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The last days of August had bled into a rainy September so peacefully Lothis had hardly noticed. Passage between the months and seasons came quietly this year, so quietly that he decided Autumn was yet shy; it only revealed itself to him in the privacy between ālateā and āearlyā, when the cool whisper of change lingered on the night wind, or when the sun picked out every leaf that had beaten the others to wear Fallās livery of crimson and gold. The change started slowly here, even if it was more pronounced than it ever was in QuelāThalas.
That imagined restraint was another reason to love Tol Barad, he mused, as if he wasnāt spoiled enough already. Rustberg was blessedly quiet for a port town, a mix of humans, dwarves, and the rare elf, all willing to leave well enough alone. The trees here kept their own counsel when one went walking under their branches. Even the Heart of the Raven, always alive with patrons from distant shores and docked ships alike, seemed to quiet itself during the week in ways heād begun to appreciate, despite its carnival atmosphere and strange flock of Illidari that lingered around the grounds like bile on the back of the tongue.
And, of course, Melisande. The Siren. Her blaze of autumnal red would loiter in view all year round, if heād but allow it, or if he could allow himself to stay where sheād put down such deep roots. He suspected there was a part of her that never wanted him to leave, some portion of her heart that fed on caring for him. Sheād practically made him the sixth among her wards, seeing to his feeding, clothing, and bathing as much as any of the children - though she drew enough lascivious pleasure from sharing a steaming bath at the end of the dayās labours that he could safely dismiss the charity in that particular kindness. In the mornings, she roused him before her own labour with a shower of affection; whenever her duties allowed throughout the day, she gravitated toward his side and filled the hours with tranquil conversation; and by night, she would often take them both on a quiet stroll before coaxing him to warm her bed.
It was idyllic, recovering here.
Too much so, in fact. He could feel himself growing indolent and fat on unrestrained generosity and unearned praise, and his idle hands were doubly worthless while waiting on the other shoe to drop. Peace and order seldom lasted long.
So one morning, while Melisande braided Khidaās hair and traded suitably subtle, ribald jokes with Vynix over the flaxen knots, he sat at the hearth to write letters. Though the last was slightly rushed by mid-morning chores and patrons, each plainly labeled envelope was eventually passed to one of the older children, along with a few silver pieces to assure faithfulness in their deliveries about town. Hopefully, one note or another would bear fruit, keeping him busy for a time....
Ghislaine Ćtoileur,
Iām writing to you with hope to schedule an appointment. Your salon came highly recommended; Renrael (by way of Confessor Sunhawk), the enforcer Caleigh, and my Melisande all sang your praises independently, so consider me firmly convinced of your expertise well in advance. No demonstration required. My concerns are simple enough - perhaps only a simple, professional trim - that Iād hesitated to reach out to you earlier, but I now feel that this is the best way to maintain something precious to me.
Catching you around the Heart has been a foolās errand, so Iāve instructed the boy to leave this for you to find; I suspect youāre quite busy with business, given the change in season. If your ādance cardā isnāt full for this month, whatever time is most convenient for you will certainly work for me.
Iāll look forward to seeing you once again. It has been some time since I first met you; there is much I would like to discuss when we see one another face to face.
Cordially,
Lothis
Botanist Everglow,
First, to begin simply: Iāve wronged you. There is no excuse for the dismissive manner in which Iāve treated you, Nalloderin, not just in light of your cautious care to my injuries, but also given the common connection that we share. My attitude towards you on the stoop was unconscionable, when one considers that. It is my hope that this apology will go some way toward clearing the air, as I feel we have much to offer one another with regard to this unique connection.
If my contrition satisfies you - I have no reason to think that it will, only a desire that it may - then would you permit me to call on you soon? There are certain things that I would discuss, now finally having the proper ears at hand to hear them. The same offer is extended to you, of course, as I know how difficult the adjustment can be for those like us; Iāll say, however, that you have taken to it better than most any Iāve had the fortune to meet.
As an aside, Iāve yet to receive the charge for your services. If the bill hasnāt yet arrived by the time I see you next, I intend to square my account with you directly.
Sincerely,
Lothis
Caleigh,
Iāve been thinking of you in one manner or another since the night of the Maelstrom, and my mind is made up. Youāre exactly what Iāve needed, perfect - as if made-to-order!
I have something I must discuss with you, the sooner the better.
