#lyrenn

“So, do you come here often? ... no really do you come here often, I’ve been looking for the exit for 45 minutes, I’m lost, help.” 

 in a poorly accented supposed to be sultry tone “You know fireflies blink to flirt.” awkward Tourette’s style blinking at his victim 

 “You make me so thorny.” 

 “Malorne wooed a goddess and joined her in the stars. We can start small though.” 

 Jokes:

“You know some people say blood elves should be botanists instead of druids. But sometimes you have to branch out, ya know?”

 “No, I’ve never met Malfurion.”

 “Most blood elves are interested in the latest fashion- but druids are never dressed out of season. Get it? Season!”

"Whats with all the spikes...?” 

Dalheim glanced up toward the tower as they passed beneath. “Mmh.. Orcs like their spikes.” He turned bright fel eyes on the blond beside him, a hint of amusement in his tone. “It’s tradition.”

Lyrenn’s nose wrinkled but he was quick to turn his attention once they’d left the gate behind. Hard packed red earth stared back at him, ruts and lines from the many wagons and carts as well as foot traffic that came and went through the city daily.  The landscape was sparse and curious but the real reason they’d travelled this far was Brewfest. Some kind of alcoholic festival, with drinks from all over Azeroth. It was more about the experience for the blond- traveling, seeing and meeting other races, visiting the horde capitol. 

...Practicing his Orcish.

                                                                    ***

Lyrenn had spied the Nightborne vendor first, perhaps due to all the purple. She stuck out like a sore thumb among the rowdiness but didn’t seem especially bothered by it. “Oh look, wine.”

The pathfinder laid both hands on his shoulders, steering the druid away and toward another booth. “Beer before wine you’ll be fine, Wine before beer and.. well.. you won’t like it,” he mumbled. 

An orc at the booth they did approach glanced from Dalheim down to Lyrenn and back somewhat incredulously. “Looks like a milk drinker..” 

Lyrenn wasn’t sure whether to be incensed or not, and turned quick eyes on the former ranger. Dalheim didn’t look like he was paying attention, or if he was, he was pretending not to be. He was already conversing with the Highmountain tauren at the booth, who also gave the blond a brief glance before turning to pour their drinks. 

“What’d you say to him?”

“That we were starting light.” Full seriousness. Lyrenn had a feeling that ‘we’ was being generous. 

“Butterhoof milk stout.” The tauren sat out absolutely massive mugs still dwarfed by his huge hands. 

The orc beside them snorted. “Knew it.”

Lyrenn picked up his drink with both hands, turning to look at the leaning green fellow and lifted his nose skyward. “Well you have to start somewhere.”

“True true.. You know,” Now the orc leaned in conspiratorially a great big toothy grin on his face, “If you drink enough, you can see the wolpertinger.”

He could hear Dalheim sigh behind him but if he’d been about to say anything Lyrenn cut him off. “Whats a wolpertinger?”

“Whats a wolpertingr??” The orc did a marvelous job at looking shocked. “Well.. er.. it’s magic.” 

“Drunken magic.” Dalheim sounded ..dubious.

“Real magic.” There was an insistence there and he eyed the pathfinder before looking back at Lyrenn. “It looks a little different to people but it’s.. um..” He gestured with his hands. “Size of a bread box. Horns, wings.”

“Hmm...” Lyrenn glanced over at Dalheim, raising his mug to his lips.

                                                                               ***

“I don’t think thish is working...” 

“Thats because he lied to you and there is no such thing. I tried to tell you..” 

“But what if there is?”  The blond looked wildly passionate about the idea. It was almost amusing, if one didn’t consider they’d have to be hauling him home that way too.  “I could catch it.” 

“All you’re going to catch is a hangover.”

“Hey I’m just tipshy. I’m al--” he paused, reaching for the edge of the table to keep the world from spinning again. “--OH!”  The gasp was enough to have Dalheim halfway out of his chair in concern before he realized there was nothing there. Brows furrowing he eyed the druid.  “I shee it!” Lyrenn was already off his stool, halfway around the table, and pushing off from his anchor to the earth in hot pursuit of his goal. “It’s like a rabbit.. with antlers, shee it Dalheim?” He glanced back at the other elf who was hovering a few feet away before gesturing with his hand. “Of course you can’t, you havent drank enough.”

He tottered like a child across the brewfest grounds, one poor pathfinder lagging behind with a look of bewildered concern. Someone bumped into him and by the time he could relocate Lyrenn the lithe elf was already crawling under a line of wagons after his prize. Dalheim gave chase, dropping to his knees and swiping at the druid’s foot. He missed. “Lyrenn!” he hissed, before standing to find a way around.

The whirring growls and expressive yips that began as soon as he entered his tent brought a smile. The white kit raised up on her back legs and hooked her paws on the edge of the crate that served as her bed. She’d picked up on the routine of Lyrenn’s departures and returns and seemed to celebrate every time her elf showed back up. Crumbling to his bedroll, he scooted until he could lift her from the wooden box filled with blankets and makeshift toys. “Hi to you too sweetpea.” The kit wiggled as best she could, still not quite coordinated enough to preform the acrobatics he was sure she’d get into as she aged. He curled her onto her back and pressed his face into her soft belly. Tiny paws pushed against him, and he could feel her stretching to try and grab a tasty looking elf ear with tiny teeth.  “Hungry?”  Setting her down he reached into his pack and withdrew a tin box, inside the many portions of dried meat from his own rations, set aside for her. He’d been hard pressed to find any milk supplement when she’d been found, and he’d been worried she wouldnt take to the powdered stuff reconstituted in water. Between them there was diet not easily accommodated by war.  “We might be puny but we’ll tough it out hm?” She growled seemingly on cue. Her presence eased the sadness of his tent mate’s death and added levity to otherwise bleak surroundings. But a glance at the empty space his fellow soldier had once filled turned his mind to thoughts of preparation. With Quel’danas on the horizon, perhaps it was time. 

