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Uncharacteristically, Mishun's eyes flew open before she had made any sort of movement in the bed. She lay like that, on her right side staring at the wall, before snapping a hand out from underneath the covers to twitch the curtains back. As she did so she swung her body upwards, feet settling on the cool floorboards with her free hand holding the sheet to her chest. The dim, constant glow of Shattrath met her gaze and she blinked, once, unimpressed by the fact that it was still dark out.
Her eyes quickly scanned the scene, placing objects into categories. She could hear four people chatting some feet away – sin'dorei, judging by their timbre, and therefore a non-threat. There was the constant sound of metal clanging against metal and she guessed the Shattered Sun Offensive were running through their morning drills. Slightly more threatening than the Scryers would be and better to stay out of their way. The gentle sound of wind-chimes floated through the air, signifying A'dal's benevolent presence. Something about thinking of the Naaru caused Mishun's lip to curl, even as she whipped her head back to stare at the other individual in her room. The entire episode, from waking to staring, had taken less than five seconds.
Falarion had been watching the entire episode from his spot in the corner, leaning against the back of a chair with his legs crossed. His eyes weren't wide from shock but both eyebrows were raised. “Good morning,” he said in a good-natured manner, more to fill the silence than anything.
Mishun blinked again. “What time is it?”
“Five-thirty. You went to bed an hour ago, aren't you exhausted?”
“Not especially, no,” Mishun mumbled as she looked down at herself. She dropped the sheet once she realized she was fully clothed underneath – she wondered why she'd thought otherwise – and turned fully towards Falarion. “Should I be?”
“You... typically are after a night of boozing, are you sure you're alright?” The sin'dorei followed her as she stalked over to the wardrobe, roughly tugging the top drawer open. She rifled through the clothing, most of which she'd bought via the auction house to subsidize her complete lack of casual dress.
“Pants, pants... pants,” Mishun muttered as Falarion stood and walked over, standing behind her to watch.
“What are you looking for?”
“Appropriate clothing,” the Forsaken hissed, waving him away with a quick flick of the hand. She snapped the first drawer shut and wrenched open the next, digging through the shirts.
“Uh,” Falarion managed, “Why?”
“I'm going to Brill.”
“We have training in three hours.”
Mishun rolled her eyes, realizing she felt annoyed not by the sin'dorei's questions but by his presence. It was a strange counterpoint – typically, Fal was her straight man, keeping her calm during the day-to-day goings on. “I know. I'll be quick.”
“Okay, well. Why are we going to Brill?” He sat down on the bed, tapping his fingers along the edge while the Forsaken threw clothing this way and that much like a dog tossing dirt from a hole. She paused at his question and slammed the second drawer closed with a a muffled 'thud', sleeves caught on the lip of the container.
“I need to look at the census,” Mishun grit her teeth, sounding begrudging. She'd planned to go alone but some part of her was insistent that Falarion join her, used to him after all this time. This insight was arguing quite merrily with her knee-jerk reaction to shove her rune sword through his chest and push him off Scryer's Tier.
She paused, the third drawer half-open, frozen in surprise. Where had that come from? The events of the past two minutes or so seemed to hit her all at once and she dropped fully to her knees, softly pushing the drawer back. Why had she been looking for a robe? It had seemed quite logical to begin with; if she were to parade about in a place where she'd be recognized, she should do so in formal clothing. Where was the sense in it? Mishun didn't wear dresses. She barely managed finding time between her civilian clothing and her soldier's armor. What was the distinction in it?
Feeling rather silly she shook her head and pushed herself to her feet, falling back into the careful day-to-day ministrations of settling into her saronite armor.
“Okay,” Falarion said, feeling as though he'd missed something important between her walk from the window to the dresser. “I assume you've dreamed of something particularly loathsome today, if you're this riled.”
“A name,” she said bluntly after slipping into her armor. “Two names. The second one more important than the first.”
“That good, hm?” he answered as the runes on her blade thrummed to life.
Mishun examined them carelessly, turning the blade this way and that. “Yeah. My name was Selima.”
