The black-haired fellow leaned his chair back on two legs, peering at the elves moving around the bar.  "What about the redhead?” he asked, sotto voce.

His table partner leaned over to see who he was looking at.  “The red -- oh no, no” she replied, blond curls shaking.  “He’s taken.  He’s chatting up that magistrix, see?”

“Pfft.  You’re prettier.  Just walk up and --”

“What?  No.”

“-- say something like Hi, my name’s Cear --”

“No.”

“-- your pants, my Hand of Freedom, what do you say --”

She burst out laughing and had to cover her mouth. “Zavy, no!”

“Why not?”

“I can’t!  Look -- look, you like him so much, you go ask him out.”

“Nah, he’s not Kira’s type.  If Kira liked sharing, which he doesn’t.  I’m just here for the eye candy, babe.  And to help you out, of course.”

“I don’t need help,” Cearalaith laughed.

Zavyrian smiled.  “Well, you’re getting it anyway.  I can’t let all this charm just go to waste.  But okay, fine.  What about that one over there -- the lady in crimson and gold.”

“Crimson and gold?  Zavy, that’s half the elves in this bar.” Cearalaith twisted up her lips doubtfully, even as she turned in her seat to take a look.  “And lady?  I’m not really into -- I mean, I’ve never actually -- well, there was that once, but....“  Her eyes found the woman in question, and she blinked.  “...oh.” 

Zavyrian grinned, leaning forward.  “Oh?”

Cearalaith blushed.

"Oh???”

Astoreth: The King James Bible, El Shaddai

As distracted as she was when she’d walked through the door, Astoreth had walked right by the two letters and a small package waiting for her on the mirrored silver tray by the door.  It wasn’t until much later, when she’d wandered back downstairs for a late cup of tea that she saw them there and, wakeful as she was, decided to examine the contents.

She opened the package first.  The enclosed letter brought a frown, then a sad smile and a bitter sigh to her lips.  “Gods damn you,” she whispered, turning the second, much fancier card over in her fingers.  “You’d better come back, or she’s going to find out.  I can’t fake these.”  Her fingers lingered over the tabard in the bottom of the box for a moment longer, as she fought off another frown.  “Gods damn it.  You leave this to me.  How the fuck am I supposed to tell him?”

She was still shaking her head when she opened the second letter, and at the second line let out a frustrated scream.  “Oh really?!  REALLY?!”  She scanned the letter and gritted her teeth.  “You do this to me too!  Dead gods, you fucking – rrrrgh.  Like not father and not son.  Peas in a pod.  Fucking blood knights.  Did they teach you this in your bloody academy?  How to piss off your friends and not talk to people?”  She scowled and stuffed the letter in the first box.  “I have a tabard for you.  Not that I’ll be able to give it to you.  Asshole.” 

Angry.  Stay angry, Astoreth, she told herself.  If you stay angry you might not start crying.  She tore open the third letter without even looking at the envelope… though of course she recognized the neat, swirling handwriting inside instantly.  And no amount of anger could save her from that recognition.

“No,” she whispered as her knuckles went white.  “No, not you too.  Not you too….”

The simple, eggshell-colored letter arrives by messenger. There’s no return address, but the way the too black, too thick lines spell Cearalaith Duskflame, it might as well be signed. The reek of brandy cements the intuited point of origin.

A package arrives at the estate shared by Firewing and Duskflame, addressed in an all-too-familiar Thalassian to Astoreth Duskflame-Firewing. The text on the box is crude for a sin’dorei hand, but it’s always been crude.

Inside is a simply folded letter of Balor Redgaze’s inelegent handwriting, and an envelope with Cearalaith’s name in thin, delicate script - like the invitation to a colorful gala. That letter is closed with a dollup of wax and no seal. These items rest on the pristine, folded canvas of a black and red tabard. 

jaedns-world - My character is given a chance to go back in time and re-do one single event.

“I’m going to kill him!” Cearalaith shrieked into the cold Northrend sky, storming in a fury towards the docks.  “I’m gonna shove my mace so far up his ass I’ll knock his shiny teeth out!”

“Cearalaith.”  Stavier shouted, stomping after her, but she paid him no heed. 

Corael, smaller and lighter than the hulking blood knight, managed to run in front of the little blonde paladin and put his hands up, forcing Cearalaith to stop in her tracks.  She scowled at her fiancé.  “Out of my way!” she growled.

“Cear, love, don’t do this,” he urged her.  “You’ll only regret it.”

“Trust me, darling, I’ll get over it,” she sneered, batting his arm away.

Growling, Stavier finally caught up and grabbed Cearalaith’s wrist, twisting abruptly to force her to drop her mace on the ground.  She hauled back, but he held her almost comically fast in his grip.  “Dead gods, woman, get a grip.  You don’t want to do this.  He’s a general of the Argent Crusade; you think there won’t be consequences for your actions?”

“He’s an asshole!  And a dead man, once I get my hands on him!  She’s my sister!”  Cearalaith howled, trying to wrench her arm away.  “You read that letter!  You know what he did to her!  Let me go!”

“I know your sister is a big girl who can make her own choices, and she chose him.”

