#zrimgor

((OOC: This is for a campaign my partner is running for his guild. Since Aomaho and Sabanrab are involved, he gave me permission (because I requested it, not because I needed it necessarily) to participate. Figured I’d post here what I wrote up for it.))

Zrimgor had spent his time recently tending to his half-limbless half-elven brother-in-law Mal'valen - thankfully, that wasn't difficult, considering Mal'valen was also undead and therefore incapable of feeling pain. For that matter, he got around quite well for a guy with only one leg thanks to his levitation abilities, though writing had proven difficult since his right arm was the one that was ripped off and confiscated by those damned imps.

So, for the most part, Zrimgor acted as ambassador and scribe between visits with his ward, Zimina, sending messages this way and that as dictated by the de facto leader of Sun's Peak. It was certainly a position the old Death Knight, a former commanding officer on Argus, had never expected to be in, but it was what needed to be done. He even spent some time at Acherus to the northwest, discussing the Legion's return and hiring some of the other Ebon Knights as temporary guards for the coastal village.

Sitting at a desk that was almost comically too small, Zrimgor wrote as Mal'valen dictated:

"Your assistance is appreciated greatly, and we will see that you are compensated generously for services ren-..." The priest's voice trailed off, and his golden eyes grew wide.

Zrimgor paused his writing and turned to peer at his brother-in-law, his expression characteristically blank with only a faint hint of concern in his barely creased brow.

"Aomaho," Mal'valen murmured, biting his lip as he finally looked up at the Death Knight at his desk. "A Legion ship just arrived in Seradane... Aomaho's out there."

Zrimgor lowered the pen and closed his eyes momentarily. "... Sabanrab as well..." he rumbled.

Using his staff to pull himself up, Mal'valen stood and floated toward the door. "We need to help them... take your father and sister to Seradane. Of everyone here, you three are the most capable of getting there quickly and helping them," he stated.

"Mal--"

"That is an order," the half-elf interrupted. "I don't like using those words but I know they're the only ones you'll take seriously enough to do this." He paused and looked down at his remaining arm. "I can't do anything for Aomaho like this other than provide moral support. You and your father know actual military tactics and strategy, and Ambb can teleport the three of you easily. Please... please do this."

A quiet rumbling sigh emanated from the Death Knight's chest, and, reluctantly, he stood and headed toward Mal'valen. "I talk to Zimina first," he stated. "Then we leave... do not let her worry."

With his ward and her partner, along with his sister from the other universe, living at Sun's Peak, there was little Zrimgor had to worry about as of late. While his partner, Sabanrab, worked with the clergy of Stormwind, the Knight spent most of his days helping his friends and family around Sun's Peak. The small, coastal village was quiet and serene, and though the shadow of Acherus loomed nearby, Zrimgor felt at ease - if anything happened to stir the Ebon Knights into a frenzy, he would be able to quell any potential conflict between them and his loved ones.

Inside, the parasite remained blissfully silent, but the old Draenei could feel from it a strange sort of anxiety; something was making him jittery. On rare occasions, it would cause his temper to flare, but only briefly, and, thankfully, he had a tendency to merely seethe quietly when angered. Still, his family knew him well enough to see that something was making him tense, and they did their utmost to cater to his needs, whether that was to provide additional care, or simply to leave him be for a while.

In spite of this though, Zrimgor was content, glad that the campaign on Draenor was over and to have time to relax as best as he was able. Though he had no desire to bother Mosur, Zaanthe and Hadeon and drag them away from whatever they had preoccupied themselves, he hoped that he would eventually see them once more.

(( ref: http://asherrean.tumblr.com/post/142808470418/piano-man  by @mewkeere​ ))

Asherrean arrived home disheveled but whole.   He sat before a chessboard in the loft he rented.  

A solitary pawn plucked from before it’s mistress.   The piece was held in a hand which had blood caked under the nails.  This was a thing, he noted, that had not happened in some years.  The grey haired man reflected on the night as his hands busied themselves with passing pawn back and forth.

A gig at the Broken Heart’s club down in the city.  The trek into the backroom up the stairs.

“We didn’t just hire you for your music Asherrean”

A large man bleeding out on the table.  So much blood…. so much wasted time. 

They had tried.  Oh, how they had tried.  The gauze and towels thrown about the room, once pure, now sanguine; These were testament to their trials. 

Bullet wounds are nasty things.  There is no such thing as a ‘safe’ gun round, despite what the stories say.  ‘Nothing vital has been hit’ was said.  Yet still, three holes had bored through the man. 

He had barked orders at those he did not know.  Large men. Dangerous men.  Those with an all too earthy scent about them.  They balked, but they complied.  The more battered of the two taking charge of the other; the one with a smith’s arms.

In the eventual still of the room, once the others had gone, he has called on his arts.  Magics of a time he’d distanced himself from.  

A subtle art compared to the sounds of the club below.  Blueish white light suffused the room.  The words he had chanted were an ironic soft staccato thing compared to the backdrop of such a lively and raucous swing piece echoing up the stairs. 

