#drimmari

It didn’t matter if someone had a piss poor evening, or if someone had the best night of their lives. In a neutral state of mind, the stars glow at its usual radiance every single night, something that is of note to the eye of the Matriarch. A woman perched alone with only her cloak as a blanket, stripped eyes lost in the globs of sterling white that sent her kisses from above. She leaned back with a sigh, mind, body, and soul still aching from the little event that came to light this evening.

 She promised to keep herself away from any action, but that all she would do is lamp and oversee to ensure that those of her shared regiment with her husband would be alright. Lumeal kept her company in the process. It all quickly transpired into darkness and deviance at the sound of Vyasaen and Vythrien yelling at one another, the motive that caused Phaeith and Lumeal to rush into the ruined Hall. 

 The Matriarch first sees a lack of members, two are stuck behind the taboo magic sealed door as the others are conflicted and arguing over what to do next. First Ceestra attempted to blast the vile magic down with her holiness, only to be knocked back and scorched. Then came Lumeal and Phaeith deciding to channel the energies together with the help of Lin, tossing it aside to dispel the door and themselves from the wicked energy. Sadly, it sat in Phaeith for the time being and forced her to embrace it. It wallowed within her long enough to strip her eyes bare from any gold, the light aura around her body weakened and nearly deserted at this point. 

 The entirety of this all kept Phaeith mindful of the child she carries in her stomach, both conflicted and upset over allowing herself to do this and to come this far at all, period. The sudden transition from Knight-Lord and War Hero to Wife, Pregnant Lady, active Matriarch and prospering Magistrix took quite a bit out of her, and she still didn’t know how to figure it all out quite yet. On one hand the seal created around her stomach to keep the child safe was enough to keep her mind at bay, on the other hand she knew how stupid she was for risking so much- how could she turn away from those who needed aid? Clearly the door wasn’t going to open otherwise.

 Eventually Elevandra and Vyasaen were rescued despite their heavy injures. The group forced through a portal made by Phaeith to return to Dawn’s Reach, Lumeal and her decided to stay behind to sweep the area. Of course it was a silly idea, but it was something needed. They needed more knowledge and most of the group was injured to the point of useless hands. All they would do was die. Somehow Pyraahh found the Vanquisher and Matriarch, attempted to warn them, but was shooed off into the portal to help heal those in dire need of it. Dire, dire need of it. 

 A vanguard of Alliance came trotting through on their horses, Phaeith and Lumeal immediately ditch the pathway and run into the crypt where the two are received with spears through their bodies but a successful leap through one last portal before Phaeith was completely mana-spent and forced into unconsciousness. Lumeal carried her through the Keep and onto an infirmary bed to where she was then healed by Pyraahh and her husband, only to argue later on with a few of the regiment members about her actions. 

 She heard them, but she wasn’t quite sure if they heard her. It was like everyone assumed she didn’t know she was pregnant, and after receiving news tonight that she carried triplets, it’s like they figured she was deaf or an asshole. Which, the second part was probably true. Phaeith could barely see anyone or anything, her eyes stripped down to a dull white with barely any glow to them. Waterline a nasty red from irritation. She tried to converse with her husband but clearly that was the wrong move; so she opted for the roof where she could be alone beneath the stars. 

 Annoyance turned into sadness, sadness turned into anger, and anger eventually turned into a source of calm. All the while she was staring up at the stars with watery eyes, throwing tiny barrages of arcane into the surface of the pond far below her to calm herself as much as possible. How could people expect her to suddenly stop caring about their well being? Pregnant, yes, but she wasn’t the only one with a family to go home to. She led them, and she wasn’t going to let them fight any battle alone. But… How could she expect them to respond any differently? Drimmari would have never quite let anyone live it down if she did lose the child-children-  or her life in general tonight. It was a mess. All of it was a mess, but this is what elders told children when they explained life lessons. Perspective was a fickle thing and that you needed to be wise to regard it properly.