If your duties will allow it, meet me at the ruined chapel toward the southern end of the village, tonight or tomorrow evening. Perhaps you already know the place? Itās pleasantly secluded, and as such is ideal for our purposes.
See to it that you arenāt followed. Though I cannot hope to keep this from Melisande for long, your discretion is appreciated for what I trust will be the first of many such rendezvous between us.
Yours respectfully,
Lothis
((Tagging @gigi-etoileur, @everglow-botanicals, and @caleigh-lightbreeze for the letters; tagging @melisandemeadowshine for the introductory mention. While Vynix, Renrael, and Selowyn were mentioned in passing, Iām not familiar enough with etiquette to risk a full tag!))
A thin piece of twine, pulled tight between her fingersĀ and looped in on itself, made a fineĀ āribbonā to finish off the parcel. Crisp, pleasantly crinkling parchment sounded downright magical to her ears.
She set this larger package- far more fragile than the first, down atop the heavy, old quilt spread across herās and Koriās seaside bed, and assessed the gifts with glimmering, amethyst eyes.Ā
The wee one was adorned with pine cones sheād picked up near the tavern the other night, when she absently followed one of the hounds that milled about the yard from dusk to den. Inside was a delicate, glass vial sheād prepared especially for her recipient: chock full of sweet dreams to be had, and sealed with her own thumbprint set in dark wax. It had been nothing to put together this particular item, an extension of the work few knew was in her ken. But it could- and would, she smirked to herself- prove a great deal more significant to the man whose nightly ventures it could improve.
And then there was the larger package this one simpler still in its plain wrapping, evergreen tucked into the rough string ties. It smelled like winter by the sea, and this suited her senses well. Inside lay the result of many hoursā worth of collecting, sorting, and careful construction by hand with a pot of glue and fragrant smoke curling around her head. Sea glass and riotous colour, coaxed into order within its own chaos.
She had instantly thought to invoke the sunshine imagery of the elven capitol- though sheād opted instead for a low-burning eventide in lieu of bright, midday splendour. It seemed a more appropriate image to offer a man whoād obviously seen his fair share of sun-ups and sun-downs, and been left less than whole over the course of their travels. That sheād thought to frame a simple mirror with her handiwork was merely a practical choice- though if the man chose to take a good, hard look at himself now and again, she knew it couldnāt hurt.Ā
Completing the arrangement was a brown note card, slipped beneath the taut twine and secured. Here, sheād fashioned a holiday greeting of sorts, her untidy scrawl stretching across the card in thick, dark ink. Now it was perfect for leaving outside Melisandeās door.
Dear Lothis,
I thought to offer you two things this Winterās Veil: restful sleep, full of sweetness and light, the kind of which everyone is deserving at some time or another, and a glimpse into your present, here in Tol Barad with the rest of us. Tuck the former beneath your pillow, lie back and enjoy (you can do this, canāt you?). And the latter is best hung somewhere you canāt ignore.Ā
Everything you see in these parcels comes from right here, in this strange, place we call home. As much as itās full of cobwebs and clouds, you can rest assured there is a great deal of beauty to be had if you are willing to look.Ā
Cheers, Lothis. I hope you enjoy a splendid holiday season.
Warmest regards,
Vesper
(( @lothishighwind, @melisandemeadowshine and @heartoftheravenwra for mentions. <3 ))
I canāt recall - what devil or spirit carries fire in their hair and forgiveness at their fingertips? What are you - other than impossible - to be in my arms again as Dawn approaches with His grey lantern?
Myth comes closest, but even that stumbles in the end. Humans tell stories of selkies, beautiful daughters of the sea whose precious skin is held and hidden for love's ransom. They're torn from the water and made wives by guile or force - but sailors never sang of any who flayed themselves raw by choice. None of them walked willingly ashore with open arms and open eyes.
None other than you. Only you're that foolish, to freely pass your life into this beggar's cupped and dirty hands. Charitable to the point of self-destruction, you dutifully mutilate yourself to make a shelter of strong arms and stout ribs, murmured charms and warm lips on mine. You tear away your spotted flesh to swathe my ugly, hateful self, and sew it tight with the heart's bloody strings, to keep the world away from me. And for what? You spat the question at me and forgot it in an instant, but I remember; I know that your love is frittered away and cheapened by my paltry recompense. All my strength pales in comparison to this unyielding spirit and my heart is withered, too narrow, too thoroughly bled dry to shield even myself against misfortune, so what succor could it provide for one like you?
