#arderis

RP Characters: Arderis Malachai Weaver

((Undead, Forsaken, Tanner, Tailor, Warlock, Weaver))

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“She still speaks up, every now and again. Much of my waking is given over to stifling her voice.”

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1. My Ain True Love - Alison Kraus & Sting, 2. Perfect Day - Miriam Stockley, 3. The Kiss - Trevor Jones, 4. The Parting Glass - Hair of The Dog, 5. Icarus - Phildel, 6. Wayfaring Stranger - Jack White, 7. Kill Them All - Ramin Djawadi, 8. Bridges & Balloons - Samename, 9. Didn’t Leave Nobody But The Baby - Emmylou Harris, 10. Friend From The Past - Prometheus, 11. Eyes On Fire - Blue Foundation, 12. Eli, The Barrow Boy - The Decemberists, 13. The Mystic’s Dream - Loreena McKennitt 

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 Can I tear him to pieces

 “Istari,” For the first time in nearly fifteen years, Arderis thinks that he’d cry, could his eyes do so much. The girl is bright, smiling, taking his bony claw in her hands, looking so like her mother, her aunt.

Can I tear him to pieces

 “He died when Deathwing fell upon Stormwind,” She tells him, gently, shaking her head, “Imogen saw him into death. Dora....she...” The girl falters, looking away, into the moss-laden trees. “...She accepted him, in the end.”

Can I tear him to pieces

Dora showing up at his door with Mo, riddled with undeath, pleading with her uncle Mal what to do, how to wake her, how to make her know them

“No!” She laughs, sipping his dry, old tea politely, “No, Vizriel is very good to us. Nothing like...” She draws in a deep breath, “...That’s. It says a lot about father, aye?”

Can I tear him to pieces

Dora bending over to give Mo her potions, the low back of her dress slipping, the raised scars visible and angry and oh gods little Izzy is still stuck in that house but he’s an undead wretch who could never enter Theramore and drag her out and

“I promise, I’ll visit again next month,” Izzy smiles, so bright, so happy to have that much more family back, “I’ll bring Bit! And maybe mum, you know though, she’s still....still getting used to everything. But if I say your name....oh Uncle Mal, she’s only ever had the BEST memories of you!”

I will tear him to pieces.

He embraces her carefully, kindly, kissing the top of her blonde, live head.

That night, he begins the long trek into the old Plaguelands.

The Paladin isn’t Jameson Adkins, but he looks well enough like him.

The process is the same as ever, the screams filling his humble shack.

The hide fetches a fine price at market.

“Weaver!”

He looks up slowly at the cry from across the long, quiet road. Squinting, recognizing, Arderis dips his head in acknowledgment to the priest coming his way. The cart he pushes is piled high with skins, and the brother pats them with an appreciative old hand, weathered and so very dead.

“Brother Frank,” Arderis murmurs, a small smirk turning up the corner of his dead lips. The pair turn as one toward the ruins of Lordaeron city, a slow shuffle moving them both forward. The priest’s gait speaking of age, alive or dead, Arderis’ simply the product of a measured nature.

 “The girl visited me.” Frank speaks, after a time. Arderis looks to the older man briefly, mildly fascinated by the light that brightens the old corpse’s face. “Looks nae a thing like ‘er mother, light bless ‘er. Wants to take care of ‘er pa.”

 “A lucky man, you are,” Arderis nods once, maneuvering his wares up the steps to the city gate. The light is dim, as it ever is, and even with the bodies coming and going, no one speaks much above a murmur.

 “Only luckier than most,” In old ritual, they both turn toward each other just before entering the deeper ruins. Frank looks the textiles and hides in the cart over more closely now, appraising each with knowing hands and eyes. Arderis simply waits, patiently, running a clawed hand over his iron jaw, watching the wraiths and owls that waft on the summer night’s breeze.

 “Three bolts of the dyed silk,” The Priest says at last, “And the wolf hides, this winter looks t'be rough.”

 “For you, 15 gold,” It’s a low price for his goods, but then again, Frank is a customer to be depended upon, his small rectory entirely outfitted by Arderis’ hands. Frank doesn’t even haggle, hasn’t for years now, the men exchanging goods and coin amiably.

  All is as it is every month Arderis comes to the city to sell his good, from the small talk to the dealings. That is, until the older man is hefting his purchases, watching the younger tuck away his coins. At Arderis’ hip, a flat wooden box, the size and shape of a shadowbox swings, and Frank squints.

“S’no reliquary, that. What DO y’keep in there, Weaver?”

Arderis only smirks again, “The last of my sentiment, ol’ friend. Keep warm,” He says the last by way of parting, dipping his head and continuing toward Undercity, toward the markets. Frank chuckles, taking the hint, waving and moving off.

 His cart rattles forward, almost covering the sound of the Dark Ranger slipping from the shadows under the arches, sliding a hand over his shoulder.

 “...Ready for more real work?”

 Arderis shakes his head, both parts amused and annoyed. “...As always, if my lady has the coin.”

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