![](http://cobalt-company.wdfiles.com/local--resized-images/writing:2022-03-23-swamp-ghost-stories:theory-and-practice/style="margin:/medium.jpg) |
| Details |
| Author: | inkie |
| Summary: | Ben and Colson meet after the latest White Squad expedition to discuss more of the mystery surrounding Rae and her condition. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Ben makes his way, head down against the rain, into the softly-lit inn on the opposite side of the mushroom plaza. He shoulders unceremoniously through a pair of gauzy azure curtains to a vacant side chamber, where low, cushioned chairs surround a circular table and a melancholy woodwind music plays sourcelessly. Draped threads of violet phosphorescence shed a strange light.
He tugs off his gauntlets and drops them on the table, then sets about unbuckling his pauldrons. A draenei inn-maid draws the curtain aside and smiles an inquiry at him. Ben nods curtly at her. “A towel, please, miss, if you got one. And somethin’ hot to drink?”
She nods and vanishes. Ben drops his pauldrons on the table beside his gauntlets, and then scrubs both hands irritably through his sodden hair, creating his own minor rainstorm.
It takes a little while for the paladin in the golden armor to make his way to the inn; but not so long that his hair has dried much from the rain. He looks very bedraggled, but there’s no disguising the pretty face, or the slight glow of the light off cheekbones sharp enough to cut a hand. He scans the room, spotting Ben, his eyes going soft and his expression a mix of chagrin and concern. As Colson approaches, he gently, purposefully, clanks his armor. “Ben? May I sit?” he asks, waiting to be invited to sit down at the table before he does.
Ben glances back over his shoulder. He takes Colson in, nods once, and shifts to the side. As an afterthought, he bends to slide his discarded gauntlets and pauldrons aside on the table, possibly in case the other man wishes to shed any of his own armor onto the furniture.
The draenei maid reappears. She has a soft, thickly-woven towel draped over one arm — they are familiar with the marsh rains, here in Telredor — and is carrying a tea tray. She steps gracefully past Ben and stoops to set the tray on the table, flanked by Ben’s armor, then straightens to offer him the towel.
“Thank you,” he tells her. He’s already begun toweling vigorously at the back of his neck and then his hair. He nods toward Colson, still looking at the woman rather than the paladin. “One for him, too, if you please, miss?”
She smiles, nods, slips out again.
“Thank you,” Colson says to the maid, and then again to Ben for the thought of the towel. Colson sits gracefully to Ben’s right, and stretches out his legs under the table. After a moment, he removes first his gloves, then the heavy pauldrons, and then, because he’s already there, takes off the breastplate and tabard, folding and stacking things neatly and rather mechanically. He stops at the — thanks to the water, very dark — golden undershirt he wears, not removing it in the middle of the inn. It’s sticking to him in ways that leave very little to the imagination, and although the material is very fine, and very dark, there’s a little odd ridging around his left shoulder where the scar tissue makes the shirt not sit quite right. Colson looks at Ben, once he’s removed most of the metal above his waist, and says in a low, calm tone, “Miss Westwind. You know something?”
“Oh, you fucken think?” snaps Ben, and then looks immediately — if grudgingly — penitent. He drops his towel to pull off his own tabard, then unbuckles his breastplate and the sodden padded gambeson beneath. The breastplate is laid beside his other armor, the jacket and tabard folded and stacked atop with the mechanism of long, orderly habit. He plucks at his own soaked shirt, and shifts so that his back is turned inward toward the room they’re both in rather than out toward the inn at large. The homespun linen is a coarser and heavier fabric than some, but the irregular ridges and shadows of what lies beneath on his back are still evident.
He stoops to pick up his towel again, takes a deep breath, and resumes toweling himself. “Yeah,” he says, more calmly this time. “Yeah, I know some things. About the fellow who come to Bruuk’s, and the Mondragons, and I will even lay a fair fucken weight of gold I know personally the priestess that done that thing to her.”
The draenei returns with a second towel, which she proffers to Colson, and Ben nods respectfully to her, falling silent as he waits for her to depart.
When she’s gone, he settles onto a seat across from Colson — his back to the wall, now, and still not toward the outer rooms of the inn — and folds his own damp towel across his knees. He scrubs at his face with both hands.
Colson flinches — hard enough that even someone oblivious to his usual physical cues would catch this one — at Ben’s harsh tone, but it’s rapidly covered by one of his purposefully Extremely Neutral Expressions. He listens, and takes the towel when it’s offered. He says, in a very gentle voice, after he’s held onto the towel for a moment (not using it yet, just holding it in his hands), “I see.”
