Dalheim Windchaser

The thick waxed envelope arrived without explanation of the contents. Contained within was an assortment of several dozen pieces of parchment penned in a variety of script. The pages showed feathering at the edges, creases where once they had been folded, or perhaps the translucent stains of wax seals that had been broken and scraped away.

They were scouting reports. Some spoke of the exploration and census of nearby settlements, of occupants unaccounted for and their breezy interiors coated in a thick blanket of snow. An account of discovering a tunnel entrance blocked by snow within a family of Lynxes who, lacking instinct for the sudden onset of winter, starved to death in their own burrow.

Others spoke of the state of the land itself the Alliance’s winter. An orchard, the floor below carpeted in withered blossoms that would fail to bear crops, the boughs so heavy with frozen foliage that they touched the ground, the most massive of limbs outright torn off.

There were reports of missing persons, those unaccounted for as the Alliance warpath marched across the land, small notes, simply names and descriptions, only enough information that would be helpful in returning a corpse to those that loved them in life.

At the bottom of the stack, reports were more recent, the accounts of the Alliance cultists, how their void tainted monstrosities had turned on the Quel’dorei  and slaughtered them on the field. The horrendous creatures the Alliance summoned into Quel’Thalas tainting the land with void, their own forces as well as the Sindorei that had been tricked with promises of amnesty, simply fodder for the summoned abominations.

[Is it pretty? The Sunwell.]

The question was signed by Razail as the pair sat in each other's company on a crumbling wall of the ruined outskirts of the Dalaran crater. Dalheim smiled at the question,  the conversation mindfully baited. It was time for another story.

“It’s beautiful, Zail. And the grounds that surround it are like a palace. Winding halls, sculpture gardens, topiaries, courtyards where you can just sit and think and watch the clouds slide in and out of view. You should pay it a visit while you have some free time. Go see the treasure of the elves.”

[Is it prettier than that Dawnspire? I don't know if I can go there, or if I'm allowed to.  I probably shouldn't. I don't want to get in trouble.]

“The Sunwell is the birthright of the elves. They even let the Quel’Dorei travel to see it. You’re absolutely allowed to.”

[What even is it?  I've only heard it's something magical?  I think.]

There was a memory stuck in his head, a room. He kept pushing it down, trying to focus on the conversation at hand, and it kept bubbling up. He already felt exposed and irritable, and his unease was only making the image worse. He knew the room, it was where he had left his bow, carefully resting across a weapon’s stand, its quiver of arrows on a peg. He also knew the reason he couldn’t shake the thought of the room from his mind.

He was out and exposed and in a dangerous place and he hated it. Weaponless, wearing simple cloth robes, playing the part of the smiling merchant, and he hated it. He wasn’t completely without defenses. Razail crept through the shadows of the ally, keeping watch over the situation, ensuring that he wouldn’t be mugged for his wares or worse, turned on with the discovery that the bottle was a forgery. Of course the trouble with that it would be nearly impossible for Razail to warn him.

There was that room again, clear in his memory as though he had just shut his eyes while in it. There was Hand of the King, it’s weight leaning slightly on the weapon racks, its blades glowing dully with a taint they shared. He was talking through it, but he was losing her trust, his mind was elsewhere, distracted, and they could both tell. There were the shadows, longer in the day than when he had left it, not a memory, but a current picture, stretching across the room towards the-

Something was wrong. The woman’s eyes snapped open in surprise. Dalheim took half a step back only to be stopped as a weight struck his back. Whirling quickly, he could see it was Razail, the younger elf already having daggers drawn. But the rogue wasn’t focused on the woman, he was staring wide eyed at something behind them.

Black smoke curled in the dust at their feet. A cracking laugh echoing through the ally before a voice boomed out “Ya gun be MINE ‘gain Dusksinga!”

Well, shit.

6th: Pick a cliche. Write a story based on that cliche; the phrase does not have to directly appear in the narrative. You are welcome to use multiple cliches.

NSFW WARNING: Explicit content

"This shouldn't take long." Dalheim announced immediately on entering the room.

The notary raised a narrow, arched brow at the abrupt announcement, clearing her throat before lifting a quill. "Sir, I assure you, we will have this completed in as timely a manner as possible, but I must stress the importance of having ones personal effects fully in order in the case that the unexpected should occur."

He reached within the scroll case on the side of his quiver, withdrawing a slightly rumbled envelope, rubbing a thumb into the parchment to help encourage it to lay flat once more. "The instructions are here. I want this letter and my body immediately delivered to Vynistus D'Anastasis Kazeral. I want to declare him executor of my estate." The quill scratched soft as a whisper as the woman began writing, giving a single nod. "And where is this Vynistus located? Is he a citizen of the Horde?

