Wildfire Riders

Laurus opened his eyes. His vision was bleary and out of focus; the world melted and swirled in bright colors. He was immediately aware of the accompanying headache and shut them again. A fist pounded on something hard, smooth and cold, and Laurus swore loudly. Nobody replied.

He flexed his fingers, and found he could make them move. A minor prestignation let the sweet rush of magic flow through his sore body. The throbbing in his head subsided some, or was at least counterbalanced by the pleasure of casting. Laurus tried opening his eyes again.

What he was laying on was definitely marble. It shone with perfect polish; not a speck of dust sullied the whole room. A large staircase arched behind him, the steps of the same flawless stone, and the railing pure golden metal. A red ruunner snaked its way up the staircase to spill out on the balcony above. It beckoned him to follow. Laurus obeyed.

Four doors lined the walls, two upon each side. A double door marked what Laurus guessed to be the entrance to this parlour. Busts, fine vases and pottery stood on display. Paintings, too, adorned the room, but Laurus could not quite make out what they represented. They were nothing more than a mess of color and chaos. He could swear that one changed itself when his eyes focused past it.

The centerpiece of the room was a looming marble fountain of three tiers, crowned by a circle of three human faces that poured molten lava from their mouths in streams that splashed their way to the bottom pool. There was no indication where it might be plumbed from, and the bottom bowl remained in perfect form, never threatening to overflow.

It was all so familiar, somehow.

Almost as an afterthought, Laurus Drachmas looked himself over. Everything seemed to be in order; not even his purple robes were harmed. He found his crooked hat lying on the floor and set it in place absently, staring with fresh-eyed wonder at his surroundings. It was almost difficult to gather his thoughts in place. When he was sure of where he was, a wicked grin tore at his face. Springing with eagerness, Laurus strode toward the front double-door and pushed it open effortlessly.

What greeted him was even more beautiful than he'd remembered. The building simply ended. A glance downward would reveal that the floor was suspended in empty space, but Laurus's eyes were outward. Everywhere were stars, shining unhindered in an endless black void.

"You missed me, you bastard!" Laurus cackled for the heavens.

It was then that Laurus heard footsteps approaching from behind. In no hurry he turned, expectant. Descending the steps was an androgynous being made of fleshy clay. It came to within two paces with its steady, mechanical gait. Laurus waited patiently.

The thing - it couldn't be anything else but a construct - knelt.

"My Lord," it asked.

"You're a whole lot uglier than I thought you'd be," Laurus said, wrinkling his nose. The construct remained unperturbed. The noble's grin returned after a short while, when he began admiring his handiwork anew.

"I guess it's too much to ask everything looks right on the first try. Too many right angles. It's all too polished. I feel like I'm in some kind of painting. Which reminds me. The paintings need work. What kind of artwork is that supposed to bloody be? It makes my skin crawl to stare at. While I'm here, I'll have to change how you look before I go back. You're disgusting."

"When do you intend to return, My Lord?"

"Immediately! I didn't come here willingly, odd as that is. Heh, heh. After trying for months, I didn't come here willingly! I didn't think that any recall here would actually work. But when th-the -- " Laurus stopped himself midsentence. His eyes went wide with abject horror.

"Can I be of assistance, Lord Drachmas?" There was nothing but stoic coldness in the offer.

"No, you probably can't." Laurus rushed across the room, his shoes tapping on the marble, and descended the stairs. Behind him, the construct unhurriedly rose to its feet and followed.

His study door was open, and in its frame, Fells was having a staring match with an inanimate object. It swirled with angry teal symbols that spun as they circled what appeared to be an otherwise benign tin box. "S'always spinnin'," she mumbled angrily, Laurus's heir perched in her arms. "Wha's the arcane got with spinnin' -- Shad!" The last word was hollered, echoing faintly off of the sunken home's walls.

"Shari?" came the answering call from somewhere deeper within the hillside.

"Did Laz tell ya he was gonna leave one'a his damn things out 'gain?"

"No?" Haemon's head poked out of the nursery's door. "I do believe he was too busy with his progeny to aknowledge my existance."

"Well he did. C'mere." Fells motioned him over with a pinky, her eyes still fixed on the angry little box that glowed on Laurus's desk. "Left the damn study door open an' everthin'. Here." Heth was smoothly transferred to his nanny's waiting arm so that his mother could trot to the kitchen to retrieve a broom.

"Tara," he murmured in the voice he always used when she looked to be about to do something foolhardy. "Tell me you're not -- "

"It'll be fine, jest step 'way with the babes."

"You're not going to -- "

"Will y'hush up, I gotta -- "

"Stop!"

His warning caused the jerk. She'd already been leaning into the room from the doorway, arching with arms extended and the tip of the broomstick's handle poised by the box's lid. At Shad's shout she flinched, and what was supposed to have gently tapped the artifact's lid closed instead sent it careening onto the floor. Druid and mother both dove to shield the infants, though the doom that should have followed was simply the harmless clattering of tin across a rug.

One head poked up and then the other. Both glanced at the room, and then each other. Glowing narrowed, and brown scurried quickly away. "Lookit," she pointed out, "it done broke." Visible from the doorway, the box's hinged top had bent at an awkward angle and one side was cleanly dented deep in.