 So, she sat and stared up at the stars instead of looking down at her feet where more anger would have surely come from it. She draped the cloak around slender shoulders, letting her tears flow free. All of it was new. All of it felt like too much. Hell, all of it was too much. Her ears twitched and wilted as she came to the realization of acute selfishness and selflessness. Her two greatest flaws. All of this insight tonight brought different perspectives to her mind, but that was it. It stayed there. All of it would stay and linger in her mind for safe keeping. Anyone who disagreed with her would only see a woman who argued, and anyone who understood likely knew that this was her mindset right now. She had no footing to argue back any longer. Hell, she refused to. The least she could do for herself right now and the regiment is enjoy the beautiful view as much as she can, despite her lack of vision. 

[The following is a story pulled from a Resolute Blades event from March of 2017.]

The ground rattles as though the Titans themselves tread the skies. Winter air is thick with a smoky haze. Brimstone and ash, sulfur and iron.

Once, twice, three times. The blade drives forth; it meets resistance of torn cloth, shredded flesh, with every thrust. Densely wooded and heavy with the mingling smells of rain and burning skin, the encampment is silent save for the moans of the dying. Bodies scattered about, a broken halo, a woman kneels before the body of a massive elf. Hair white, muscles bereft of fat and knotted under with hundred years’ sun, a crimson pool spreads beneath his white tunic.

The blade now trembles in her hands. Her eyes do not merely flicker with felflame: they are ablaze, and a sickly green casts its faded hues upon the crimson spurting like Silvermoon’s finest fountains from Drimmari’s chest. Her voice is a packless wolf’s broken howl; fel-tainted tears stream crooked paths down her narrow cheeks. “I couldn’t tell you,” she sobs, punctuating the statement with another heavy thrust of the sword.

A massive bolt of felflame crashes into a nearby tent. Now a living torch, a Forsaken staggers out before falling to his knees, accusatory gaze turned upwards at a passionless rainy sky. Still, the woman’s sobs rend the air.

“Mother…?”

From behind a tree steps a white-blonde little girl. Clutched in her hands is a simple doll with a beautiful white dress. “Mother, I--” Her eyes find first the woman, then Drimmari, and then the scream that follows breaks her voice. “FATHER!”

“Anavela,” the bloody woman breathes. “No...how?” She drops Drimmari’s dying form; his blood mixes with rivulets of rain, seeping slowly into the soil. “You followed me…”

The girl shakes her head, and a protective cocoon of Light forces back the encroaching felflame. The little girl’s eyes are brilliant, and her body trembles with fear and fury unified.

The woman extends her hands, bloodsoaked fingers beckoning, cracked, whitened lips quivering. “Come here...let me explain…” Smoke rises from her robes. “Come to mother…”

The cocoon of Light around Anavela’s form begins to falter…

The woman seizes her chance to leap; lightning flashes among the trees, and thunder roars as her form shifts, as fangs sprout and shadows spread, corrupt, consume. Screaming, the girl covers her eyes with the tattered wrists of her robe--

These days, he lost track of time more often than he cared admit.

Glaring an accusation at the cloudless sunset, Drimmari Dra’zar cursed-- three weeks he’d been more or less forced to miss dinner with Zylidrin. A combination of pressing matters consumed his time; one week he was dealing with Inquisitors on Mourne’s behalf, the next addressing Lindrayeda’s treachery.

Kor’a would have to wait-- three long weeks since he’d seen his son, whose selfless reassurances that he understood his father was a busy man were nothing short of distressing. In fact, Drimmari couldn’t recall the last time he received a letter brimming with updates about his son’s progress through Magistry training.

“General.” An Eran’shar loyalist named Vix intercepted Drimmari en route to the stable. “Kha’zix is nowhere to--”

“No,” Drimmari cut him off. “Urgent business calls me to Dalaran. Sunforge can foot questions in my stead.”

