07/27/2012 12:20 AMPosted by PrikkaCapable of standing up to tiny, terrifying women?
I loled, Prikka.
7/30 00:02:06.378 Philomene looks over her other shoulder toward Beyarma. "Have you seen any croissants?"
7/30 00:02:11.815 Beyarma fiddles a little with her sleeve cuff as she sets her cup down.
7/30 00:02:28.280 Philomene says: Merric said he was going to leave some tonight, but...
7/30 00:02:40.240 Philomene rummages in a drawer. No, Mena. Pastry doesn't go in drawers.
7/30 00:03:09.014 Beyarma says: Actually, marm, I do think the croissants are more a result of a spell, like.
7/30 00:03:39.874 Beyarma says: I don't quite got any other theories, after seeing 'em all today the way I did. Odd bit, that.
7/30 00:03:55.704 Philomene says: So there were some in here? And I missed it?
7/30 00:04:18.039 Beyarma stalls the storytelling with another teasip. She clears her throat, then speaks.
7/30 00:04:30.667 Prikka glances at Beyarma. "All? Oh yes! Hildan mentioned that. Did you bring any back?"
7/30 00:05:15.090 Beyarma says: While Mister Merriweather was--no, marm, sorry, I didn't think to--while he was closing rifts, at some point all that stray arcane energy founds its way into him. He had to release it somehow, an'...well.
7/30 00:05:38.575 Beyarma says: Croissants. All of a sudden, he was jus' standing on a heap of 'em, as tall as him. Right in the middle of a battle.
7/30 00:05:42.611 Ink says: Pastrygeddon?
7/30 00:05:49.752 Ink says: Abakealypse?
7/30 00:06:09.201 Prikka says: Here, did you check the bread boalblabll
7/30 00:06:21.377 Prikka is buried in an avalanche of buttery patries.
7/30 00:06:53.305 Philomene stops looking in drawers and turns around, waiting to hear Vashal's response to Squink. She totally ignores pastryPrikka save to pluck one off the top.
7/30 00:06:57.976 Beyarma jumps, wincing. And then there were pastries. Pastries by the truckful. Whattheheck.
7/30 00:07:32.388 Prikka sticks one croissant in her mouth and a few in her pockets. The rest are shoved back in, hidden by the quickly-slammed door.
7/30 00:08:00.611 Prikka says: Who wamfs crihammfs?
To Husband, Ser; and to Daughter, Ama'laena; Greetings:
It is finished. Telarin Sardoris and Urdelonel Faron now accompany Lynnah Tanner at the overlook cairn. Il'amare has collected a single rib and from it he shall make a flute. I know this will not make you whole again. But perhaps you shall see that in the destruction we have wrought we have, like the fire which consumed you both, made room for new things to grow. I sang. I sang for you.
There will be people to remember your names for a very long time (even after I have long faded from the memory of humans). Il'amare and I, we have seen to it. They will stand atop the Pillar and play. Perhaps Talvethren's harpsong shall answer them; I like to think it shall.
I have things to write separately to each of you, now:
Ama'laena, I need you to know I'll carry you with me. Even if my hair grows silver in the firelight (that is a conceit of your father's) I shall do this thing. In my secret forest there will always be the sapling of you. I will not promise this -- I have had enough of promises to the dead to last me three lifetimes -- but instead will simply make it happen.
Though you were not particularly wanted by me, though you were not particularly cherished... I shall make this happen. You may have been neither of these things, but you were still important. You still are important. The possibility of you has opened a door in me. Even if I never walk through it, the fact that it exists is a good thing.
This isn't the last time I'll write; especially to you, Ser. I know how I am, and I know how thin the veil between worlds remains sometimes. Perhaps this year I'll celebrate the Day of the Dead. Just to see your faces.
I miss you. Truly, truly I do. There are so many things I wish I could still say; ink does not do justice. There was something you wrote about me once. I found it in your books:
"Ah, my black-winged Starling. There is never enough of you to fill my empty heart."
I know what you meant now. Thank you.
But I shall leave you in memory and in the letters I write. No longer will I search for you in Il'amare's face and permit what we had in the past to poison my future. No longer will I mark time in days since I last touched you, last heard your melodious voice in my ear. My Minstrel, I bid you farewell. Please remember me as
Your Wife, Your Life, Your Little Knife
The Commander knew something before we even left the base. She spoke her order aloud. Life-or-death, not routine. Not some lovely weekend jaunt down the road. It didn't occur to me until we had arrived at Fenris: we have taken a rare step into something very large. There was nowhere I'd rather be, not at the Aerie soothing people with empty talk, not on the golden beaches of Tanaris, and certainly not in Stormwind playing politics. My place is at war, acting as Guardian with shield and with mind.
Then came the attack. One would think it would have sunk in when I helped shove the gate closed, or when I tapped the first spare hands I could find to move and prep the wounded, or perhaps when I clanged away with a hammer on a pile of heated chains while telling myself, "It's a chain, Hildan. It's just a massive piece of jewelry. You know how this works." But no. I had lost myself to the moment of desperation. I moved and spoke, pushed and pulled, stoked and hammered with no thought at all about what would come next. A failing, yes, but one gone the moment we'd all gathered again.
A fortnight. Practically passes in a blink, in our enemy's eyes.
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