Twisting where he sat, he picked up the journal and pen that had been gifted to him before all this began. Carefully he tore a page from he back and moved it to the front of the book, the first thing someone would see if it were opened. A glance at the fox kit and he began to write.

I, Lyrenn Moonveil, of sound mind, write this as my last request upon the event of my death. I do not name an executor but humbly ask whoever finds this to fulfill these few requests.  As I have no one to receive my belongings they may be distributed as needed, or wanted, if any should want any of it. Aside from this I ask:

My bracers be returned to Tyleril Silversword, as they were a gift. If he is not able to receive them I ask they go to his son, Samiel.  My journal be given to Rythriel Kel’thear.  My fox, Scritches. This is the most important, if nothing else is done please see her somewhere safe. Among my friends, we all march with the army and I do not know who may survive.  I will not make a last request that any care for her forever, as even a fox’s life is a long time for a request. But maybe they can see for her best interests.  Tyleril, as he found her first and has many adopted children.

Dalheim Windchaser, as a dear friend and keeper of promises.

Razail Dusksinger or Ashzouren Summerfall, both lovers of animals with the kindest hearts.

or Caelinda Dewfall, who I know knows foxes and has a soft spot for those in need I have no wishes for my remains.   Shorel’aran

He couldn’t sleep.

Even after the retreat. Even after the push of the main forces away from Darkwood, after hours of dutifully tending the wounded, after being pushed away toward his tent when his own bruises and blackened eye were looked after.  The drizzle of rain not quite cold enough to turn to snow peppered the tent canvas. It droned on into a buzz and he stared wide eyed at the wall, lamp blazing despite the hour. His tent-mate was gone and he dare not ask how. He hadn’t seen him in the infirmary which meant he could be one of the many dead back in Darkwood staring at a black sky. A feast for--

Lyrenn sat up, pushing hands through his hair hard enough to pull strands free. Curled in the blankets in her crate Scritches whined. The druid continued rubbing his palms against his scalp. It had touched him. Whatever that thing was had touched him. It had wrapped warped black tentacles around his wrist and thrown him across the field as the army had scattered. Pushing his sleeve up he could make out the red and purple bruising it had left further up his arm, where Tyleril's arm guards didn't reach. The bruising would fade. He didn’t think the images it shoved in his brain would ever disappear. Horrible, awful, things. Death and pain and torture and it delighted in it. He could feel it’s glee at his horror. At all of their panic. Thousands of gnashing teeth in a sea of black and purple, swirling and growing, suffocating and devouring.  He shook his head violently, stopping only to throw himself at his satchel nearby, digging through it’s contents until he found the vial he was looking for. Dreamless sleep, the label said. So much more potent than the tea that he’d never dared to use it. And what if dreamless didn’t mean without nightmares of void and rot?  Lyrenn debated the consequences a moment before a full body shudder had him twisting the cap free and throwing back his head to down the bottle. He would drown them out or drown, but anything was better than this.

I remember you. Bits and pieces have floated to the surface in the years since by mind was freed. It started, as it always does, with my death. The end of whatever man I had been and the beginning of what I am now.  For the longest time I could not combine the two. It seemed incomprehensible to me. I scoffed at others who spoke of their lives before as anything other than a far away world they could never return to. I think perhaps I envied them, even if I failed to recognize that emotion for what it was. While they became aware of  all they had lost I... felt nothing.  Remembered nothing. 

My past came much slower, in pieces like shattered glass. They stabbed deep, even then.  The way undead had flooded the estate. How our father had ran to the gates, his smithing hammer in his hand. I recalled his last words, as he bid me to the house to protect the girls.   The girls.   I remembered them too. Their screams that ended after I’d fallen.  Flashes of a brutal end and a life I held no emotions for.  It took longer to recall other things. The most overwhelming of these was home. My homeland. The tall forests and wide fields. The crashing of waves on high cliffs overlooking the sea. I wondered what had become of it.  I missed it.  Even if whatever family I had was gone -and I did believe them gone- I felt a longing to return home.  Icecrown had been a tomb and when news of the alliance movement on the Eastern Kingdoms reached even there I abandoned Northrend. The first regiment I was pointed to was one recently embraced by the state. One that apparently tolerated or even welcomed the kingdom’s once dead sons and daughters.  I slid into step with soldiers like me. My only interest lay with protecting whatever this place still was. It felt a stronger calling than tearing apart undead had been at the throat of the world.

And then I saw you.  

I saw you and I knew you. And memories once broken were suddenly made more whole. You were there, in the tall trees. You were there collecting shells by the sea with the girls. You were at the smithy. At the stables. In the estate. I knew you. Your meaning and place was as real as the names of the swords on my side. Kith and Kin.