Drimmari’s plated footfalls swept him from the indignant arcanist. He coaxed a dozing Belorai from her stall.

~~~

He was damn near swallowed whole by a flock of Sunreavers in Dalaran, conspiratorial whispers floating from their tightly bound ranks. At the last moment they parted around Drimmari, casting baleful looks over narrow shoulders.

Drimmari knew he was unpopular anywhere mages gathered; he also knew some of his distrust for the Magistry was borderline ignorant, seated in superstitious prejudice and skewed interactions. Still, some sort of stigma set him on edge-- those skilled in illusion wouldn’t hesitate to invoke it, and the long-lived elves were not so beholden to the changing of seasons.

Familiar faces half-hidden in crowds. The bustling of marketplace bargains; the hollow-eyed, empty recognition of the recently widowed. As with any major city, Dalaran smelled of sewage and sweat, its myriad of sounds recalling a poorly conducted orchestra. Magic was a scent, a presence sure as the air, the thrumming of a wasp’s nest under the floorboards. 

He hastened for the portal to Silvermoon, feet carrying him through of their own accord. Sparing only a nod to guards who swept into low bows, brow knit as a ward against the treacherous nature of his thoughts, he departed the Spire.

Perhaps he’d stay the night, would lose himself in Zylidrin’s youthful vivacity. He’d swap stories with the lad who looked so much like his mother-- not Cyrande, who’d been nothing short of a blessing, but… he wouldn’t think her name.

Sinna’s home was modest. A carefully kept townhouse, steps paved with runes harbinging the Sunwell’s might. Tonight heavy curtains were drawn tight across the paned windows, and Drimmari realized with a start that the moon hung high in the chilly night sky. Just how long had he tarried in Dalaran? He’d spared Knight-Master Sunpride only a moment or two…

His knocks were cannonfire in the Exchange’s lazy calm. Drimmari smelled Sinna before he saw her, a pungent aura of nutmeg and morning dew. She cracked the door, and Drimmari could discern a brilliant green orb framed by tresses of raven-colored hair. Her voice was a raspy whisper-- years of thistle weren’t kind to her lungs, and no amount of perfume could rid her of its odor. “He’s asleep.”  

His heart sank. “I would like to see him, then.” Only by way of anger did his voice lack desperation. Always anger.

“I think not,” she said sharply, still in that conspirator’s whisper he hated so much. “And if you force your way in, the Magistry will--”

“Will what?” He’d grown to loathe the challenging tone that clung to his voice. He knew her threats were hot air, knew her family’s secrets would ruin her if he chose to expose them. They both knew.

Her mouth opened, but another voice came: “Father?”

Disdain in her eyes, Sinna stepped aside. The door swung into a dimly lit foyer.

Zylidrin was a gangly boy of fourteen, beginning to come into his father’s height; squared jaw and severe features starkly contrasted the look of uncertainty on his tired face. Unruly black hair was banded into a foxtail, and curled locks fell unchecked across his eyes. He wore a simple orange robe, and a leather-bound tome was clutched to his chest.

Sinna retreated to a wall, blended like a shadow in a crowded city. Hesitating for a moment, Drimmari finally cleared his throat. “Good eve, Zylidrin.”

“Hello.” Zylidrin looked away as he spoke; his aunt made a pointed ‘hmph’ sort of sound.

“Shall we go for dinner, then? I’m not sure if--”

“Is Mother joining us?” The boy didn’t mean to be rude, of course, but vaguely Drimmari recalled backhanding an Initiate for interrupting him in such a fashion.

“No.” It sounded small, naked against the chill that hung suspended between them.

“Oh.” Zylidrin paused, shoved his hands into his robe. “Well, I have an important test tomorrow--”

“Of course,” Drimmari said quickly. “I merely came to assess your progress, as your updates have been scarce of late.”

Father and son regarded each other. “Sorry.” Zylidrin couldn’t keep the timidity from his voice, the anticipation of some sort of reprimand.

