#sethrion

Sethrion didn’t even lift his head from where he lay half-naked and sprawled out on the cool marble of their kitchen floor. “At least we all survived. Many did not.”

He closed his eyes. Light, yes. So many–Alliance, Horde, Crusade, they were cut down. Even Wrynn fell, in the end, and Vol’jin succumbed. Now we have the Banshee Queen for a warchief, and Light only knows what she’ll do once we defeat the Legion. That they would defeat the Legion wasn’t even a doubt in his mind. Lok’tar, ogar. Those were their only choices. Every day brings news of more Legion invasions, and I’m sitting here being fuck-useless! He couldn’t stop the frustrated growl that escaped him.

“Rythien?”

He huffed at his dragon-son. “It’s not you, it’s this fucking leg. Can you believe what that fucking quack said?”

Seth rolled over, raising an eyebrow at him quizzically. “That you tore the ligaments and tendons so badly that you’ll need a cane even once it finishes healing? Yes, actually, because I had a fine dragons’-eye view of that incident.”

His ears flicked backwards at the memory of the pain. It hadn’t even been a war injury, not really; he’d been shadowmending from horseback, keeping Bill and Lunathiel alive, when an infernal had crashed down with a shockwave that had knocked him half out of his saddle. He’d hadn’t dared to risk dropping his blessed mace, so he’d instinctively tried to right himself using only his legs, which had been…

Well. It hadn’t been a good idea, not at all. And to add insult to injury, he’d later wound up breaking Great-Uncle Aloysius’ sacred mace across a wrathguard’s skull anyway.

“Don’t rub it in, lizardface.“

To Archpriest Windchaser and the Church of the Light in Quel'thalas

Rythien crumpled up the letter with a grimace. No, that won't do. How am I going to get ordained again if I can't title this letter right? Sighing, he turned to a fresh page.

To Archpriest Sen'thoril Windchaser of the Church of the Holy Light,

I come to you on bended knee to beg your consideration. Three years ago, I was stripped of my title and deemed unworthy of my vestments. Upon reflection, I believe the records will show that this punishment was wholly undeserved. Indeed, given the circumstances surrounding that event, an argument can be made that my defrocking ran counter to the tenets of the Light. I do not ask that my former position be granted to me. I ask for a chance to earn it again.

Light be with you and yours.

Yours under the Light, ~Rythien Dawnhallow, former priest of the Holy Light

He stared at the ink, rubbing his forehead. Windchaser seemed to approve of me at my hearing, and I know he views Aethan as something lower than pond scum, but...

He knows all about you. You are weak, half-mad, twisted. You are not fit for the priesthood.

Rythien growled quietly.

Especially given your...husband. A walking corpse? A former member of the Scourge? You know how that looks. You've lost customers since your marriage was known--you think it will win you any favors here?

"Shut up, you tentacled corpse!"

Sethrion poked his head up from where he lay, raising an eyebrow at him over the back of the couch. "Are you alright, Rythien?"

He felt his face heat. "Oh, sorry. I'm fine, it's just..." He tapped his temple.

The twilight drake nodded understandingly. "It's terrible, isn't it? The voices in your head."

He tilted his head. "You too?"

Seth glanced away, ruffling his hair. "...Sometimes. I hear Father. Neltharion. He is dead, I know he is dead, but...I can hear what he would tell me to do." His throat moved as he swallowed, fixing his gaze on a spot on the carpet where Rythien had spilled a bottle of wine once.

Ryth winced. "Yeah, that does suck." He hesitated, mulling over his next words. "It helps to remember that...you don't belong to them. You're free, and you have people who won't let you be a minion." You hear that, Yoggy? You almost had me, but you won't take the kid.

"...You mean that."

"I do." He sealed the letter with a blob of wax heated and pressed into shape with a thumbprint--a bit of showing-off he knew would prove his connection to the Light. "But right now, you wanna run this down to the mailbox and I'll start dinner before Bill gets home?"

The flower shop just off Murder Row was a quiet little place, bright with paint and sunlight. It smelled faintly of flowers but more strongly of water and damp earth, a scent Sethrion found comforting. In the day he'd been working there, he'd discovered that the heat lamps Ms. Bloodriver used to keep the gardenias alive made for wonderful spots of warmth, perfect for basking. 

  The shop was empty now; his employer and her young daughter were still in Hearthglen, awaiting the moment it would be safe to return. Though Sethrion knew they'd been forced to flee from a nobleman's thugs, he'd seen nothing so far but blessed quiet; as he leaned his elbows on the counter, his eyes slid shut of their own accord. I'll just rest for a moment...

  The bell above the door jingled, and his eyes snapped open to see two sin'dorei men walk in. One was dark and the other was fair, but they both stank of smoke and--Seth sniffed the air--blood. He rearranged his face into a hasty approximation of a human smile, briefly wracking his brain before coming up with the words Rythien had advised him to say in case of customers. "Good morning, gentlemen! Welcome to Tara's Flowers, how can I help you?"

  The fair one looked him up and down, taking in his slender frame and slightly-too-large tunic under a shop apron. "You're not Tara. Where is she?"

  Ah. Something interesting. He kept his voice smooth and level, biting back an amused smirk. "On vacation, I believe. I'm taking care of things in her absence. Now. Can I help you, or will you be leaving?"

  The dark one stepped up to the counter, deliberately looming over Sethrion by at least a foot of height and fifty pounds of weight. "Yeah, you can help by telling us where the lady is. Her and her daughter have an important meeting with Lord Sunscream."

  Seth let himself smirk. "I'm sorry, sirs, but I cannot help you. I'm sure your lord will understand."

  "Listen here, kid." The dark one leaned on the counter, his fair companion looming behind him. "Lord Sunscream's a very important man. People who disappoint him, well...I wouldn't wanna be in their shoes. You understand? Tell us where she is and we won't have to...persuade you."

  "...Hmm." He pretended to think about it, closing his hand over the handle of a razor-sharp pair of florists' shears under the counter. The shop's too small for me to shift form, but I highly doubt sin'dorei have discovered how to be fireproof. "I think...not."

  As the dark one raised a glowing hand and his companion drew a knife, he jerked his head back and opened his mouth, spitting a gout of twilight flame. The thug tried to scream, but by the time he realized that he no longer had a functioning windpipe and no amount of frantic beating could extinguish flame which clung like jelly as it burned, Seth had already leapt over the counter and slashed his throat. 

  The blonde man--who unfortunately hadn't been in the path of the flames--swung at him. His twist spared him the sight of his own guts, but Seth felt a line of fire open down his side. The sound that ripped out of his throat was a dragon's snarl of outraged pain; on sheer instinct, he sucked in a breath and exhaled a torrent of fire, silencing his opponent's dying screams with a lunge that buried teeth in his throat. They were no draconic fangs, but they would do.

  Seth dropped the corpse like a ragdoll, shaking his head as he looked around the shopfront. Twilight flames would burn until all organic matter was consumed or until smothered by sand; there would be no corpses to bring trouble on him or the Bloodrivers. No lunch, either. Pity. Catching sight of himself in the glass countertop, he grimaced at the sight of the blood staining his face, neck and chest. I should wash up. And probably take care of the cut along his ribs; it was starting to sting unpleasantly and he hoped it wasn't poisoned.