"You could have killed us all," her druid snapped, gathering both children protectively to his chest.

"I didn' though," she mused, leaning in to crane her head to the side and peer upward. The study's bookshelf balconies showed no sign of her wizard spouse. "Hnh. Welp. Teach him t'leave his things out." The door closed behind them, muffling further conversation. The artifact lay dim and immobile where it fell on his rug.

High above the world, Dalaran played hide-and-seek with the sun. On rare days its rays failed to burn away the icy clouds that blew north from the Blight, leaving the city suppressed under a miasma of ice and mist. At his tower's window he sat shrouded from the world outside by the fog. Cradled in his pale, soft fingers, a runed crystal flared bright. It trembled.

"Is it true?" His cold blue eyes rose to the towering form of the woman who'd become his bodyguard. Eight feet of muscle and metal looked as unassuming as a child, hopeful and terrified.

Chauvlein nodded simply, holding the bauble aloft between thumb and forefinger. "It was him."

"Was." A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and with little warning, he broke into relieved laughter. Her composure remained. "Sir. Was."

He clasped a hand over his mouth to smother his inappropriate glee. "Yes, yes, it's over!" Chauvlein gasped to catch his breath. "It's over, it's over. It's over."

At the end of the day, there's really only so much one can do in their pocket dimension.

Perhaps it was the end of the day. The time changed at whim, altering as it sensed his intentions. It had taken dedication and focus to orchestrate his schedules; so much time for morning, so much for day, so much for inky night. Predetermined light streamed in through the windows when it was supposed to. Laurus had only to throw wide the double doors that should have revealed Lordaeron in its prime to remind himself that he hung suspended in the center of a great, dizzying nothing.

All as he'd orchestrated, manipulating Nether to his will and whim. All due his great intellect, a testament to the triumphant name that was Laurus Drachmas.

It would just be nice if he could get out.

By the measure of his artifical days, he'd been lost here a week. Who knew how long it'd been before he'd set them into place. And as wonderous as it was, there was no one to crow about it to. A week gone - what about his children, his wife? Precosia? His construct once again found him pacing along the marble floors, and again they fell into the same routine.

"Again. Where did I come in from."

"I am unaware, Lord Drachmas."

"Then what fucking good are you," he snapped. His construct never knew, and he always asked.

"I am what you have put into place, My Lord."

Laurus snarled in its general direction, his eyes darting about furtively. Every inch, every crevace and nook had been scoured for signs of the wayport back. And why should he even need to look? He'd created the entire estate from memory. It would all be there, every last room. He paused at the marvelous, embelleshed fountain, warding his fingers with a muttered incantation before dragging them trough the lava. There had to be a way out. Somewhere he hadn't thought to look.

Somewhere he hadn't thought to create.

The ward wore, and he yanked singed fingers from the fountain's pool in the same motion that brought him to his feet. "Show me to my room," he commanded tersely.

The construct inclined its head. "Lord Drachmas, I do not think it wise -- "

"I didn't create you to think." Unwise. He was the Great Laurus Drachmas, in a space and continuim of his own making. What had he to fear? "Get a move on. Go." Nothing to fear at all. Which was completely why he was forcing the construct to lead the way.

It did as commanded, great steps forging their way down familiar halls. It made the door he was most closely acquainted with seem miniature in comparison. His original room, now of course redecorated and furnished to properly reflect his standing and stature. Laurus stood against the far wall, waiting patiently for his creation to open the door. For some reason, what awaited him did not surprise him. Profanity hissed through his teeth.

The construct stepped aside to make room for him when Laurus pushed his way inside. The canopied bed was made with linens he hadn't seen in years. The pictures on the wall, formal portraits from ages before, had burned when the estate fell during the wars. Gone were the riches and fineries he'd tailored to his taste. He hadn't seen this room since Lordaeron fell. "This is wrong."

"By your leave, My Lord." His construct stepped into the room behind him, an echo of what Laurus had wrought prior and now completely out of place. "This one may conjecture that your work is being counteracted by your will." Laurus's glare changed its tone not a bit, and it continued in even professionalism. "As the space changes to suit your desires, so must you know what you seek, My Lord."

"Don't spout that subjective bullshit at me. I know the rules here." He would make the thing kneel, but it was disarming to subject an eight-foot-tall image of himself to such debasery. For not the first time he wished he'd made the thing in something else's image. Maybe the elf's, if he could have standed being stranded here with it. Instead the bastard was home, with his children and his wife and...

And not him.

He wanted to get home, he'd thought of getting home, and his childhood room had reasserted itself. Maybe he was less sure of the rules than he thought.

Laurus cleared his throat loudly. "What am I missing." When his creation had nothing to offer, he scanned the room swiftly. No, everything was as he'd left it so long ago. Everything. There, even the gloves for his wedding were still laid out on the countertop. He skimmed past them, pausing where he stood when he found the single incogruency.

He'd never once been the one to leave a key in his closet door.

"Someone has a sick sense of humor." Wit fell stale in a mouth that suddenly felt too dry. Laurus sneered at his petty fears, old weaknesses long banished, and smoothly unlocked and threw wide the door.

Blackness followed.