The old General trudges up the ramp, fingertips tracing ethereal patterns into the handrailing. His eyes, cast into shadow by locks of silver hair, are bound and chained by dark bags that dip into his beard. His back is bowed; Galad's sword is but an afterthought at his hip, its scabbard clapping rhythmically against a white-steel legplate.

 He'd gone to visit her, again. Pleas and promises cast, forgotten, to the wind; halfhearted oaths discarded like an apple whose flesh has shriveled and browned by exposure to open air. He'd laid flowers atop her earthy bed and fallen to his knees, ribbons of Light hanging like tightly drawn curtains around his hulking frame, head hung like a child caught with fists full of stolen candies.

 He aged a hundred years every time, praying for the chance to see her face. Loathing for his own weakness welled in his eyes, left his throat raw. 

 The flower is the sole torch among the mildewed walls, dust and cobwebs of his thoughts. He stumbles towards it like a dying man to water, supplicating hands willing him forward; gently, he scoops it up and cradles it to his chest. 

 The torch falls from the wall, burns the room to ash. In the distance, golden rays crest a cloudless horizon. "Alectrael," he murmurs, and he is Drimmari once more. Dawn has arrived.

Drimmari doubts he will survive the night.

It is the nature of a society etched from the raw flesh wounds of a broken nation to foster enmity. A decade spent quite literally carving a name for himself and for his Order rendered a fair number of Silvermoon’s Magistrate scorned; each back crushed underfoot climbing-- clawing-- his way to his position in the Order earned him a strike on the Magistry’s blacklist. He suspects their profile of him is comprehensive enough to warrant an arranged death by trial under the guise of impending promotion.

He fears not, for fear weakens the mind and trembles the swordhand. Fear is a blindfold; fear is the insidious whispering that maddens princes and fells generals.

Belorai huffs and bristles under him mid-stride, bringing her snout around. Drimmari follows her gaze and his gauntlet finds its way to the pommel of the bastard sword at his hip; with his other he tugs at the reins, and Belorai halts at once.

“Were I to know that my arrival would warrant animosity, Champion Dra’zar, I’d have brought a bigger staff.” The young Magister Dawnstar wears his characteristic toothy smile, one that broadcasts petty superiority in true silver-spoon fashion. Boyish features and high cheekbones starkly contrast the mane of silver hair cascading to his waist; an open eye, painted in violet ink on his collarbone, throbs with his laughter.

Flanking him, also on horseback, are two familiar faces: Champion Sunblaze and Magister Sunhawk.

Bile climbs into Drimmari’s throat. The Magistry had sunken to bringing his closest friend in the Order to witness his demise.

Words find their way onto his tongue, spat in his carrying baritone. “Your judgment is impeccable, Magister. No telling what I’d have done without a vanguard to accompany me. Perhaps I would have gotten lost.”

The trio falls in beside Drimmari on the wide cobble path; the steady sound of hoofbeats fills the chilled night air. “Whatever would we do if you’d have opted out of the trial last-minute, Champion?” Dawnstar’s high lilt is flecked with condescension, and Drimmari chokes on his retort. “No, best to keep you company.”

Street lamps cast azure hues across the road as sun gives way to stars. The scents of polished steel, trodden pine and cured leather mingle on the breeze; abruptly in his mind’s eye, snowcapped obelisks frame a hulking citadel, and a madman’s laughter chatters his teeth.

Magister Dawnstar speaks into the pregnant silence once Falconwing Square is at their backs. “Preparations are in order for your regiment, then, in the event that tonight takes a bloody turn?” After an artificial silence, he adds, “Forgive the pun.”

“Yes.” Drimmari’s response is distracted.

Grassy hillocks give way to the blood knight pavilion, set far enough off the main road that a wayward glance is unlikely to sight it. Clad in ceremonial crimson plate and armed with halberds, two young blood knights stand watch; bowing low at the waist, they part to allow the company through.