“Oho, you're getting to the bottom of the matter. Excellent,” Falarion said, pleased. He followed her out the door, plucking her greathelm from the stand as he went – she'd neglected to put it on and he wasn't sure if it was on purpose. “What should I call you then? Mishun or Selima?”
“I don't know,” she said, meaning it. She was thankful there were portals within Shattrath to take. The brevity meant she wouldn't be forced into a conversation.
------
“We have an hour left,” Falarion said quietly, looking up from his ledger. Out of the corner of his eye he watched a magistrate clear his throat; they'd let them in but hadn't been happy about the intrusion, and he imagined that death knights still caused discomfort among the Forsaken. Their distrust wasn't too much of a stretch. The Ebon Blade were unapologetic about their ability to raise bodies into Undeath and while they regarded the ability as a useful tool, others weren't so able to realize the distinction between 'method' and 'corpse desecration'.
Brows furrowed, Mishun grunted and flipped a page. When she gave no answer beyond that he continued, “We can take a mage portal to the Blasted Lands, but it will still take us thirty minutes to get back to Shattrath proper.”
“I know,” she mumbled, snapping the book shut. She sighed, leaning back in the chair. “There's nothing here.”
“Of course there isn't,” he said lamely, pushing away from the table. “I don't think the Forsaken keep records beyond death. All this shows is you weren't born here.”
“It's all I remember though,” Mishun whispered, standing to place the book back on its shelf. She ran her fingers along the ledger's spine before turning, speaking louder, “The furthest I can go back to is here. Brill was very important to me at one point. To her.”
Falarion shrugged. “I can't say your instinct's wrong, as its led you this far. But you might have been wrong in this.” And he set about directing the sulking girl out of the town hall, nodding apologetically to the magistrates as he pushed her away by her shoulders.
“I remember the town hall, too. We held meetings in there, and at the inn towards the end. Whoever 'we' are. A very small group.” She frowned, puzzled. “Towards the end of what, I wonder?”
“The war? I don't know. We need to head back.”
“Why would I be here if I wasn't born here?” Mishun glared at him as best she could before turning away, staring out at the glades. When her eyes fell on the well she stopped in place, throwing a hand back to stop Falarion from shoving her. Confident he'd let her be for the moment she shrugged him off her shoulders, stepping delicately towards the font of the town.
The well had, obviously, seen better days. The bricks were worn from use, a deep uncultured brown, moss creeping upwards from the wells mouth to settle neatly within the cracks. The bucket tied to the pulley had gone rotten from disuse and as Mishun ran her fingers along its side she found herself surprised at how soft the wood had become. She spotted a pebble balanced on the wells lip, tilted her head, and flicked it into the mouth with the claw on her index finger. After several moments she heard the tiniest of splashes; wholly unsurprising that water would still be down there, considering how much rain the Glades received in a year.
Mishun leaned over the well, staring into its inky depths with a sudden warmth. Not to her body – she'd been dead far too long – but there was a sudden calmness to the situation, an ability to understand this which made her feel blessedly comfortable. She circled the well twice before thumping to the ground, legs akimbo, facing south towards the zeppelin towers.
From both a lack of understanding and a general confusion Falarion sat down next to her, trying to figure out the dreamy smile on her face.
“I'd sit here and my friends would find me,” Mishun said, running her claws through the grass. “The Blackguarde was stationed here. Usually skulking around the inn... but I'd sit out here with Jerhym and Vrall sometimes. When they left I remained. They came and went, eventually stopped returning, and I was alone. Everyone knew they'd see me here eventually. I wonder where they all went.”
“Everyone leaves,” Falarion grinned. “Some return, like you and me. My wife and I didn't keep in contact – she disappeared from Silvermoon for about a year and a half after my death, letters couldn't reach her. They thought she'd killed herself out of grief.” He snorted, “If they knew Jurindia at all they'd punch themselves in the face and save her the trouble.”
“Heh!” Mishun leaned against the sin'dorei, eyes watching the skyline as zeppelins ran their course. “A battle-axe?”