What do you want? I've asked so often that you must suspect, by now, that I don't believe your answers, about wanting my heart spread over your tongue. They come to you guilelessly. The flush in your cheeks when you bare yourself to answer time and time again is too pure to be wholly trusted.
A nail scratches my side slowly when those lovely fingers ball up. You're waking. I'm struck by your eyes as you stir. They harbor their own peculiar light, like beacons of burnished metal and glass; I enjoy a glimpse of the dawn with each flutter of your heavy lids. It won't be long before you rise and turn that lighthouse gaze on me once more, to bring me in from the depths of my musing.
I wonder how long I can rely on those burning signals to reach for me. Silence is preserved awhile longer as my hands knead your back, and your breathing slows once more. "I'm here", I murmur, another half-truth. The way your ears twitch at the sound inspires song just before rumblings of self-loathing drown it out.
I could hate how perfectly you fit when cradled in my arms. I do, sometimes. Your sacrifice is worth far more fleeting touches I gift and the breathlessness you bid me dive for between your thighs. There ought to be a golden moment heavy in your pocket for every gentle crash of your heart as I feel it murmur against my chest.
Love deserves a fairer trade for a fairer soul. But for now, I'm as much a beggar as you named me, or a thief, living hand to mouth and night to night. I'm powerless to resist you, the legend turned on its head: instead of hiding away your sealskin, I've been snared in it like a prize catch. Everything is out of order. Almost everything.
Beggars can't be choosers. I'll not turn you away, though I should.
A thief believes everyone steals. My suspicion is shameful but insistent, pernicious in its evaluation of your 'real' aim.
And in every story I can bring to mind, the selkie always returns to the sea in the end. But so long as our pleasant fiction bucks tradition, I feel compelled....
It's easier than I thought to form the words, the first time in years they haven't been uttered with metal thorns in my palm.
"I love youā, I whisper to the seamaid. And I do.
On the first night I saw you, I had traveled to a distant shore for idle pleasure. You traded drinks for answers, morsels for merriment, and I forgot to remain aloof when you smiled. Still, I divined your true nature at nightās end as you tempted me to meet again in your home harbour. Temptation was meant to be endured no matter how appealing. I promised nothing. I knew, as sure as there was ground beneath my feet, that I would never hear your call again. You meant to take me to deep waters if I answered that call, and I was still wary of drowning.
By the second night I had waded into familiar shallows looking for temptation, casting my net for silken tresses to surpass the dark between the stars. Fishing for eyes that reflected the Twisting Nether above. Resigned to slack, wholly unprepared for when the line drew taught, I found myself beside your wave of bloodied-sunset hair. Your lips split into a grin fit for a shark.
Later, aimlessly splashing in your wake, I saw an isle that had once been known intimately; the memory of bones broken and treasured things lost weighted my limbs, and I sank into the bottle you offered when that freckled coast slipped beneath the horizon. Later, I had a chance encounter with white sails and golden lanterns, a patchwork vessel guided by unbreakable faith--one that knew me by name and approached me without shame. It was all too much to bear in one night. You guided me to a safe depth while I wept over all the things Iād jettisoned in years past.
Waking alone the next day, I judged that there was still no danger. Your playful darting called to mind too many near disasters for me to succumb. I would remain unmoved. I knew I would return to shore soon, unhurried, in my own time. So why not swim for awhile, if the opportunity was there? What could the harm be, after so long?
Excuses made in the privacy of my own head, justifying the slow erosion of my desire to remain alone.
Each encounter came as regularly as the tides. You would appear to me each night and I would fail to escape the current encircling you, finding myself drifting inexorably away from the safety of dry land. Day and night began to blur. Each half-hearted push away was weaker than the last, and I soon found myself treading water even in your absence, scanning the horizon for streaks of crimson, head filled with your echoing call and the taste of salt ever on my lips.
In the end, I sought you out myself, only a full week after our first meeting.
My last night atop the waves was a clear one, both moons limning the sand and the water alike in silver. Thereās a special recollection of your greedy smile and the warm, exploratory fingers against my chest. I question you the final time, reminding you there are many others you could coax away to be your willing meal.
āIāve had my fill of little fish.ā The smile reaches every part of your golden eyes.