For Fells Drachmas, nothing was more important than family. Nothing. Her definition of "family" might have been a bit broad, but certain principles applied to everyone who fit beneath that umbrella. It was rare that Fells attempted to call one of those people to earn their keep, but it was exactly that which left Remiaa al'Athwan in such an unpleasant situation. Sister of Norra O'Connaugh, wife of Shael O'Connaugh, parents of her third cousin Avers. This counted Remiaa as "family," and thusly indebted her to dig through Dalaran filework in search of information.

A simple update would have sufficied, really. She would just find out where the Eye had tracked her wayward husband to last, and then deliver the news on. Normally it would be such an easy thing to find out. The only reason that Remiaa had any difficulty was that she was looking in active cases' files. She hadn't thought to check recently closed cases' paperwork. The conclusion was obvious.

Then came the task of delivering the news to her young, recently-mothered step-adopted-third cousin. How precicely did one go about telling someone that they'd been widowed?

She of course hadn't accepted the news with much grace. Ever stubborn, Fells had insisted that "Neutralized" didn't say "Dead" at all, and her Riders had only backed her up on it. They would be scrying and searching and generally poking their noses into corners of Dalaran that they didn't belong. She could have helped, before the mess with the Kirin Tor had turned her reputation to rubble. Alas.

Yva arrived in the Hinterlands, a brush winter wind at her back. Her eyes skimmed the peaks separating this lush green land from the writhing dead ones to the north, her thoughts adrift.

"Consequences," Jak said. "You need to respect the consequences of your actions."

Of course he was right. She was fallible now, a thing of tender pink flesh just like everyone else, but in her mind, some things were worth the risk of the noose, of the clink, of a rescinded pardon. Family was one such thing: Fells Drachmas was one of her last living relatives. Now that she'd found her, Yva'd be damned if she was going to let her suffer when she could do something about it.

When Jak got home that night, the look alike construct reading in the living room would tell him all he needed to know of her whereabouts, of what she valued, and of what she would do for someone she loved. She'd apologize later, and if they had to leave Stormwind, she'd shed no tear for it. It had once been the only place she wanted to be in the entire world, but Jak had changed all that. Wherever he laid his head was home, and conveniently enough, he abhored the city of Stormwind.

"Consequences are rubbish," she hissed. The brutal northern gales agreed, tearing through her thick frostweave cloak in answer. She dug her heels into her dead horse's flanks and made for the farm.

*****

Inside the Drachmas kitchen, Darrows rolled the sleeves of her black gown up to her elbows, revealing forearms covered in runes. Each sigil was inked on, painstakingly placed so it complimented its adjacent sisters. The magic would flow fast and hard, which is what this ritual needed - no, what Yva needed. Time was of the essence. She didn't have the reserves of power she once had thanks to the feeble human coil, and if this scry wasn't done quickly, she'd bleed to death on Fells's floor. She wouldn't mention that, of course, because Fells would probably have heart failure at the prospect, but the risks of blood ritual were obvious enough, especially once the cutting started and the crimson flowed.

Jak will be so annoyed with me for this. Two pot roasts next week, maybe a turkey dinner. And likely lots of se . . . mmm.

Her face flushed red.

"Haemon is nearby?"

Fells nodded, flitting around the room like a bumblebee. Yva wasn't completely certain what the taller woman was doing, and she suspected Fells wasn't certain, either. She was burning energy for the sake of burning energy, replacing worry with fidgeting nonsense to fill the time.

"Is. Has the twins in th'other room. Do y'need anythin' else?"

"Laurus's razor. The rest of it I have."

"Just a tick."

Yva watched her disappear around the corner, smiling slightly before turning back to the implements of the ritual. On the middle of the table was a large black bowl filled nearly to the brim with fresh rain water. Centered at the bottom of the bowl was a plain glass mirror. There were salts, incenses, and a dagger with a green dragonscale hilt to the right. It was said the essence of the green flight helped in vision scapes and dreams. Considering the absolute dearth of information on Laurus's whereabouts, she'd take any assistance she could get - rumor, conjecture, or otherwise.

Fells appeared a moment later with a silver blade wrapped in linen cloth, handling it almost too carefully, like it would break at the slightest provocation. She laid it in Yva's palm and forced herself to sit at the table. Her hands folded and then unfolded. She slouched, she sat up straight. Her legs crossed and then uncrossed.

Yva held the razor near the candle to peer at it, turning it this way and that so the flash of silver streaked across the wall. She wanted to see rust, blood, anything; there needed to be enough blood on the thing to act as an anchor so she could find the arrogant little bastard. Her eye caught on a small stain on the end of the blade, and she cracked a ghost of a smile. "This is his only razor?"

"Ayeh. Didn' wanna touch it fer fear'a smudgin' it or summat."

"It's appreciated." Yva reached over to light her incense, the smell of pine soon spilling through the air. As soon as a tendril of gray smoke wound its way up like a charmed serpent, Yva swiped the razorblade through it, watching a smudge of black ash appear near the handle.

