#fah!

Time became a bare, vacant concept in the mind of the poor tailor. His sense of self began to dissolve as the expansive of chronological nothingness continued unabated. All that remained to ground him to the gentle sensation of reality was the burning of his arms as the swatches remained held in his hands. That and the ‘blue’ -- the ever present, unyielding and uncompromising ‘blue’ which took hold of his mind. There was nothing but blue. It invaded his thoughts, his senses -- everything color-shifted, and even the inane babble of the man was reduced to various shades and tints of the aquatic color.

Then, right about when the tailor’s ego was experiencing its final death knell -- salvation came.

“... Wait, what abou’ that one?”

The inescapable spiral of mental desolation suddenly had a rope ladder. With far more speed than was necessary, the gnome desperately attempted to look for the swatch which the man referred to. He may have snapped his own neck were it not for the bundle of swatches which he was having to hold up with his chin.

“-- Which? Which one!?”

“That one, right there.” The man extended a fat finger to tap a simple, well-dyed swatch.

“... Navy?”

“Yeah! That one’ll do. Navy. Appropriate, figure’n. Good, rich color. Can we have it made wi’ that color n’ cloth?”

The anger -- and disbelief --  which simmered beneath the gnome was immense. Were it a meal, it could have fed a hundred -- no, a thousand of Gnomeregan’s hungriest. Yet the promise of a sale kept the white-hot rage caged with the peppy veneer of customer service.

“... Of course. Of course we can. I can have it ready by this afternoon.” Anything to get you out of here and away -- far away.

“Tha’ sounds great! Here … “ The man produced the appropriate purse of coin, paying for the services. Albeit perhaps not for the exact time expended. All the same, he exited with a polite smile of broad teeth, and a wave of his fat-fingered hand.

“Great Maker … “ The gnome groaned in protest, eyes rolling as he dropped all the swatches, bundles, and fabrics into a heap on the counter.

---

Thomas had never been a huge fan of Boralus.

Sure, it was the market-hub and port capital of Kul’Tiras. There were stalls, markets, storehouses and shop fronts for everything under the stars. Rare was the oddity unfound amidst the merchants, tradesman, and seaside hawkers. There was a kind of beauty, indeed, to the Tradewinds in full afternoon swing. Shoulder-to-shoulder, screaming sellers all out-bidding each other on the most peculiar objects. How much was the fair, going price for lizard gizzard? South Sea Barnacle juice? Imported Vrykul ‘whiskey’ from the Howling Fjord? How much a pint -- a gallon?

The roar of the mercantile crowds gave a boon to Thomas’ already blooming smile.

Still, he was a Crestfall born man, and proud of it. Despite the short length of his life on that particular island, he had always found a deep kinship to it. A rememberance which followed him all through his days. Perhaps it was the idyllic recollection of youth -- but everytime he had gone back to visit, for various and sometimes unscrupulous reasons, he had found every hill to be the mountain he remembered; each stream a roaring river. Good thoughts.

The trek from the gnome’s tailoring shop was a short one. He was almost home as it was -- Boralus was suddenly rather a close destination, relatively speaking, to where he laid his head.

Stormholme.

A duchy, as it were -- and he its Duke.

That thought still made his southernly orifices clench up. It gave him the same sensation to consider as a windy day in the crow’s nest. That odd combination of excitement, fear, and abject confusion.

Through the crowds of the Tradewinds, Thomas made his way. He heft his posterior up the seastone stairs which brought man, beast, and cargo from the outer wall dockyards to the interior of the city. Passing memory gave him idle consideration of a time wherein the idea of foreigners rubbing knuckles with the inner city guard was unheard of. With a pouching of his lower lip, he tried to remember seeing a single foreigner in his youth …

An elf? Maybe? -- Oh, no, yes, there was one.

One of the auburn caterpillars which made their home on his face wiggled. It curled, turning on itself to arch in silent contemplation. He did remember an elf. She was a … ‘Quel’dorei’? What did the elves call High Elves? High was right -- she was tall. Legs which went on from sunrise to sunset, and a rear end like a ripe --

“HEY!”

Thomas took the sudden force to his shoulder in stride, instinctually aligning himself to stand proper. Sea legs did good on land as well, it turned out. The man whom he had accidentally rammed into whirled about like he was ready to whallop Thomas -- but halt at recognition.

“You barnacle-cock son of a -- … Tom? TOM! Well shit in m’pants and call me a baby! Ain’t that the Big Iron, as I live an’ steal breath? Fuck on and piss, come here!”

A sandy-haired man of wide shoulders and thick man-carpet, the perpetrator of recognition rolled forward to grasp at Thomas, hugging him. It took a moment, enough for Tom to slowly put his arms around the man before --

“OH! Piss’n ma’ boots, how’n the fel are ya’? Been more’n a minute since I caught sight of the ruddy salt-stained hog call’t ‘Owen McManus’!”

Owen released him, smiling with a shit-grin to match Thomas’ best.

“Been more’n, aye. You still runnin’ your slag-heap cock up an’ down the Eee Kay?”

“Naw, naw -- long story, ain’t done none a’ that in some time. Been a maelstrom a’ life fer’ me lately, ma’ boy.”

“That a damn fact? Well shit -- you gon’ have to split a keg with me an’ regale. I’ve been runnin’ rope with these absolute bastards up’n from Freeman’s Bones. A real salty stack a’ bitches, I promise. Proper drinkers, may even make you see double -- ha!”