I happily drown.
(( @melisandemeadowshine, @gloamingdawn, and @selowyn for vague mentions))
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Honeyed fire teases, sieges my lips.
Cold pride goes crawling down my throat. Warm
Sweetness lingers at my fingertips
And on my tongue, as your kiss once did.
I canāt bear to rise and meet your sight
To say: āIāve changed more than I should like,
And while sea breezes thrill, warm, and bite
As I require, stillā¦ā My shame forbid
All confession, hopes the same as sins.
So itās honeycakes and pepperflakes,
A gaze in passing, once a moon. This
Aching, thorn-worked feeling I have hid
Will, with honest labour, be eclipsed;
Imperfections hidden from the light.
((Tags @melisandemeadowshine and @gloamingdawn for the mentions.))
The folded note had been placed in an envelope more for modestyās sake than any practical purpose. Unmarked by any postal codes or stamps, it had been left just inside the Velvet Brierās door early in the morning, weighted down by an equally unassuming drawstring bag of grey linen that made up for itās appalling drabness with the pleasant, chiming heft of gold inside.
Thaleya,
You admitted a taste for flattery, so itās only fair that youāre allowed to gorge to your heartās content in exchange for the boundless generosity you showered me with. Choice morsels:
The suit was flawless. Iāve seldom been looked on so favorably, never for my choice in dress, and so I credit you for every awed glance laid at my feet that night. āMy markā, as you put it, was thoroughly enchanted - her companion, a friend whose discernment I have the utmost faith in, made much of how well matched we two were - and I pay due tribute to you, again, for the confidence with which I led our dance. In this instance, itās fair to say that the clothes, and the clothier, made the man.
And if you havenāt yet glutted yourself insensate? I took to the field well-armoured and seized as complete a victory as anyone could dream of, as well as a prisoner; Iām in no hurry to ransom them away after such a gloriously satisfying engagement.
There. Be satiated, and forgive me for being so familiar - you seem to prefer it that way.
The field report is certainly the smaller part of your reward. As my mercenary, Magis Thaleya, you share in the spoils, if not the new holdings or titles. Iāve managed to put together your first payment much earlier than anticipated, in fact. With luck, youāll be fully compensated before Winterās Veil, and I can then press you for the tie and the pocket square to complete our exchange. Expect the same amount next month, though hopefully Iāll have time to exchange a few words in passing. Be well until next we meet, and thank you for your patience.
Eternally appreciative,
Lothis
The Masonās response had finally arrived, weeks overdue. There wasnāt any artistry in the cheaply bleached paper that bore the letter, nor elegance to the runny taupe mess of beeswax that sealed it away from prying eyes; all in all, it wasnāt an impressive return on Selowynās investment. The words within, however, had been chosen with painstaking care at odds with their humble trappings.
Confessor Sunhawk,
An apology, first. Forgive me for my lateness. Your patience is, as always, wasted on me. Iāve been remiss by choice, not circumstance - Iāll admit that spending āone more day under false notionsā, or a week, or a month, is easier to bear than intimate conversation with one so highly regarded.
But whatās easy isnāt always whatās necessary. Bishop Morningdove was always very clear on the value of Tenacity, and you carry the same spirit forward even now.
Iāll make time whenever youād like to talk, prying ears or no - service done for the sake of the Crusade is important for its own sake, but I confess to feeling replaceable as any one of the stones I helped lay down. The labour has a value beyond the labourer in that way.
There are one or two other concerns that are more pressing to me, of course, if your time will permit and your patience will endure the telling of them. Your guidance would mean a great deal to me, as much as your example did in Northrend and does still, here. The words to describe them slip like wet ice under my mindās best attempts to freeze them here for you. Our next meeting cannot come soon enough.
I wouldnāt put words into your mouth or thoughts into your head, but I will add something here to ease my own mind: the counsel I seek has nothing at all to do with what we discussed the other night. Thatās all there is to be said.
With respect,
Lothis
A thought in closing: Melisande tells me you intend to instruct her as your pupil. I will overstep my place to say that she values the friendship youāve shown her with precisely the same weight as her awe at the knowledge you bear, neither eclipsing the other. You are already quite dear to her. Itās my firm belief that you will not regret taking her under your wing.
((Tagging @selowyn and @ashenmorn for the letters, @melisandemeadowshine for the brief mentions.))