"Yes. The title owner of the inn Fae's Rest in Silverpine Forrest. Ah... it's on the North shores of Lordamere Lake. Gingerly, she picked up the envelope, looking it over. A nail subtly picked at an edge, finding it had been sealed shut She frowned and slid it into a large envelope. "Very well. Sign here to affirm that you are surrendering all assets to Vynistus to act as executor of your final wishes." "And my body."

She sighed "Yes, and your body."

Dalheim nodded and leaned over the desk, signing the paper. It was promptly folded and joined his letter from before within the large envelope. She laid it flat, dripping hot wax on the bottom of its flap before imprinting it with a metal seal.

"Sign here once more."

With that, the envelope was tucked away, placed in a drawer atop of stack of identical envelopes, each a soldier preparing to die, summarizing up the last signs of themselves they would leave on Azeroth. He stared into the drawer until it was shut, then nodded once and walked silently out of the room.

<<The Letter.>>

Vinnie, Take my body to Deathknell and turn it over to the Val'kyr. I know this request will seem strange, and I know it goes against what I told you previously, but you're the one I trust to do this. I need you to turn my body over to Warchief Windrunner. The reality of the scourge has changed, the nature of the Horde has changed, and the way the former Ranger Captain uses her troops has changed. I cannot rest knowing I've left work for others to finish. Take me west and I'll see you soon. I love you and I'm sorry. The remainder is to be carried out if my remains are insufficient to recover.

To Hyder I leave my bow, Hand of the King. May it keep you safe as you wander, and may you keep Quel'thas safe with it in your hand. Standing shoulder to shoulder with you on the field of battle is one of the finest memories of my life.

To my mother and father, I leave my tabards, those of Silvermoon, the Sunfury, the Sunhawks, the Kor'kron, and the Sunguard. I also leave them stewardship of the ravager, Giger, and the sum total of my bereavement pay, to apologize for leaving them a ravager.

To Mandulus I leave my tent. Please use it to take your growing family on new adventures.

To Kiojiro I leave my etherlithium rocket engine. I hope that it bears you safely on your journeys and brings you swiftly home.

To you Vynustus I leave my lucky shirt. It always looked better on you. Please keep it as the thing I kept closest to my heart.

To Ash I leave my armor. Please see that it is fit to her if she ever stops growing. I hope that it guards her where I am no longer capable.

To Alex I leave the crate with my notes and my warp engineer's tools. I hope that it gives fresh inspiration to his bright mind.

To Chiryn I leave my farstrider greatcloak. May it keep you comfortable and warm on nights when you are alone. I hope they are few.

All remaining possessions and my liquid financial assets I give to the D'Anastasis-Kazeral family. You took me in and made me feel like a member. I love every one of you, and I've been proud to be part of your family.

Until we meet again,

Dalheim Windchaser

There was a smile touching the corners of the ranger's eyes as he was dismissed. He could feel its line of tightness and tried unsuccessfully to put the expression away. Hopefully no one had noticed his swell of pride as his work had been called out, praised, even casually. Hopefully. Probably.

Now there was a new order of business to see to; his commanding officer had requested he spend an evening in the brothel that was to serve as their base of operations. If it wasn't for the bewildered looks he had caught on the other Pathfinder's faces, he would have sworn this was some kind of elaborate hazing for new Oathsworn. Dalheim turned away from the group, deciding he could stall the issue while taking a quick tour of the facilities.

Pathfinders. Everywhere it was Pathfinders. The members of his new unit were lounging on the furniture, looking over the freshly felted card tables, casting casual glances over menus, poking around the shady corners, voices drifting out of the bathing chambers, everywhere the redhead looked, there were Pathfinders working out how they'd like to spend an evening's time.

His attention was caught as the courtesans began filing back in, hips swaying with casual grace, clothing draped and tailored to reveal a little and invite the viewer to discover the rest, warm smiles and soothing voices. Dal's fingers fidgeted, nails picking at his own cuticles as he mentally tallied how long it had been and easily concluded that it was far far too long to be in present company.

A polite smile from one of the courtesans made the ranger suddenly aware that he had been staring hungrily and he pulled his eyes away, scrubbing a hand over his face as he tried to clear his head. Eyes drawing skyward, he suddenly froze.

Eyes of the Old Gods. There were Pathfinders in the rafters.

A light touch to his arm snapped his attention back down, the blonde has stepped forward, close enough that the could smell the scented oil that perfumed her skin and made it glow under the soft lights. "A shame seeing you look so burdened in a place like this." Her long fingers curled around his arm as a smile touched the edge of her lips and she tugged gently, urging him to step towards her and the remaining pair offering warm expressions in kind. "Here, surely we can find some way to put you at rest?"