  ~~~

Drimmari stands tall at the torchlit pavilion’s centre; bare feet sink into crimson silk carpet. Clad only in a loose-fitting pair of breeches, the Champion braces himself against the brisk night air.

Directly across from him stands Magister Dawnstar. Forming a loose semicircle matching the pavilion’s broad architectural arc are an assortment of priests and priestesses, faces cast in shadow from white hoods drawn forth. At Drimmari’s back, Mourne and Denar watch silently.

Drawing a scroll from the folds of his robes, Dawnstar speaks with the air of a man who rehearses sales pitches before a mirror every morning. “Drimmari Dra’zar of House Dawnglory, Champion of the Blood Knight Order, this convocation has been called for the purpose of testing both fealty to the Order and worthiness of promotion to the rank of Knight-Lord, by joint will of the Order and the Magistry.” Beady, bespectacled eyes break only momentarily from the scroll to flick in Drimmari’s direction. “Failure, if not by death and subsequent burning upon a funeral pyre, will result in immediate suspension from the Order and potentially exile from the Kingdom.”

Drimmari is silent.

“Do you accept these terms, Champion?”

“I do.”

The scroll promptly erupts in turquoise flame. “Excellent!” Nothing short of chipper, the Magister gestures at the priestess closest to him, a tall and wiry woman whose crimson curls  peak out from under her cowl. “Isanna, you may begin.”

Her voice is sharp and biting; were knives to have vocal chords, they might speak with half the edge in her cadence. “First, Champion, your loyalty to the Sunwell will be tested. Steel yourself.” No sooner do the words escape her lips than does her arm raise; silk cuffs peel back from her wrist to reveal a hand calloused and veined heavily from a lifetime’s labor.

As though awaiting her signal, the remaining priests match the gesture.

“Only the worthy may ascend these sacred steps,” Isanna intones. Unified, her acolytes repeat the statement. Their fingertips light up with brilliant holy flame.

Drimmari inhales.

Tongues of fire lash out, dousing Drimmari’s exposed flesh, welts rising and skin blistering almost immediately. Unadulterated agony throttles his senses, and he staggers against the onslaught.

Over the roar of blood throbbing in his ears, Drimmari makes out Dawnstar’s voice: “Champion Dra’zar, are you worthy of the restored Sunwell’s benevolence?”

Bright spots dance in his vision. Flames engulf, sear away his detached exterior like petals of a flower, beckon the howl of pain from his dry throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, and a rush of visions-- crunched together and jumbled-- play forward. Spanning from his initiation to his Adept trial (he remembers the look in his fellow Initiate’s eyes when Drimmari’s blade plunged into his throat) until his Champion ceremony in the beginning of the Breaking, Drimmari’s history with the Order plays through his vision; every day spent siphoning Light from M’uru is there, brought to the forefront of it all.

A floodgate opens in Drimmari’s mind as his own link to the Sunwell washes through him. Eyes bursting open, smoke rising from peeling skin, he allows the flames into himself, guiding them into brilliant rays of pure Light that render bubbling skin prismatic.

Abruptly the flames are gone; sparks dance in his peripheral. Vision clearing, he blinks twice. Isanna sweeps into a deep bow at the waist.

“You have proven yourself worthy of the Sunwell, Champion Dra’zar.”

Her acolytes mirror the gesture, magic rising from pooling robes like a morning fog at sunrise.

To Drimmari’s right, from the winding river, a crimson haired lad with a leather eyepatch and half of a left ear steps into the pavilion. “Announcing Knight-Champion Alastor Loth’albelore, immediately following success in his own first trial.”

Drimmari hears the second half of that statement from the end of an echo chamber. Icicles bog down his heart, freezing the blood that only moments before burned with righteous fire.

Alastor is a handsome man, every daydreaming adolescent’s fantasy of a chivalrous, windswept knight. Standing every bit as tall as Drimmari, his golden hair is tied into a topknot; dark semicircles drag at his eyelids, and high cheekbones fight to hold the playful smirk plastered onto his cracked lips. Like Drimmari, he is dressed minimally-- ink vines creep their way up his abdomen and into his shoulders, etched with carefully detailed Thalassian runes. Drimmari does not need proximity to remember what they say.  

“Evenin’, Drim.” His voice, the only sound besides the river’s calming rumble, rings hoarsely throughout the pavilion; its singsong cadence, stripped of its depth, is a dry December wind. “Fuckers must’ve mistook me for a demon.” White smoke rises from his shoulders, and-- after taking his place at the center of the pavilion-- Drimmari sees cracks and blisters on Alastor’s skin.

They actually think I’m going to fight him. Incredulity is the crack that finally shatters floodgates of retribution in Drimmari’s mind.

“Evening, Al,” he says quietly. Unlike Alastor’s voice-- always the herald of his deepest inner thoughts-- Drimmari’s is tempered steel, a carefully contained fire.