"Pine is considered a purifier," she said. "The trolls say it wards against bad juju. In essence I'm trying to rid the razor of negative resonance. I don't want interference, and under normal circumstances Laurus practically crackles with arcane, so there's a concern he'll inadvertently ruin his own damned ritual. Amazing he'd be that difficult, hmm?" At the look on Fells's face, Yva was fairly certain she could have been speaking in orcish, but she continued all the same. "It's also worth noting I'll need quiet - no words - until I'm done, regardless of what you hear or see. All right?"

Fells nodded. "Course. Anythin' I can do ta help?"

"Just keep me company and do . . . mmm. No, just keep me company. Are you ready?"

"Ayeh. An' thank y'fer this. I . . . "

"Quiet, remember?" She winked to soften the rebuke, and Fells's face flushed pink She nodded, once again twisting in her wooden chair, her hands clenching until her knuckles turned white.

Yva began spreading the salts in a circle around the bowl. The humming started shortly thereafter, her fingers flitting with sizzling, sparkling arcane magic. Fells's eyes widened as the magic spilled over the backs of Yva's hands and up into the sigils, lighting them one by one. Some went pink, some went blue, some went bright white, and the last . . . the last went dusky purple, almost black, if black could glow.

"Internis, Kaleerma, Echerna and FLOUS." Certain runes resonated as Yva named them, their glows ebbing and flaring, flaring and ebbing. The razorblade was dropped into the bowl, falling onto the mirror with a muted click. Yva concentrated on it, stared at it through the water, still feeding her magic into the ritual. She grabbed the dagger in her right hand, clutching it so tightly the pattern of the hilt scales imprinted themselves on her palm. Another stream of words now; other names, other things invoked and then thrust away.

With a deep breath, her teeth grit together, she dug the tip of the dagger into the top sigil on her left arm, feeling the meat split open, feeling the blood ooze in a warm trickle down her skin, down her fingers, making them slick and then tacky as the air began to dry them. Internis was first. She carved it into her arm, nostrils pinched together. The blood seemed to feed the ritual, causing the light to grow painfully bright, like a small, angry sun. As her own essence dripped into the blackened bowl beneath, the water flared, too, a dazzling bright white and then a dusky purple that misted over like the marshes of Menethil.

"Kaleerma," she hissed, moving to the second sigil, sending the blade through: a triangle with slashes, a whirl, dots, and a finishing flair of curve. Each cut hurt more than the last, but she kept her breathing deep and level, forcing herself to continue.

Halfway there, halfway done.

There was a pained squeak across the table, temporarily drawing her attention. Yva's eyes flitted up. Fells was pale and staring, but just as quickly she was forcing herself to look away, up at the ceiling, at the hearth, at the door that would lead her to her children. Her fingers gripped the tabletop like she was holding it in place so it wouldn't go anywhere. Yva forced a smile for her benefit as she moved the dagger into her left hand. Her palm was slick with blood now, the grip was harder to maintain, but a tiny bit of ice magic and everything began flaking off, frozen bits of blood falling to float in the bowl beneath.

"Echerna," she said, dragging the serrated edge through her skin. Another sigil came to ruined life, drizzling into the bowl. The water slurped the offering greedily, swirling in a tiny blackened maelstrom. She kept her eyes on Fells's face, using it as a foci, reminding herself of what all of this was for. Fells must have felt the weight of the stare, felt the importance of that look, as she forced herself to turn back, to regard the witch at her table, doing her best to ignore the ragged, ruined forearms acting as a catalyst for the spell work.

"Flous," Yva rasped, her throat suddenly feeling dry. She named the final blackened sigil, carving it into her arm with another series of painful, jerky motions. As soon as this rune was etched, as soon as the blood from that sigil touched the already churning water bowl, everything went still. Yva's arms lost their glow, the water lost its small, contained storm. The dagger thudded to the table as is slipped from her grip.

Yva took a breath, balling her hands into fists, and looked down.

From out of darkness, Laurus Drachmas walked into one of his worst nightmares.

His childhood closet exited, on the far side, to the spacious stone room he shared with his wife. Home. Relief flooded his limbs as his eyes pored over the walls, the rug, the four-poster bed. It had only been days since he'd seen them, but...It had only been days, right? It took but an instant for relief to turn to the icy chill of panic. Fells, was she here, was she all right, was she--

The door opened, and a distinctly world-weary young woman walked in. She looked vaguely melted from the strain of having kept what she thought was a passable smile on her face all day. No one believed it for a second, of course, but they let her keep what few fantasies she could. Among the others, the one that said her husband was coming home.

"Fells!" cried Laurus. "I'm back! You wouldn't believe where I've...oh come on!" He was being ignored, apparently. "Look, I know you're angry, but there's no need for--" She'd curled up in the armchair and, wait, was she crying? "Fells," he said, softening, "I'm...it's all right, I'm here." He reached out to put a hand on her shoulder, and realized abruptly that he may have spoken in error, or perhaps that he hadn't, in fact, spoken. The arm, and by association the rest of him, was not there at all.

Laurus Drachmas was in a reality where he didn't presently exist.

-----

Once he'd stopped screaming (or trying to), Laurus sat (or imagined himself to be sitting) on the edge of the bed, watching his wife mourn his apparent absence and doing what his brilliant mind did best: trying to solve this with magic. Something in his initial calculations had to be wrong. Very, very wrong. Fundamentally so. What was happening to him - whatever it even was - went against the first premise of Medivh's established principles. One simply could not exist in two planes at once. As loathe as he was to admit it, it was a greater possibility that he'd been the one to err rather than those who went before (what with their notable success, and his current state of very notably not.)