“An entire battalion,” he laughed, working off his right gauntlet. He held up his hand to what little light Tirisfal Glades provided. Around his ring finger was an intricate tattoo, whorls of silver and blue which blended nicely with the deathly pallor of his skin.
The Forsaken chuckled at the sight of it – the culmination of the start of a new life blended with his cadaver's color – and closed her eyes. “Fancy, fancy. I wish I'd been smart enough to get a tattoo. Lucky that I held onto my ring like grim death.”
“Mmh.”
“Do you speak to her at all now?”
Falarion snorted. “Should I? I suppose she's moved on. We had no children, I was the last of my family line – I can give her nothing by returning. And so it rests.”
“I don't see why that should matter. If you were in love, return to her. See what happens.”
“Says the Forsaken with an equally morbid beau. Roles are reversed right now, aren't they?”
“Mm. That must be the type of person I am now. Contradictory.”
They remained like that for ten minutes, before Falarion insisted they had to go. As they walked away from Brill Mishun kept glancing over her shoulder, staring at the well, trying to make sense of it.
------
Mishun wasn't surprised when Captain Arturos Nightseethe was waiting with two guards at the flight master. Her belief that the man had it out for her went in line with such an action; he'd likely tried to surprise them earlier that morning and, upon finding the inn's room deserted, had pitched a fit before setting up camp at the likeliest point of entry. It made sense that he'd go out of his way like this to smack her across the face with the authority stick.
She found him an utterly sour man, and it wasn't a euphemism derived from his personality alone. His face seemed pinched together, lips puckered in an ugly scowl and his eyebrows furrowed so tightly over his eye sockets they seemed as one. He'd been an old man when he died of the plague, a swordsman of Lordaeron who had hovered nobly between 'distinguished' and 'crotchety' before he passed – and two years of taking a dirt nap assured he'd stick firmly within the latter definition.
“Well, well,” he intoned over the flapping of wings. Mishun grimaced. His very tone was acidic, flying out of his puckered mouth like venom from a nerubian maw. “If it isn't the wayward children of the Fifth Company. How kind of you to join us.”
Mishun rolled her eyes, thankful her greathelm hid the sarcastic bite of her expression. “Good morning, Captain Nightseethe,” she replied, tone not so much dripping with saccharine malice as much as wallowing in it.
“Good morning sir,” Falarion followed, saluting the captain. Three seconds followed before he had the sense to elbow the Forsaken next to him in the ribs. Her head whipped towards him as if she was glaring before she offered a half-hearted salute reminiscent of a sarcastic female sin'dorei.
“So! Where were my lost little lambs today? I don't remember sanctioning your leave from the city.” Arturos had strolled around the two and clasped them firmly on the shoulder, shoving them away from the flight master and towards the Lower City. His guards – a female tauren and a male draenei – followed behind.
Falarion tried valiantly to head the conversation, concerned by the death stare Mishun was focusing on the guards. “We had some business in Lordaeron which are lands sanctioned as neutral territory for Acherus Knights of the Horde--”
“I had to find something,” Mishun snapped, trying her damnedest to enact a moving sulk. “It's none of your business, Nightseethe. Give us some extra laps to run around the damn forest for punishment and send us on our way.”
Arturos laughed so hard it dissolved into a croupy cough, shoving Mishun in the small of her back. The shock of the movement and the placement of his claws nearly sent the Forsaken spiraling to the ground; she whipped around with her fingers splayed like talons, trying to catch him on the jaw. He blocked the hit with his right forearm, twisting his wrist to clasp her own, holding it there as she struggled to push it downwards.
“That's not very polite, pup,” he warned her, leaning his head down to grin in her face. His teeth were jagged and yellowing; Mishun curled her lip back and attempted to pull away.
“Neither is being nosy,” Mishun said, rolling her eyes. “As I said. Punish us and be on your way.”
“A year of beating your ass into shape and you still have the moxy to spit in my face,” Arturo grinned. “If it weren't for me you'd still be sucking on the Betrayer's bootstraps.” He let go of her wrist, dusting his hand off on his legplates.