His lips parted but he stopped, frozen in his speech for a quick mental inventory before leaning in "Are you available?"

The frankness of the question earned him some amusement, "We're all available here sir, but if you're looking to spend some time together, I don't have any promises to keep for a few hours. If that won't be time to accommodate your wishes, we have several other skilled employees who would be happy to tend to you..." she let the question fade off, brows lifting over clear emerald eyes.

He shook his head without hesitation "No, that will be fine." He reached, setting a hand lightly on her back, fingers sinking into the rich white fur of the shrug she wore. "...please, ah... lead the way?"

Together they stepped down a narrow but well lit hall, barely large enough for two, an easy excuse to walk close and brush bodies. The courtesan took a little longer with the door than was needed, let her hand slide briefly across well polished wood till she grasped the handle and ushered him inside. The room was small but the decorations lush and Dalheim soon found his eyes fixated on a small mound of pillows in the corner, a reminder of his former home.

"What a lovely opportunity you've afforded me," the blonde's voice was warm and enveloping as she set out two long stemmed glasses and picked up a bottle of red. "I wasn't certain what to expect when the Sunset Parlor fell under new ownership. It's heartening to see the Pathfinders so swift to embrace our new union."her expression was playful and as her customer had failed to protest, two glasses were poured and offered.

He gave a soft grunt of agreement, taking a mouthful of wine, relishing the rich familiar flavor. It was several moments and a polite but expectant look before Dalheim realized that grunting wasn't a sufficient answer for polite company. He swallowed hastily, sucking in a quick breath. "Ah, yes, It's... it was unexpected on our end too... but... I think everyone will adjust and ah, find the place they uh... fit in."

She laughed at the unintended double meaning of his words, and smiled genuinely as realization dawned on the Emberward's face before he buried it in the palm of his hand. The courtesan stepped in, assisting him in removing his heavy traveling cloak, hanging it on the wall before shrugging her own warming fur from her shoulders, revealing a wide spread tattoo, a dragonhawk clutching a pair of daggers in its talons over a spray of blood thistle.

Dalheim froze in place at the sight "I've seen you before."

"Oh?" She smiled cordially, looking over her shoulder a moment before returning to his side. Instinctively with the closeness, he reached out, smoothing a hand along her side, warm and generously curved beneath fine smooth fabric. The courtesan gave a pleased little purr at the touch "I do love stories where paths cross back again. Remind me when we saw each other last?" Her hands smoothed distractingly over his chest before she began unbuckling the harness of his cuirass.

"We didn't... or ah... it was one sided." The wine was set down so that he could assist with the armor, guiding her hands to the right latches before he was able to strip the leather shell and his tabard over his head. "I was with the rank and file, but I saw you together with the officers after we had taken the old southern temple in Outland..." Her posture changed, back straightening. "I ah... my unit marched North shortly after... I didn't think any of the courtesans survived after the temple was raided--?"

"I'm afraid you have me mistaken for somebody else." the smile remained though her eyes didn't meet his face. Downcast, she took is arm in her hand, unbuckling a greave and sliding it and the accompanying glove free. "I've never traveled anywhere so exciting. I hear the views of the sky on Outland are just breathtaking."

He wouldn't be distracted from the line of thought. "How did you escape the Black Temple?"

"I've never been sir."

"I'd never forget that tattoo."

The woman took a deep breath, head tilting, glancing at her own betraying shoulder where the dragonhawk's wing curled elegantly. "A family crest." She kept her hands busy, skillfully sliding sliding over his arm, over the calloused hands that marked him for an archer. The courtesan began to massage into his forearm, earning a surprised moan before he drew his arm away, tending to the remaining armor himself as he watched silently, expectantly.

Finally she sighed, empty hands closing. "You saw my granddaughter."

"Shit."

Her smile returned at the thought, but it was distinctly sad, wilted at the edges "I do not know of the other courtesans... but as for her, you are correct. She did not survive when their parlor was invaded."

Dalheim piled his armor in the corner, the hollow shape of a man, like a discarded cicada shell. He let himself fall back on the couch with a sift sigh, settling into the luxurious pillows. The room was silent for several long moments before he sat up, picking up his wine glass and patting the couch beside him. She lowered herself with grace, eyeing her client from the corner of her eye, uncertain for the moment.

He propped his foot up on the table before them, raised leg forming a low wall. "I haven't asked your name... may I have it?"

The blonde gave a pleasant bob of her head "Delonna Leybough."

"Dalheim Windchaser." He leaned forward to take the bottle, refilling both their glasses before leaning back into the pillows, glancing to the courtesan "Delonna Leybough... will you tell me about your granddaughter?"