Still, he was here. That meant that he was at least still functionally able to move out of the pocket, even if it...malfunctioned, slightly. The question - or really, the first of oh so many - was if he could get back, and what would be waiting there if he could. The next was, of course, what he had to lose by finding out. This one he could answer: nothing. As much as he hated the possibility of becoming dead, the certainty of being whatever his current state could be called was actually somewhat worse.

Decision made, the magus navigated his consciousness out of the room with only a brief glance back to Fells. There was nothing he could do for her like this, after all, and no sense in brooding over her senseless sadness. Really, as though she could even think he might be... It was simply ridiculous. He was Laurus Drachmas, he couldn't die! With that soothing mantra repeating in his mind, he turned and headed down the hall.

The Lord's private study was just off of the home's common main. His personal tower fortress. The room was unique in that, regardless of what a nosy wench his wife could be, she knew not to mess with anything in there. Therefore, he could be confident that the relic would be right where he'd left it, active on his desk, no matter how long it was that he'd been gone.

If there had been any doubt that he was utterly incorporeal, it would have been erased when Precosia approached down the hall and walked directly through him. "Hey Fells? Shad wants to know if..." Laurus paused, momentarily stunned by her disrespect until the current circumstances tapped him on the shoulder with an "ahem."

In the room from which she'd emerged, the family druid sat sprawled on the floor, a babe in each arm. Heth slept hard, but Felicia fussed, grabbing for loose dangling strands of silver hair. "No, no, shari, you cannot have those. You will not give them back." Cruelly denied, the tiny girl burst into angry shrieks.

Laurus stood transfixed. His family. His children. In the panic of being trapped, he hadn't realized how much he missed them. Even with his eldest shrieking, it wasn't until Heth joined in the caterwauling that he was strained enough to pull away from the scene and hurry on toward the study, now with all the more impetus to his rush.

The study was exactly as he'd left it, save for one tiny but horrendously important detail: the tin box was not on his desk, swirled in runes. It was on the floor, dented in ruin. "Damn it!" he thought, flying across the room. The spell must have knocked it down along with him. If it was still active, he could have used it effortlessly, but with the lid dented in like this, he wasn't sure it could be opened at all. Even if it could, how could he possibly manage it?

One year previously, Laurus Drachmas had marched into the Stockades under the illusory guise of an officer of the Stormwind Guard. It had only been a visual image, because he was by no means a master of such useless parlor tricks. He was particularly lacking in the area of tactile illusion, which required not only a sensory trick but an actual invisible force to resist the deceived limb. Had he been able to produce such a spell the prior year, a hundred lives could have been saved. If he managed today, he could rescue himself.

The magical concept, long neglected, came to him surprisingly easy. The casting was a bit more complex, but after a few tries he managed a temporary, flickering hand form. It was invisible and weak, but driven by his love for his own skin, it was able to force the mangled hinge open to just the right position. The runes flashed, and the box slammed shut.

Laurus opened his eyes. His vision was bleary and out of focus; the world melted and swirled in bright colors. A fist pounded on something hard, smooth and cold, and Laurus crowed loudly. "HA!" Ignoring the renewed headache, he sat up and patted himself down. His robes, body, everything intact. And the pocket world in the image of his old home, just as he'd left it, complete with emotionless construct staring at him expectantly. "I was right, you bastard!" he shouted, as though the thing had made the mistake of questioning his brilliance. "There will always be an established entrance and separate exit to any self-made pocket dimension! Drachmas's First Rule of Pockets! HA!"

"Excellent work, my lord," responded the construct, almost seeming to humor him in its cool monotone.

For the next five minutes, Laurus Drachmas whisked around his creation in a cloud of smug victory, the king, nay, the god of this place. At five minutes and one second precisely, he remembered that he was the king of a world of nothing, and could only escape in the form of nothing.

"...Shit."

With a sigh and a scowl, he turned and stomped back off to his room for another try.

. . . she saw the kitchen. She saw the kitchen as it was at that moment. She saw the hearth crackling with fire. She saw herself standing at the table with bloody arms, and Fells sitting in a chair beside her looking like she might be sick. There was a blackened bowl, a ceremonial dagger, incense. These were the tattered remains of a ritual.

Yva saw things as if she were an observer in another body, watching this scene, like Shad had walked in and was regarding them, only Shad wasn't because he was elsewhere with the children.

And then there was the frustration, of course, that near tangible frustration of one being a voyeur, but not able to interact.

It took her a minute to figure out that she was seeing as Laurus then. She wasn't seeing him, but through his eyes, and he was watching them as they searched for him. Yva lifted her eyes from the table to stare at . . . herself. As Laurus. And then everything blazed red, and then gray, and finally black . . .

"Oh bloody hell," Yva murmured.

Right before she hit the floor.

*****

"Yva."

Ow.

"Yva open your eyes."

It hurts. Oh bloody nether and rot that HURTS.

"Yva open your eyes, please."

"I'd really rather not at the moment," she whispered to The Voice. "But thank you all the same."