Stepping back awkwardly, Mishun spat on the ground, unsheathing her rune sword from its back holster. It was a point that Nightseethe saw fit to bring up on a nearly daily basis – his battalion had been the one to kill the Scourge general who originally held Falarion and her's metaphorical leash, cutting off the facet of control which rendered them all but mindless soldiers. The process had become more commonplace as the war upon Icecrown waged on and many supposed it was due to the Lich King's faltering power. “I don't think you were the only one there that day, old man. Isn't that a bit demeaning to your battalion? Oh wait!” Mishun laughed, “That's right. They left you here to watch the refuse while they march onto better battlefields.” Resting her sword along her left pauldron she not-so-discreetly flipped him the bird before about-facing to go, feeling claustrophobic on the ramp.
Growling low in his throat, Arturos stormed after her. He began to scream at her in Gutterspeak and she replied in kind, turning and screeching at him like a disheveled harpy. Falarion glanced at the Tauren who was chuckling to herself – the draenei next to her was shrugging, used to the tedium of the madness by now.
“What's the damage, Greyhide?” he asked the Tauren, whose ears flicked up in response to her name.
She shrugged, “It's not too bad. He was in a terrible mood this morning but it dropped off after...an hour or so. Laps and then sparring. You and I are partners.”
“And he's hers,” Falarion grunted as he looked back towards the two Forsaken. Weapons had been drawn and Mishun was flying at him in her typical untrained fashion, slamming the sword down like a butchers knife.
Arturos blocked the hits easily, slamming his foot into her stomach the fifth time she raised her sword. It sent her flying to the ground with an impact that, had she been alive, would have wooshed the air out of her lungs. As it were, the woman only let out an uncultured snarl and lashed out with a foot, catching Arturos in the ankle. It didn't drop him but clearly pissed him off as he slashed downwards with his own rune-blade, the tip thunking in the dirt as Mishun rolled away and onto her feet.
“Same old same old,” Greyhide agreed quietly. “He won't let anyone else spar with her and you've seen what she's capable of if allowed to choose her own partner.”
“Mmh,” Falarion said, mind drifting back the night before. “He keeps her tempered for some reason. I can't figure it out. She absolutely hates him.”
“Makes good sparring partner,” grumbled the draenei in broken Orcish. He was nowhere proficient at the language but constant contact with new recruits – both Alliance and Horde – meant that conversation had to be facilitated somehow. His lack of knowledge with the language made him appear more stoic than he intended but there was nothing to be done about it.
“Oh, yes, I forgot the constant threat of bodily harm makes a great motivator,” the sin'dorei mumbled.
Having received her second wind, Mishun flew at Arturos with enough force to make him step back to compensate. As he did so she whipped her sword downward, stopping an inch from his neck. “Ahaha, who's laughing now you son of a bitch!?”
Arturos promptly slammed the flat of his blade against her greathelm. Mishun let out a violent yelp. He glowered, “Don't get egotistical. Laps! Both of you!” His gaze snapped to Falarion who sighed, rolling his shoulders. Grunting, the Forsaken turned back to the woman who was busy shaking her head, trying to regather her senses. “We'll continue this afterwards.”
Once they were well outside the city limits Mishun lost it properly, slamming her sword into the side of a tree. It made a terrible sound, the runes of the sword going dark as the Forsaken woman called upon their powers to fling a half-formed coil of Shadow magic at the trunk. Tendrils of permafrost followed it as she curled her free hand upward – and fell to her knees, leaving the sword hanging from its notch in the trunk. “I'm going to destroy him,” she said hoarsely, looking up at Falarion.
The sin'dorei looked around at the sparse foliage, where similar notches were affixed at different angles – some bushes seemed to be dying of an unknown disease, dead material strewn about as if a winter's frost had come too fast. “Of course you will.”
“Really am this time. Why can't he leave well enough alone?” Mishun rested her hands on her knees, staring dully at the dirt.
“Because we did sneak off when we weren't supposed to,” Falarion tried to reason. “Getting into a spitting match with him didn't help.”