Magister Dawnstar clears his throat. “Gentlemen, if I may command your attention for a few more moments.” He is a sea breeze at the eye of a hurricane. “As two of our more seasoned and renowned Champions, the Magistry wishes to remind you both of your time on the Isle of Tribulations, as initiates.”

No surprise, there.

“Your joint candidacy for the role of Knight-Lord demands that you prove yourself the foremost among your peers. As such, your final trial is an honor duel…” Dawnstar’s voice takes a gentle, lilting tone. “...to the death.”

“Bullshit,” Alastor sputters. Drimmari remains silent, viridescent orbs deadlocked on Dawnstar. “You’re going to make us kill each other? After Sunfall, after Icecrown, the Breaking--”

Dawnstar’s eyes flare violet, and his voice rings through the chamber. “If there are words you wish to speak, let them be known now.”

“Drim,” Alastor says at once. “Fuck them. Fuck this.” His hand tightens on the pommel of his sword, a cutlass with a featherweight enchantment. “We can’t--”

“Alastor.” Drimmari draws his blade.

“Touching,” Dawnstar purrs. “I trust I needn’t remind you, Champion Loth’albelore, of your stake in this battle?”

The flushed, blistered skin of his face drains of colour. “Bastard mage,” he growls.

“Excellent.” Dawnstar’s smile is almost genuine. “Steel and magic both are permitted for this fight.” As though on cue, Isanna and her acolytes file out into the grass around the pavilion; the one-eyed lad ushers Mourne and Denar outside. “Thank you both for your service to the Kingdom. Tal anu’men no Sin’dorei.”

Several things happen at once: Turning on the spot, Dawnstar disappears with a flourish of his cloak; a rigid violet barrier erupts at the edges of the pavilion, sealing Drimmari and Alastor in; and finally, Alastor draws his own blade, ears drooping.

“We’re really doing this, brother?” Slowly Alastor settles into a defensive stance, instinctively deferential-- they both knew their strengths.

“Have we any choice?” Centering himself, summoning the mental void needed for proper swordplay, Drimmari inhales.

“Remember our deal?” Alastor begins pacing the edge of the pavilion; Drimmari matches the movement.

“Of course.”

“It still stands?”

Drimmari nods. Alastor swallows.

“Good luck, Drimmari.”

Pillars of flame spring to life around the pavilion, immediately blocking Drimmari’s view of Alastor; carving his blade through the air, Drimmari forces a section of clearance for himself, barreling through and hitting the ground instinctively as a spear of Light streaks over his head. Cursing, he rights himself and weaves a shield, searching, always moving.

While Drimmari was undoubtedly the superior swordsman, Alastor had a true gift for magic. Once a high-ranking priest of the Church, he never truly lost faith: his stake in the Order was one of appeasing his late father’s wishes, nothing more. His grasp on the Light surpassed even Drimmari’s.

Drimmari knows his one true hope is to close in and torrent Alastor’s magic, striking while the blond giant is vulnerable; of course, as the lashes of fire swirling around Drimmari’s head might indicate, that is easier said than done.

The trick is to locate the source of the flames, to snuff them out. Containing Alastor is no easy feat in any facet of life.  

There. Recognizing the head of one of the whips, Drimmari immediately rips a dangerous volume of magic from the Sunwell; fingertips searing, he hurls the wall of Light in that direction and follows closely behind it.

He’s on his back before he can gather his bearings: the violet hues of Dawnstar’s barrier glare down at him, silently mocking his folly. Drimmari does not doubt that his death approaches swiftly: Alastor is ever the tricky opponent.

Ash burns his eyes. Smoke sears his throat, throttles attempts to draw a full breath.

One heartbeat. Two. A searing pain ignites in Drimmari’s arms and legs, creeping into his torso; forcing his eyes open, he looks up at Alastor, whose eyes brim with tears, and a calming peace seeps into Drimmari’s soul-- one that fiercely counteracts the agony screaming in his limbs.

Instinct takes over. Howling, Drimmari rips as much magic as he can from the Sunwell: the floors buckle and groan with protest; the Arcane barriers at the room’s edges spiderweb with flaming cracks. Just as suddenly, he severs his own link to the Sunwell, and the magical backlash is enough to break several of his ribs.