"It is necessary I am afraid," The Voice said back.

She opened one eye and really wished she hadn't. The room swam. The only thing she could see was snow, snow everywhere, much like Winterspring used to look when she lived there. The mornings were so lovely with all that white. She especially liked it when the trees iced over. They glittered in the sun like jewels.

"Pretty," she said.

"What is pretty?"

She opened her mouth to say the snow, but then her eye rudely focused some more, and she realized she was actually looking at shoulder length white hair. She stared, her brain registering Haemon as a person rather than the unidentifiable voice. He was bending over her to help her, and in doing so, his hair hung around them both, acting like a pristine, snowy veil.

"Your hair."

" . . . thank you. Please open BOTH of your eyes?"

She did, and groaned, and immediately slammed them shut again.

"Shad, yer gonna have ta patch'er up or her fella's gonna be . . . shush now, love. Yer ma's here. Shush."

Oh! A baby crying. No, TWO babies crying. Ooooh! Babies! I love babies.

Yva smiled, and then frowned, and then winced, which made her head feel like it was splintering open. The whimper she heard was her own, and that made her frown all the more, which made her head hurt all the more.

"Oh OW."

"Damn. She's sufferin'. Make it bett . . . Feli, love, shhhhhh."

"I am aware that she needs tending, Shari. Perhaps you should walk them outside of the room. This is likely upsetting them, and I doubt the wailing is helping Yva's head."

A long sigh.

"Y'know best. Get her in bed after allat?"

"I will. Yva, open your eyes again please."

"I respect you as a physician and a friend, Shad, but I can say with some certainly I do NOT want to open my eyes."

"Yes, well, sometimes we have to do things we do not want to do, and as I respect you as well, allow me to say I do wish you would be more careful. I doubt Freya would do this a second time. For that matter, I doubt Arthas would do his thing a second time."

"Jak would have to kill me if he did. The Arthas bit, I mean. Poor Jakob."

I'd be so sad if Jak killed me. Sooooooo saaaaaad.

"Poor Jak."

" . . . open your eyes, Yva."

And she did, and again wished she hadn't. Shad immediately peeled her eyelids up to stare at her eyeballs, looking to see if she could focus, which she could do with some effort, but it did hurt quite a bit and made her mouth pucker like she'd just bitten into a lemon. "Can you be done now? Please?"

"Yes. Your pupils are fine. I am quite finished."

"You are a gentleman, Haemon Shadowind."

"I am not so certain about that."

And then she was being picked up and moved. A moment later there was something soft and lovely and warm beneath her cheek, and her frowns turned to smiles and then happy sighs.

Eventually, those turned into baby snores.

Laurus watched Yva's body crumple gracefully to the floor like a crane shot to earth mid-flight. It explained the way his non-existent head throbbed, not in any kind of tangible pain but in a sense of the edges of his consciousness fraying away as they were forcibly intruded upon. When Yva had looked up, looked at him and from him, it had been the most fucking disorienting sensation he'd ever experienced.

Travelling (if it could be called that, shifting maybe? Switching? Something, he'd coin the phrase officially later) between his pocket plane and reality was much easier the second time, now that he knew what to expect. And then he'd walked into his own arcane search party only to have his conscience intruded upon. Really, there should be only so much man could take, even in his spectral projection. There should be rules for this sort of thing. He'd pen them the instant he reconciled what had gone wrong, and why he couldn't get his damned body to come with him back home.

For now, what could he do but listen as Shad tucked Yva in, or as Preocisa asked Fells what the everloving fuck had just happened? And all he could do was watch, powerless. It became the theme of the days that followed; visitors came and went, his children grew more aware of their world, meals were prepared. Sometimes, it was easier just to retreat to the space where at least his soulless, humorless construct was able to acknowledge his presence.

And at least once, coming back into reality was worse.

---

To be perfectly fair, she started it. Yes, the Love Festival was likely Shad's favorite holiday, and yes, the extremely porous dresses were a large part of that favoritism, but she started it. He never would have bought one for Fells if she hadn't already bought two for herself. What was the harm in helping her complete the set?

"I like it," he commented as she modeled his acquisition, the usual skintight black number with just enough actual cloth to it to clothe a three-year-old child.

Fells squirmed as though very subtly attempting to hide behind herself despite her grin. "Y'would." Her bare arms repeated the motions of their dilemma: were they to hide her body, or did she need to hide them? "S'gots no back," she declared as her cowardly limbs brushed nothing but skin when they ducked for cover behind her. If only the shirt hadn't looked so terrible with the dress...

"That is rather the point of the thing," said the elf. "And you have a lovely back, so it works out nicely."

Said back was promptly pressed against a stone wall, placing it further still out of his sight. "Thanks fer the dress," she smarmed, "but who'sis a present truly fer?"

The answer took no thought at all. "Laurus, naturally." It wasn't as though he'd been ogling her like some drooling predatory beast. In fact, he'd gotten quite a good handle on his libido of late, to the point where the concept of relations with her were approximately as realistic to him as the possibility that he might be crowned princess of all Kal'dorei and sent to live in a glorious castle crafted from nymph hair and firefly wings. While hypothetically possible, and certainly fun to consider and giggle over, the world simply didn't work that way. So what if his answer was accompanied by an obnoxious grin. "Whenever he chooses to show his face again. The dress isn't going anywhere."