The ache of old memories -- and a life now gone -- began to creep up Thomas’ spine. It was not an unpleasant sensation. Like the nibbling of liquor when you thought you’d been drinking ‘virgin’ cocktails at a party too high-heel for you.

“Shit, piss n’ damnation … I ain’t been down to Freeman’s in a long time. They ever fix th’fucking stilts on that pub? Or is it a half a ball-bag from th’salty brine by now?”

“Oh, fuck’n no! You know Halloway is too cheap fer’ that. She’s gonna let the patrons wade in at the knee before she actually pays a carpenter.”

The smile which ate up both men’s faces was as genuine as could be. Old friends splitting old words. It felt good.

“-- Well shit, McManus. Light’s honest truth be tol’, I gotta be on a gryphon by …“

Thomas checked his bare wrist, as if there were something to tell him his time.

“... an hour ago. Believe it or not -- an’ I know this’ll keep yer’ curiosity enticed until I can fuck a keg open with ya’ -- I’m damn’t married now. A real proper lady, as it were. Chil’ren too, two girls.”

There was the sudden hooting, horning, and general catterwalling of laughter. A thick, hearty laughter which only found itself a home in the throats of the working class. Eventually though, Owen quit chuckling and simply stared.

“-- Yer’ serious?”

“Aye, am.”

“Well .. fuck. How’n the fel-fuck am I abou’ to get a gal spread-eagle now? You got a wife, where’n the fuck’s m’first mate gonna be when we hit th’pub?”

A fat finger rose from Thomas’ fist, waggling at the sandy-haired man.

“First of all -- y’were always my first mate. We both know I’m prettier, an’ end a’ day -- ladies prefer t’saw a hardwood log. Second a’all -- gonna have t’rain check the pub. I’m serious, gotta be on m’way. Got a wife’s birthday t’surprise.”

Owen threw his hands up -- nearly clocking a passing merchantman in the jaw -- and sighed.

“Fine! Fine … but you come’n by Hops Line n’ Sinker by end a’ week, ask fer’ me -- or I’ll be weepin’ like a maid in her milk-shirt. Good t’see ya, Tom.”

“Good t’see you too, McManus.”

And with that, they parted ways. In good timing too, as the winged beast which was to ferry Thomas was indeed, soon to depart. Not an hour hence, that was a lie. But there were few ways to escape the hookings of a McManus ‘evening out’. So after another walk around the Tradewinds, soaking in the sights -- and some of the liquor -- Thomas returned to retrieve the item of his earlier purchase.

Happily, the gnome handed it over, all done up in a silvered gift box. Wrapped together with a neat, blue bow, the package was easily passed long to Thomas. With a tippance of another golden coin for the fine -- and speedy -- work, he left. Much to the happiness of the proprietor.

It was only hours -- albeit some in succession -- before Thomas was home. He did his usual post-gryphon-ride ritual of almost vomiting, clenching his cheeks, and checking to make sure he had not, in fact, soiled himself at some point during the journey.

He did not -- this time.

With all of his sanitary interior squared away, he crept into the manorhouse of the estate. Not the easiest feat, seeing as he was sort-of known there. Being the Duke was a bit of a burden in the stealth department, certainly. But -- he was used to avoiding detection. It was not as easy as it used to be. Back in the old days, he could simply wrap his hair up in a bun, tie it with a bandana, and stand with one hip cocked out -- the Stormwind Guard often mistook him for a poor-off lady-of-the-night. Atleast, when the lanterns were dim.

Thomas crept into he and Anna’s shared room. He looked around, eyeing the dark chambers. She was not in for bed -- not yet. With a flick of his gaze, and the gift box under one arm, he checked the time on their clock. Massive, ornate thing that it was -- five to tenth bell. Perfect!

Coming forward toward the bed, he carefully lit a pair of candles on the nightstand. A flick of a match did the job -- a fire he kept far from the gift box under his arm. Then --

With a shimmy, Thomas began the swift process of undressing.

First his boots came off, unlaced awkwardly with one arm and toed aside. He kicked the stout leathers beneath a desk, hidden for now. Similarly he tossed his coat, hurling it through the opening to their off-suite bathing chambers. Hopefully it did not land in the tub. After that, the rest of his clothes were summarily dumped within an open drawer and stuffed shut for later recollection. Now that was not important. Now? It was game-time. If his recollection of his wife’s schedule was correct, she should be coming in for bed any minute.

With himself now fully nude -- at least aside from the auburn carpet which gave him a wool tank-top and shorts -- he climbed aboard their four-poster. He fussed a few minutes, arranging and rearranging the bedding to best support his grand posture. One leg cocked up, knee raised up, other leg splayed outward, holding himself up in a pose to show off his chest. One hand was balled to a fist, aligned at his jaw -- jaw pressed out in handsome fashion, of course -- while the other clutched …

An anchor.

Well, a pillow, really. It had been within the nearly arranged gift-box. A masterful work of tailoring. The ‘pillow’ was gargantuan, more of a faux-body than anything. It was large enough to be quite the cuddle-buddy within a cloak of blankets, were need to arise. Slightly fuzzy, effortlessly soft, and wreathed in the most noble of Navy-blue dye. At the very bottom corner, on the rightmost arch of the anchor, was enscribed a tiny, golden ‘f a h’.

He held it over his groin.

And now … now all he had to do was wait.