“Like she had much of a choice, once he knocked her up!  It wasn’t even her idea – and – and – and Stavier Luminiar, you let me go!”  She banged her free fist on his armored bicep, provoking both an ugly clanging noise and an irritated expression on Stavier’s face but garnering her no other results.

“Cear.”  Corael put his hands gently on her shoulders.  “Cearalaith, love, listen to me.  We don’t know the whole story.  We only know what Ast put in the letter, in her own hurt and anger… and anyway, Stavier’s right.  He is the father of her child, and if she wants to try to work things out with him… that’s her choice.  And we have to accept that.”

“No I don’t!” Cearalaith howled, tears of frustration creeping into her anger and tinging her shouts with sobs.  “It’s wrong.  What he’s doing is wrong.  She’s my sister.”

“And aren’t you always complaining that she doesn’t respect your choices?  You’ve got to respect hers, Cear.”

The boat at the docks whistled that it was ready to leave.  Cearalaith sighed, and her shoulders sagged.  “You’re… you’re right,” she conceded miserably.  “I’m… I’m sorry.  You’re both right.”

Stavier frowned at her sadly and released her arm, leaning in closer to her.  “Cearalaith, I am sorry.  I –“

Cearalaith snapped her arm up, catching Stavier with a right uppercut neatly under the jaw.  The big blood knight never saw it coming; he went flailing backwards without even a cry.  ”And I’m going anyway!" she cried.

“Cearalaith!” Corael shouted, lunging forward.  She danced out of his way, whirled, swept her leg around and knocked her startled fiancé soundly on his ass.  In one smooth movement she grabbed her mace off the ground and began dashing down the wooden docks, shouting at the men unmooring the ship.

“Wait for me!” she screamed.  “I’ve got a date with Bareris Darksworne!”

"Don’t sigh like that. Speak."

Cearalaith shook her head.  ”I don’t have much to say.  I’m… you’re lucky.  That’s all.  I don’t get it, but… you’re very lucky.”

He smirked and gave her a nudge.  “I agree, I’m fantastically lucky.  And whatever nice bloke that falls for you and your curls will be fantastically lucky as well.”

They’d spent all evening out on the beach, watching the waves and talking about everything and nothing.  With Astoreth away and Corael… well.  Cearalaith had been grateful for the company.  Even if Firewing was urging her again to get laid with someone, anyone, and even again she was steadfastly refusing. 

She smirked back at him…. and sighed again, pressing her lips together.  ”I’m not… wrong, am I?  For having… standards?”

He shook his head, his black locks catching the moonlight like the waves in the ocean. “Not in the least, Cear,” he said, sincerely enough.  “Standards are good.”

Her mind was racing.  She stood up before she could think about doing anything stupid.  ”I’ve… probably kept you long enough.  Should let you get home.”

"Not really,” Westel shrugged, apparently oblivious to the danger in which they sat.  “But sleep does sound sort of nice. But hey— if you need me for any reason, you know how to find me.”

She smile. “I just like your company.  And I wanted to be sure you were okay.  If you need anything, you know…”

He stood up as well and smiled at her, that crooked smile that crinkled his eyes at the edges.  Moonlight cast off his stubbled cheek, his eyes glowing faintly in the darkness beneath that tumble of black hair.  He reached out to tuck one of those blond curls behind her ear.  “I know,” he said gently.

It took only the simplest of movements to bring them together – Cearalaith rolling forward onto the balls of her feet, heels rising to close the already slim distance between their lips.  His mouth was warm and surprisingly soft, even as the bristle on his face scratched her smooth skin.  Her arms moved around his neck just as fast – and he hesitated only a brief moment before his lips parted, and his tongue sought hers in reply.  She felt his harsh indecision in that tense moment, and a brief twinge of guilt – but he’d been alone too long.  She’d been alone far, far too long.  No one would have to know – and if Astoreth found out, well… what goes around comes around, right?  And in that moment the only around she cared about was Westel’s arms around her waist, crushing her close to him.  She gasped as the kiss broke, pressing closer to him as his lips travelled along her jawline to her throat and he murmured her name.  “Cear…” he whispered against her skin, his calloused hands sliding up her back.  “Cearalaith…”

“…Cearalaith?”

She blinked and suppressed a startled gasp.  Westel peered at her curiously, his fingers still curled around the lock of golden hair, his body still at a respectful (if friendly) distance from hers.  “You okay, blondie?  I lost you for a moment there.”

She blushed.  “Yes – yes, I – I’m fine.  Sorry.”  She tried to smile, despite the heat in her cheeks.

He wrinkled his nose at her.  “You sure you don’t need anything?” he asked.

Cearalaith took a deep breath.  “I’m sure,” she replied.

Better late than never!

30.) And finally: Write a letter to your character, from yourself. 

Dear Cearalaith,

You are one of my favorite characters, you know that?  Ever since you were a baby D&D paladin nearly fifteen years ago.  You’ve changed forms, friends, families, kingdoms and costumes many times, but every time I’ve carefully crafted an avatar and graced her with your name you’ve had the same soul.

I’ve been bitched at for being too mean to you in this incarnation.  Everyone loves you – which is awesome!  I love you too and it makes me happy that my friends enjoy you.  And I don’t like making you sad.