The desperado tactic rendered Alastor near immobile. Groaning, Alastor rolls from his stomach to his back, fighting to right himself.

If Alastor is a priest and a scholar, Drimmari is a blood knight. Springing to his feet despite the pleas from his ribs, he pulls the bastard sword into a blistered hand and limps over to Alastor’s side, falling to his knees.

The force of their combined spells has rendered Alastor blind. In place of the lingering Fel corruption, his eyes are a swirling, milky white; his mouth works, unable to push words past the blood pooling in his throat. Crimson lips plead.

Drimmari plunges the blade into his friend’s heart. The roaring flames cackle their triumph, sucking what little oxygen remains in the room from the air.

Drimmari does not see the barriers come down. He does not hear people calling his name, congratulating him; the explosion has rendered him temporarily deaf.

A note found at bedtime...

The days are long, the nights longer for the Lord and Lady Dra’zar. For every day spent on the battlefields against the Seventh Eye, one must also be spent traversing the many nuances of Thalassian politics. Despite the radiant warmth of eternal spring, a creeping cold spreads across fields and seeps bone-deep in a way that’s far from physical. It lingers like a bad cough.

Phaeith always was the one for big gestures disguised as small, meaningful trinkets. It’s high time the tables are turned; upon returning to Dawn’s Reach after a long day’s work rolling the political dice and requisitioning supplies for the regiment’s upcoming war, the Matriarch would return to the quarters she shares with her husband to find them absent the man himself. Their bed is made— uncharacteristically— and upon her pillow are a note, a single pink rose, and a picture.

The note reads as follows:

“Bella, meet the gondolier upon the dock just west of the gate. He will take you to our little slice of paradise. -Ari”

--

The Dra’zar wife arrives later than normal to the estate, the woman clearly a mess from studying, teaching upcoming Knights for the time that she still can, and the whole scene of returning to politics has slowly began to wear her down. The one thing that keeps this woman afloat seems to be her husband, and that is exactly who she makes her way towards. She swings the door open with a little huff, eyes soft with her voice apologetic. “I am sorry for being so late, dalah’belore. You must be so tired---” she pauses at the realization that she isn’t greeted by the warm arms of her husband. Or by the usual welcome-home forehead kiss they began to make their nightly tradition. 

 Her attention fades from the ground to the level of the room, brows furrowing as she notices his absent presence. No wonder it felt emptier than usual, her favorite person isn’t there and she felt that deep in her soul. Inevitably her eyes find the note dressed with a pink note on the oddly made bed, a slight smile already crept its way to full lips. She hasn’t even read the note yet, but all she knows is that it has to be from her husband, and that alone brought butterflies to her stomach. 

 After reading then note with a bountiful of silent questions fluttering through spinning cogs in her mind, she makes for the shower to refresh herself as much as she can. She even goes as far as putting on a cute little nightgown that is all sanguine satin with ebony lace. An acute v-cut is cut into the fabric over her right thigh, a long and fluff-cuffed chiffon robe is tied to her form. Soon after she braids the flower into her hair, an attempt at something cute and lazy. Her finishing touch are her glasses, a staple to the Matriarch herself. When she finishes readying herself and slipping on a comfortable pair of stocking-slippers, she meets the man in charge of getting her where she is needed to go. 

 “Hey, thank you.” She addresses him with a woven basket padded by ruby cloth; the inside full of warm bread, grapes, cheeses, and meat slices. Being that it is so late, she figured she could be considerate for the poor mans feelings. One of which is taken with a bright smile from the man who nods and carefully helps the pregnant woman into her seat on the gondola. 

Phaeith leans back into her velvet cushioned seat, a hand pressed over her stomach as she relaxes for the first time all night. A stinging feeling of burning curiosity and excitement tickles her skin, goosebumps galore! Eversong Woods will always be a beauty, but to see the fireflies at night, the slumbering lynx, the beautiful violet night sky with soft stars to glisten across the sky... Tonight she is thankful and understands the value of being blessed with such a phenomenal man in her life. Tonight, she finally understood what the fairy-tales preached about love.