#dathonlan

It had been an unexpected thing, seeing the lithe figure approaching across the bridge into Terokkar.  Tethrien stood in silence, hands clasped behind his back and beneath the shadow of his bulwark.  He had been staring thoughtfully into the dimness of the evening, tattered ears tilted back and chin lifted high.  

Movement caught his eye quickly enough, the shuffle of booted feet on smoothes stonework apparent not long after.  It did not take long for Tethrien to recognize the tall form draped in fine clothes and white-streaked blue-black locks.  He pursed thin lips before turning to more fully face the approaching fellow, pale bow rising.  “Dathonlan.”

If the unsteady shuffle had not been intended toward the warrior’s presence, it certainly was after the familiar electric hum of the soldier’s headset.  Handsome features split into a broad grin full of too-white teeth, long ears perking as the fal caster straightened.  All of a sudden, he walked in a more languid fashion, head and spine straight, attention focused as if these would diffuse the prior image of drunkenness.  “Tethrien! Fancy seeing you here.”

“Or not terribly fancy considering the location—you’ve been drinking.”

“Just a little!  A few drinks with a client, nothing too much.”  With that charming grin still in place, Dathonlan stopped a short distance away from Tethrien, overlooking the slight tug of a scowl at the corners of the pale warrior’s scarred lips.  ”Is that concern?”  

“You know, it’s a rather long fall from the bridge to the ground.  It would be unfortunate if you misstepped.”  

Dath’s answer was a laugh, and he leaned his hip against the raised railing along the bridge’s edge.  “You’d catch me, wouldn’t you?”

Tethrien could only manage a grunt—possibly in agreement.

For a long time they stood in silence, not entirely unwanted or uncomfortable.  There was always a distance with the older Sin’dorei, a careful half-step away from easy comfort.  “You should have gotten Mezaku to get you.  You reek of liquor, and before you saw me, you were shuffling and stumbling because no one was looking.”  Tethrien crossed his arms loosely over his chest, turning to look out across the cityscape beneath them.  “Going to get yourself killed, you know, pulling stupid shit like that.”

“You can just shut up and admit that you give a damn, Tethrien.  It isn’t really so terrible.”  The dark-haired Elf sidles suddenly closer, one slender hand reaching up to rest against the brute’s armored bicep.  He pushed up on his toes, looking up at the soldier with an expression the pallid man found utterly confusing.

Before there was any swooping or continuation of Dathonlan’s suspicious lean forward, Tethrien ducked and scooped at the back of the caster’s legs and spine, scooping him up with the ease borne of physical strength.  “You’re drunk.”  He huffed, offering no answer but to tighten his grip at the squirming of his capture, and promptly turned to stride his way toward familiar pathways toward Nagrand.

It was early afternoon before Dathonlan woke.  It took him a few nigh frantic moments to recognize the militaristically arranged living area and the clean smell of freshly baked bread.  The house was quiet, and even as he listened back the discomfort settled in his belly, the rakish Sin’dorei could hear no movement within the building.  The drape of heavy blanket was warm, and it smelled strongly of musk, leather and steel; beside him on the table rested a tall glass of questionable looking liquid, a few slices of thinly sliced bread, and a small note folded into quadrants.

Dathonlan,

Should be back in a few hours, took Laevra out to the Mag’har to gather some spices.  If you get up off that couch for anything besides normal body functions—or vomiting—then I’m going to break your kneecaps.

Tethrien