Fells's eyebrows rose in mock surprise. "Oh no? Could always git rid'a it." She dared not tug too hard on the garment as she looked over it, for fear it might come loose entirely. "Could use it fer half a curtain. Almost."

The druid crossed his arm in indignation that was mostly feigned. "If you dislike it that terribly, then change," he huffed. "And I shall not offer any backrub." Ha. So there.

The threat brought about an immediate shift in Fells's attitude; she stopped halfway into a snarkback and blinked. "Y'was offerin'?"

"I was going to," he sniffed, "but I think I have quite changed my mind."

"Aww, hey!" she protested, finally leaving the protection of the wall. "Please? Could use it, after t'day." Apparently two days of sticking her nose in the business of others--and the requisite attempting and failing to change Skyborne's ways--were tension inducing. Who would have thought.

Shad sighed dramatically. "If you wanted a backrub now," he drawled, "there would have to be something in it for me." Strangely, that, of all things, wasn't suggestive.

The lady of the house frowned thoughtfully, casting a glance around the room and patting at her nonexistent pockets. That she had none made it all the more surprising when she produced a small glowing vial from one of them. "Did pick up a couple things'a Moonglow?" she tried.

Having awakened that morning to the unsteady throbbing headache and dry mouth caused only by the sort of alcoholic irresponsibility he himself never displayed, Shad recoiled immediately. "Augh, no. Not drinking tonight, regardless of what Era thinks. Just have a lie down, already."

Victorious without a battle, Fells settled facedown on the couch and stretched out luxuriantly. She'd gotten many a soothing rubdown from her midwife in the last months of her pregnancy, but this was the first time her body was in a state to genuinely relax. And she did so almost immediately when the strong hands began kneading her shoulders. "Aaaayeh, needed this. Yer a damn prince."

As it turned out, she wasn't exactly sparkling conversation when completely relaxed. Even a simple recounting of her earlier discussion with Skyborne was fraught with interruption from requests of "nnnjest there can y'git that spot?" and long pauses when the release of a knot turned her brain off altogether. At the least, she was fairly cooperative, though it took a bit of nudging to get her back onto her stomach once she'd rolled to her back. It was only when he reminded her that, as he was not allowed to massage her front, her resistance would mean the end of the massage that she gave in and returned to her original position, grumbling good-naturedly. "Gonna go 'head an' call this a good idea," she mumbled when he was again turning her muscles to putty.

"The massage, or the dress?" he asked with a grin.

"Yes."

"So if I offer to give you more massages," he reasoned, "does that mean you will wear the dress for them?"

"Y'offer more'a this, I'll wear damn near anythin' y'ask," she groaned as he worked under her shoulderblade, right where the infant harness tended to need to catch.

The wickedness in his next question was nigh tangible. "I would assume 'nothing' does not make the list of things you would be willing to wear, hmm?"

Gathering a pillow under her head gave her a moment to generate the intelligence for speech. "I don' know 'bout that," she teased, as best the near comatose can ever manage. "Define willin'."

He chuckled. "In all seriousness, I could offer a full-body massage. Proper oils and everything." It had been ages since he'd learned. The leisure of being able to figure out what he remembered of it without the scrutinizing gaze of a stranger would be a wonderful blessing. But before he could conduct further discussion on the topic, pain changed his world. His ear jerked sharply downward under the vicious grip of the very air itself, turning the room very nearly upside-down. A sickening crunch from his face blotted out the light with dancing points of darkness that swam and blended until they dragged him seductively into the soft arms of unconsciousness.

The universe had just broken his nose.

She waited until Jak was leaving, of course, because he'd disapprove of what she was doing.

Taxing, dangerous, possible bodily injury, check check check.

"Goodbye Dear!" She waved from the kitchen. There must have been something far too cheerful in her tone that made him stop in his tracks. The look he gave her was some parts amusement, some parts concern, and some parts annoyance. A dark eyebrow arched above a piercing blue eye.

"Yva?"

"Yes?"

Her smile was going to crack her face in half. He smiled back, reflexively and unconvincingly. "Is everything all right?"

"Of course."

They shared a long look, she blew him a kiss, and he pulled the door closed behind him. She could hear his boots striking the stairs as he made his way to the Legerdemain below. As soon as he was was out of earshot, Flaadhun chuffed and snorted, tossing his scaly head in the hair. She spun around, her hands going to her hips, her foot tapping on the tiles of the kitchen floor.

"Whose side are you ON anyway?"

The felhound's answer was a tail swipe, a waddle to the couch, and a groan as he settled down onto a plump cushion between a snoring zombie bunny and a sleeping "puppy". At a monstrous hundred and twenty pounds, Dog - now known as Evan - was so big that he could put his paws on Yva's shoulders and be a good head taller than her, which was the major reason why he was never allowed to put his paws on her ever. How Flaadhun was even to find couch space for himself around all of those gangly hound legs was almost miraculous.

"Oh that's right. Go nap. Just what I thought, Mister."

