a presence that had very little to do with her light given good looks and everything to do with the set of her shoulders.

“Nae, I think I'm the only fekkin' inn in town an' ye'll 'ave tae deal with meh if ye want yer mon fixed by our priests.”

Her brow creased, and then she muttered something, her foot stomping on the floor in frustration. “I told James to move onto Lordaeron. Perhaps we'd get someone cultured there, but no, what would the woman know? Now we're in this tiny town with . . .with . . . “ Her hand flickered in a dismissive gesture. “I swear, all men are idiots.”

A vein started pulsing behind Evan's right eye. “Ye'd put culture above yer . . . is 'e yer 'usband or yer da, Miss Shrew? Whoever 'e is, 'e's right fekked.”

“That is my father, LORD Chester Vadras Boleyn, and you, Sir, are rude.”

“Yer right, I am.”

She wasn't sure what to say to that. Admitting it took all the wind out of her sails, and she sputtered as she fought for another clever retort.

“Wot's got yer tongue, Kitten?”

“Shut up, you swine.”

“As ye will, Miss Shrew.”

“My name is Saramia, thankyouverymuch.”

“An' me name is I don't give two shites. Pleased tae meet ya.”

They were well on their way to another round of insults, but the wiry youth from the door slid back into the room, wringing his hands and blushing like a May virgin.

“I . . . I do rather apologize for interrupting, Sir, but Father's asking for you, Sara.”

“Oi. Take the bint, please. She's fekkin' annoyin' is wot she is.”

“Stuff it, you ogre,” the girl snapped, spinning on her heel to march her way down the hall. Watching her go, Evan felt his lips twitch for the first time in a long time. It wasn't the ever elusive smile, but it was as close as he came these days.

The young man sketched a bow in Evan's direction with an almost painful formality. “I do apologize for my sister, Sir. She's a mind of her own, and it can be rather embarrassing when we're in public, Mister . . . “

“Darrows, mate. Evan Darrows. Pleasure tae make yer acquaintance.”

“Yer fekkin' with me, right?” Evan eyed the abbot, the abbot eyed him back. For a man of the cloth, Samual Chilton was enormous. He was wide through the chest, wide through the shoulders, and as far as Evan could tell, there wasn't a single ounce of fat on his frame. He was more bulldog than man, which made the plain brown robe of his station look ridiculously out of place.

“Yer language, Evan.”

“Oi!”

Samual sighed. “At least two weeks, aye? If ye move 'im, ye'll kill 'im.”

“I'm stuck with 'im an' 'is pisspants kin fer . . . shite. That daughter of 'is? S'a fekkin' nightmare.”

“Ye'll survive.” Samual clapped him on the back before slinging his bag over his shoulder. “I'll check on 'im tomorrow. Get some sleep.”

“Aye, aye.”

The front door closed behind the healer, allowing Evan a brief glimpse of the skies. The horizon had already gone pale, the sun threatening to peek its head over the northern hills, and the realization forced a yawn from his mouth. He stifled it against the back of his hand and tromped upstairs, ready to find his bed for a few hours of precious sleep, when The Voice stopped him cold.

He suppressed the urge to bash his face off of the wall.

“Excuse me? Mister Shite, was it? Or was that Mister Two Shites? I require some boiling water.”

“Eh? Fer wot.”

“Tea.” Saramia appeared at the bottom of the steps, her cloak gone. She wore a formal pink gown with tiny white daisies embroidered over the bodice. There were ribbons at the top of her bunched sleeves. “I can't fall asleep without it.”

“It's near morn, ye ken.”

“Well yes, that's why I require tea, as I said. Oh dear, are you rude AND dim? That'd be a pity. You know, in Stormwind there's a big man, about your size, and he has the mind of a toddler and always will. It was something of a birth . . . ”

It took her a moment to understand that the growling she was hearing was coming from his throat, not that of a dog that mysteriously found its way inside when she wasn't looking. “Oh dear, you're perturbed.”

Evan's face had gone mottled red, and was well on its way to the plum purple. She retreated from the stairs with a small bow, one of her hand's going to her throat. “Pardon . . . I'll just find another in the staff to ask. Good evening, Mister Shite.”

She spun about, weaving her way around tables to find the kitchen.

“I AM THE FEKKIN' STAFF. AN' YE CAN BOIL YER OWN FEKKIN' WATER.”

The roar shook the rafters.

She paused to peer at him over her shoulder, blinking owlishly. “I see.”

Evan stared at her, she stared back. His eyes felt like they were bulging from the sockets, which was made only worse when he saw no fear on her face at all. That voice had cleared the bar out on the worst of nights – grown men would run for the door, afraid Darrows was going to beat the piss out of them with his blackjack – but this slip of a girl didn't seem the slightest bit intimidated.

Before he could think better of it, he had turned around and was stomping down the steps. She held position, never losing ground, not even when he was looming over her like an irate giant, his lips twisted into an ugly sneer.

“Yer a spoiled, arrogant, pissy little PAIN IN ME ARSE.“

“Mmmm. You spit when you shout. Stop showering me, you oaf.”

His growling started again, twice as loud as it had been before. Her answer to it was to lift her face, attempting to look down her nose at him even though she was a foot shorter than he was. It didn't quite work.

“Sara?”

Evan's head whipped around, and the young lordling, the one who'd identified himself as her brother, stood framed by the hallway once again. Seeing the rage on the innkeep's face, he stumbled into the wall behind him, though his hand did spill to the sword at his waist, just in case he had to defend himself or his sister who was standing within choking distance of the murderous proprietor.

“Good evening Vadras. I was simply trying to get some tea and this bully decided he'd give me trouble.”

“I see. It's rather later. Why don't we forget tea for tonight and return to our rooms? I think Mister Darrows is overtired and by the looks of it, over-vexed.” Vadras forced a smile that was so stiff in nearly cracked his face in half.

“Well that's certainly not MY fault.”

“I'm sure.”

“You know I have trouble sleeping without tea.”

“I sincerely doubt any of us will sleep well considering Father's condition. Come now, before you alienate our . . . well . . . “ He didn't finish the thought, instead holding his hand out. Sara peered at it, then back up at Evan's too-close face. With a toss of curls over her shoulder, she stepped around him to take her brother's offered arm.

“I suppose, but honestly, Vadras, the next time I suggest we go into the city, you should listen to me. This man is painfully understaffed. Did you know he does everything about here? Why, in his shoes, I'd hire at least two kitchen girls. Maybe even THREE. It's a rather large place for one gentleman to run, and . . . ”

Evan listened to the chatter as she disappeared, her voice finally going quiet when the door slammed behind her. His fingers went to his temple, futilely attempting to rub the throbbing away. He wanted to scream, but he was fairly sure he'd done enough of that to wake the rest of his customers. Stomping back to the stairs, muttering curses that would have turned Samuel Chilton's hair white, he pictured shaking the girl until she forgot how to talk.

It should have been a pleasant notion, but no, he just found himself frowning even harder.

Of all the fekkin' inns in all of Azeroth, why's the minx in mine?

That thought plagued him all the way to his room, and all the way to sleep.