#aulwrak

"You knew this was going to take a while," he continued, callused fingertips walking across the corks of the bottles arranged in a neat row. "And it's going to take even longer." Aulwrak looked over his broad shoulder, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards. From the tips of her crimson-enameled toes to the tousled array of her golden hair, the elementalist had gone from lasciviously inviting to impatiently demanding. A curved hip rolled, the slim muscle in her thigh flexed, and what was being snarled behind the gag was easy enough to imagine.

With a low, rumbling laugh, Aulwrak plucked one of the bottles and removed the cork, throwing it carelessly against the wall. A sweet, musky scent rose as he tipped the oil onto his hand, spreading it between his rubbing fingers, and the mattress listed noticably to the left as the warrior knelt on it. The heat in Ariel's eyes flared when he laughed again, oiled fingers brushing along the inside of her thigh. "It's going to take..." Aulwrak's fingertips slid upwards.

Another night of little sleep. This time, it was our meeting at the cliffs. We had sat on the edge of the ship, watching the horizon, the day turn to sunset, the sunset fade to dusk, and the dusk deepen to darkness. And there we sat - for what seemed hours - talking, dreaming. There was no bond, no other woman, no reason to mistrust him. For him, the tension had been growing, his desire to act upon his feelings rising. When he made the attempt to embrace me, I fled. He pursued. I spurned him, fearful, acting as I always did and always do to maintain the distance - both physical and emotional - between us. I spoke something, though I cannot recall what it was. But he turned...and threw himself from the heights...

And so I begin again. Another season with the same beginning. Another morning. Another mask. Another day to survive. When the Warmaster called upon me for training, the sheets were pulled up, sweat-soaked and strewn, to hide my visage. And once we began through the motions of what is becoming routine, I fixed my attention to him to distract myself.

Aulwrak Elichicus Craithe. An unusual name, particularly when applied to one so well known by another. If ever there was an example of the power of a name, it would be his. Aulwrak Blackclaw. Men hear his name and immediately conjure the stories associated with it. A Rabble's dog killed and eaten; a captive's toe cut and consumed before his eyes; a man forced to ingest his own nipple. Lashings, murder, destruction of Houses...

He may walk into an establishment, his face unknown to the Rabble there. Thinking him to be of no importance, I have observed them showing disrespect, disinterest, or disdain; yet the moment he or another speaks his name, the association to the company is made and the Rabble quickly sing another tune. Olde Claw speak of him in reverence; Rabble learn of him as though he is some legend of yore.

Founder. Bastard. Tyrant. Monster. Evil. He has been called all of these. Yet he is none of them.

I wonder who among the company know him - if any at all. How many know his former name? Who know that his mother passed away during childbirth, and his father soon found his way to Kryta never to be seen again? Are any aware that he was raised by a village? Without home, without guidance. Wandering until Amaroq gave him purpose, gave him a family among the Blackclaw Mercenaries when it was still in Elona.

Do they realize that he was once a Rabble? That he endured the same requirements to prove himself to the Warband, and that he labored to work his way up the ranks? Who among his acquaintances understand that the Blackclaw came into his hands when he was too young, too reckless. That he spent his evenings drinking, his nights up to no good, his mornings paying for his nights, and his days at war, his blade guided by the heaviest coin?

Some know that Blackclaw originated beyond Kryta, but are there any aware that he came to these lands to search for his brother? Aulwrak calls him brother because they share blood. Momar calls him brother because they share the Claw. Yet even still they are not close. Experienced and amiable, but at arm's length.

Do any know of his former wives? The one he inherited when he shed his name for the Blackclaw mantle, and the other? Do any know that he was forced to weigh his wife against the lives within his company, and that he deemed the latter of utmost importance to preserve? 

Blackclaw roots run deep. Blood. Family. Loyalty. Concepts that seem to strike so close to his heart. Perhaps because he had none as a child. It is curious. Others perceive him so enigmatically, yet he is naught but an open book to those who question. Not a mystery. Not a wonder.

Just a man.