“He doesn't need to know everything. We were back on time. He shouldn't harass us so.”
“Well, he's going to. We're stuck with Arturos for the time being – try and figure out how to maneuver him.”
Mishun grunted, pushing herself up and darting down the path without a word. Falarion watched after for a moment. She got into tiffs like this regularly – that wasn't shocking – but her storming away from the scene was new. Typically, she'd agree with his assessment of the situation and think of a way to tee the man off without blatantly disrespecting his authority. Her running off like this wasn't odd in itself, but the look running rampant on her face was; if looks could kill, all of Terrokar Forest would be burning timber by now.
Falarion shrugged to himself and followed after Mishun. People were granted off-days, he thought, and let the matter lie.
An hour later they returned to the city, Mishun still in the foulest of moods. She remained as far away from Arturos as possible, Falarion thinking she was being completely immature about the entire situation. As she sulked away from the group, he walked over to the captain and his guards who were engaged in quiet, unassuming conversation.
Arturos glanced up as Falarion approached, face set in a grim frown. “About time,” he quipped. “I figured the arrakoa had done away with you. We're setting out for Shadowmoon Valley within the day.”
Falarion responded with a surprised raising of one eyebrow. Mishun, who'd caught the dredges of the conversation, stepped closer to listen.
“There's been reports of kidnappings from the Scryer outpost – the Sanctum of the Stars.” As much as he wanted to tear that name apart with a verbal barrage, Arturos understood the importance of keeping the situation serious. “Several sin'dorei have gone missing. We're to track down the offenders and recover the civilians by any means necessary. The rest of the company's busy with cleaning out the temple--” By cleaning out, he meant murdering any possible dissenters, “-- so the job's fallen to us.”
“Do you think they're still alive?” Falarion asked, watching Mishun creep behind Arturos to stand by Greyhide. The tauren handed the Forsaken woman a piece of parchment and he imagined it was the official orders.
“Probably not. The things that live in Shadowmoon aren't exactly known for keeping prisoners for negotiation.” Arturos shrugged, “We'll retrieve the bodies and inform the relatives.”
Mishun went very still. The parchment she held fluttered to the ground; Greyhide watched it, concerned. “Mishun...?”
“We need to leave, now.” The tone of the Forsaken's voice clearly meant business and she stepped over to Arturos, glowering. Greyhide stooped down and plucked the parchment from the ground, ears flicking in curiosity. It was nothing more than a list of names, standard fare honestly, and it wasn't like Mishun to form an attachment to the victims on name alone.
Arturos looked unimpressed. “I'm not surprised you're eager to test your mettle in Shadowmoon, but we'll leave according to schedule.”
It came too fast for the captain to react. Mishun's claws were at his throat in the time it took him to blink, not a threatening grip but one designed to catch the opponent off-guard. There was something almost coddling in it, her face pressed against his. Her eyes were very wide, “Listen to me you sycophantic, horrible little man.” Her voice had changed almost imperceptibly, going from softly annoyed to a husky, uncultured whine. “We're going to Shadowmoon Valley in five minutes and beginning our search regardless of what protocol you want us to take. You can punish me as much as you want – you can behead me and feed my corpse to drooling jackals. I don't care. But the sooner we're out there the more likely they're all alive.”
Instead of reacting rationally – by slamming his fist into her face – Arturos grinned at Mishun, tilting his head. “What's sparked the fire in you now?”
Mishun's eyes narrowed. “All the wrong things. Have I made myself clear?”
“Mishun--”
Mishun bared her teeth, snarling at Falarion. “Stop saying that name. You've no idea what it means. We're going to Shadowmoon Valley now.” She dropped her grip on Arturos and stalked away and up the ramp to the main plateau of the city.
Arturos laughed out loud. “What in fel was that about?”
“I'm... I'm not really sure.” Falarion was just as shocked as the rest of them, taking the parchment from Greyhide. None of the names stuck out to him.
The last on the list – the kidnapping victims were listed by surname – was written in careless, professional block print. Zharikov, Estrae.
((Apologies for the tl;dr. :] ))
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