She padded towards her sanctum, whispering an incantation as she crossed the threshold that set the wall runes aglow. It bathed the room in soft light, like a trillion fireflies were dancing along the flat surfaces to a tune only they could hear. The ritual circle blazed to life as soon as her feet touched the chalk drawn edges. With a stretch and a long yawn, she sat in the middle of it, rolling her sleeves up and pulling the short dagger from her belt.

Echerna.

The cut sliced through her forearm, and the warm drops of her life essence fell onto the circle below. Power immediately ricocheted through the sigils, flying along the outer edges, the inner circle, and through the incantation painstakingly printed in chalk and paint at the northern axis. The magic was strong and wild, and she hissed, her eyes rolling up into her head in rapture.

Avernial. Inkowe'. Strache!

Invoking their names invoked their lights, and she began to giggle as a dusky purple glow spilled over her fingers and along her arms, luring her to that ecstatic place where reason and logic grew dim in the wake of frenzy's brilliance. Her breath came hard and fast, her skin went pink, and she groaned as the tendrils of spellwork wove their way up her neck, into her mouth and eyes, and down her throat to coil in her guts. It built, and built, and built - a crescendo that never quite peaked or waned, just grew louder and more insistent and harder to control.

"Perfection, of course," she rasped with a heavy chuckle, gliding her magic tinged hands over her chest, her stomach, her upper thighs and hips. "Nothing but perfection." Through the languid haze she turned her head, the motion feeling heavy and exaggerated, so she could peer at the map on the adjacent wall, blinking her eyes to clear away the cobwebs of her high.

"All worlds are this world, and all places meet at the crossroads," she said as she began to crawl across her circle, chalk now staining the knees of her skirt. "To guide him home, Linshin the ever faithful and Nairini the sentry. I call upon the guide Himkawar to beckon him to his proper place." As she said the rune names, she pressed her thumb to specific spots on the map, leaving a blood smeared, arcane infused imprint. Time ticked by as more sigils were invoked, more rune markers were placed at the edges of the parallel realms, the places that existed in between where a magi started a teleport and ended it.

She couldn't say how long it took her to find all of the major junctures, to position her beacons in hopes of Laurus stumbling across one and using it to find his way home, but when she was done she was shaking like a leaf, the magic riding her skin and churning her insides. There were long minutes of heavy breathing and languid groans as she fought to regain her long lost equilibrium.

"You know, I spent most of the walk to the market trying to convince myself that you'd be fine. Eventually, I gave up and turned around."

Hearing Jak's voice, her brain twitched inside of her skull, bathing her thoughts in unseemly scenarios that should have made her blush but only made her moan. She swung heavy lidded eyes towards him, to skim his form from feet to head and back again. He was leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, a chunk of black hair hanging over one of his eyes, looking quite casual and very much like he'd been there all along. "Lucky for you that I did, hm?" he continued. Her tongue wet her lips as she began to crawl towards him, destroying the last of her circle on her way. When she reached him, her fingers went to his breeches and dug in, using them to pull herself up so she could lean against that solid, warm body.

"I need . . . " She couldn't finish the sentence as she spilled her hands into his hair and jerked it down, trying to get him to kiss her. He didn't of course, instead smirking and peering into her face, trying for innocent confusion and succeeding only in arrogant ass.

"A warm bath, dear? Some tea?"

"You. Now. Pl-please."

"I was hoping you'd say that." He gently disengaged one of her wrists, still smiling superciliously. "I've just finished Gillandier's Second Analytic, his proof that desire is the root of all evil." It couldn't have been her imagination (which was otherwise occupied, at any rate) that there was just a hint of that evil to his smile. "I can't think of anyone else I'd rather discuss it with."

Her answer was to lick under his chin, to nibble at his throat and groan, her fingernails digging into his biceps.

"Fuck philosophy."

"Hnh. Miss Darrows, that's some sort of mouth."

To prove what a mouth it was, she jumped on him, wrapping her legs around his middle and mashing her lips against his until he pressed her back against the wall. The next hour was spent loudly analyzing Gillandier's Second Analyctic, or more accurately, challenging the hypothesis and arguments presented therein. When both of them were hoarse, short of breath, and smiling stupidly at the ceiling, he turned his head to peer at her, spitting a lock of her hair out of his mouth.

"What was the ritual about anyway? I probably ought to have asked."

" . . . oh, helping Laurus find his way home." She yawned loudly. "I put markers for him in the shard realms. Let's see if he's smart enough to follow them back, the twit."

"You bled for him?" He didn't look pleased, and she watched the ends of his mouth dip into a frown through heavy lidded eyes. He picked up her arm and turned it this way and that, examining the slice in her forearm. "I'm not sure I like the idea of that. Does this need bandaging?"

"No. I didn't cut deep. Besides, the last hour was a direct result of helping Laurus, too, so it's not ALL bad, Love." She snuggled into his side, swinging a leg over his and climbing half on top of him, her head conveniently tucked underneath his chin.

"It's bloody Drachmas. Family or not, dear, if you do real harm to yourself, on his behalf..." He left it hanging for a moment and looked down at her. There was no response but even, regular breathing, no expression but a glazed-over smile. The conversation had ended. Jak smiled and shifted his arm out from under her torso, inspecting a line of scratches along his bicep. "Have it your way," he murmured into her insensate ear.