Flesh was forced to knit together.  Bone once cracked made to bind together once more. There was no gentle mothers touch in Asherrean’s work; no care to stifle the pain.  With how the vessel he worked on jerked and twitched under his ministrations, it was just as well he was unconscious this evening. 

The others returned as the body’s torso was being wrapped in gauze and bandage.  He could not recall where he procured the linen from.  It was cleaner than anything else in that place.   Asherrean ignored them and their banter… or was it yelling as they set up their retrieved IV to replenish their comrade’s blood.   He hadn’t a mind for it then and could not recall now. 

Asherrean had left as the subject of his night’s work awoke with a broken scream.  The others had been too tied up in their comrade to notice his passing.

A phrase had flashed through his mind as he left the club. 

“We didn’t just hire you for your music Asherrean” 

They had known.  He had not spoken or practiced the art in at least six years.  He had tried to leave that part of himself behind.   But they had known. 

Someone remembered and they knew. 

It gave him pause as he made his escape.  Pause enough to leave a message in the form of a ‘bill’ with the doorman.

Asherrean set the piece down as memory ran its course.   The written bill, it’s meaning and message though cryptic still fresh in his mind. 

“Queen’s pawn to Queen’s pawn four.  ~ Koth”

(From a RP when Zrimgor and Zimina reunite after months apart).

The massive, menacing figure stepped up thestairs, ducking his head to avoid hitting it on the top of the gazebo. Withdeliberate movements to avoid scaring the poor mortals, he reached up tounlatch his helm, then removed it slowly, revealing a familiar face to Zimina,Mal'valen and Rond'theron. "... who died?" Zrimgor joked in his usualdeep, deadpan tone.

Zimina felt the chill from Mal'valen's protectiveShadow first, and had flicked her fingers in anticipation of defendingRond'theron, possibly, but the Ebon's rotted face and chilly voice stunned her.

For about half a second. Then, she darted acrossthe gazebo and threw her arms around the massive man. "Zee!"

She connected with a metallic thud, and bothtumbled out of the gazebo in a tangle of armor, hooves and horns. They landedsquare in the middle of a puddle.

Laughing, Zimina felt the muddy damp seep intoher robes and coat up to her elbows. "You were supposed to brace yourselffirst, brother!"

I hope that this letter finds you safe and sound. I have some news to deliver and I hope that you won't find it troubling, but Veriinya and her younger sister Keialaar have returned to Sun's Peak. Understand, first off, that I've had the letter enchanted so that you can't easily get rid of it out of anger and will therefore, eventually, need to read it in its entirety. Don't think for a second that I haven't made that consideration, because I am well aware of your temper, my dear brother-in-law.

Secondly, I want you to know that I did everything in my power to keep them out, but Kal'theraa had the good sense to stop me. That's not me throwing my little sister under the carriage - she did the right thing and I'm so proud of her for standing up to me when I was in such a state, and if you lay one single, solitary finger on her, I will do to you what I did not to Veriinya.

Now that I have that out of the way, here is a brief run-down of the situation. Zimina had heard something - I'm not sure what - that led her to believe that Veriinya was dead, and sent condolences of such to Keialaar, who in turn insisted that Veriinya meet with Zimina and the two of them speak. I don't know all the details of this, but I know that Zimina is feeling rather sensitive over the entire situation.

We all hope that you're doing well and that you will return soon. I know that Zimina especially would like to be able to see you again.

With love, Mal

Zrimgor had indeed tried to tear the letter to shreds after reading the first few sentences, but found the paper reacted as though it were made of titan steel. Reluctantly, he continued to read, his emotions a jumbled, confused mess as he tried to make sense of everything.

Eventually, he came to a single conclusion.

"I need to see her."

(X)

“Vindicator,”  Ishnia had enough warning to pull out a thick folio on... She peered a little closer.  Was this the duty roster from six months past?   And reports on mining productivity from the last three years.  Ah well, it was the appearance of being busy that mattered.

“I received word that you returned to Karabor three days ago.”  She scribbled something unintelligible on the top sheet of paper (an invoice regarding feed and forage for the talbuk the temple maintained for the Peacekeepers' use) and slapped the folio closed decisively, pleased with the heavy thud of the leather against paper.

“Report.”  She sat back in her chair, taking the opportunity to look her subordinate over.  Had the Exarch treated him well? Fed him enough?  He looked a little tired, was that the travel or something else?   He certainly sounded cheerful enough, but it was hard to tell with Theothar; she was certain the man would whistle on his deathbed.

Where domesticated baby elekks come from.

The remark Veriinya made about Keialaar (I think that was her?) reading funny books with someone so that it sounded to outsiders like they were doing “something else.”

The “Let the Exarch win” rule of drinking games.

Why being physically attractive does not make up for the severe deficiencies in his family’s genetics, i.e. males losing their touch with the Arcane as they age.