There is a pause, as the paladin moves his hands idly across the material of the towel. His voice goes contrite, even as his face looks almost rigidly devoid of emotion. “Forgive me, for earlier. I was not … it was not out of lack of respect for your knowledge or abilities, Ben. I trust your judgment, and I am well aware that you are far more adept at subtlety than I am, and likely ever will be. I … had to cut you off, had to cut myself off.” He looks at his hands, some flickers of expression breaking through the Neutral. “Every word we spoke about that priestess” — for the first and only time, Colson says the word as though it’s something foul in his mouth — “was choking her, Ben. As though even by saying the words out loud, and Miss Westwind even considering the answer, was enough to tighten the grip of that thing around her neck. I could feel it crushing her windpipe.” He says this with deceptive casualness, but when he looks up, there’s no mistaking that fragile look in his eyes; Ben has seen it before. “I am not sure I could heal it, Ben, not with that collar around her neck. We might have caused her to choke to death in front of us, and I would have been able to do nothing but stand by, watching her suffer.”
Ben is grimly silent for a moment. Then he scrubs at his face with his hands again and settles back against the wall, stretching one leg out before him. His towel-dried hair is beginning to do Moppet Curls again, which make a particularly weird contrast with his current expression, one we shall term ‘Unshaven Glowering.’ He doesn’t seem conscious of his hair’s betrayal this time. “Well, you don’t got to say priestess if you don’t want. Her name’s Fey. Miz Almeiria Fey. She is one of my less favorite things I run across in Scholomance, and she was supposedly on my side in there.”
He gives Colson a wearily dour look. “That is one of two priestesses that Alysson mentioned at Bruuk’s. The other bein’ his sister Randy. I reckon it could’ve been either of ‘em, but my gold’s on Miz Fey, like I said. Based on … some things. And yeah, the whole lot of ‘em has got a weird fucken interest in Rae for people with the same name as her dead commander but who ain’t seem caught up on that particular dead commander story. Wait till you hear my theory on that shit.”
He drags a hand down his face again and then sits up and forward to reach for the tea tray. Without asking, he pours a cup for Colson and slides it over before pouring one for himself.
“And I could see you gettin’ spun up about all of it at Bruuk’s, and I done my best to let on to you that I am on that shit. Captain Jo, for instance, has already heard backward and forward from me about the Mondragons and their bullshit. I had Ivrianna out to get eyes on Miz Fey for a time, until SI:7 dragged her off into whatever their latest game was. I have pulled enough lies out of Alysson with beers and friendly questions that I have started to put together a real weird picture that might be some truth. You were gonna think to ask me on it, maybe? When I told you before, first time we talked about this, that I have had eyes on Rae for a while now since she joined up, I meant it. And it ain’t like you got a whole goddamned wedding and all goin’ on, other shit to see to. Cole, you ain’t responsible for personally handlin’ and huntin’ down every fucken thing, yeah? I realize you are a paladin, you are the paladinnest fucken paladin I know, but you do not got to step in front of a fellow to save every single person single-handed. Cobalt is got more than one officer, and I ain’t a fucken idiot.” He glances up at Colson from beneath his brows. He looks tired, not angry.
“I would be obliged if you want to work with a fellow on some shit, but do not go harin’ off all noble to save the world or tellin’ me to hush up like it is the Colson Aspenwood Pony Show up here. I ain’t spent months gettin’ Rae’s trust or gettin’ her by me on my squad because I want to look at her ass or somethin’.” He hesitates, and then looks genuinely and un-grudgingly chagrined. He clears his throat. “Beg pardon. Also I get tetchy when my socks is wet.”
Colson’s face is very Neutral, but there’s little signs here and there in his face that radiate a deep hurt, as he reaches into his bag at his waist and takes out the Baffled Sheep Notebook. He makes sure his hands are dry before he flips through it, and toward the back, there is a loose page. Anyone glancing at Colson’s notebook can easily see that he writes in some sort of personal, informal shorthand. This page has been fully written out. It reads:
Refugee Paperwork:
Almeiria Fey:
Occupation: Maid (location unknown)
Family: N/A. Presumed Deceased.
Place of Birth: Brill.
Planned Residence: Stormwind (confirmed arrived, current location unknown)
Alynnra Mondragon:
Occupation: Paladin (Holy Libram)
Family: Kaela Mondragon (Sister; Deceased.)
Ezekiel Mondragon (Father; Deceased.)
Kairese Mondragon (Mother; Deceased.)
Place of Birth: Brill.
Planned Residence: Stormwind (confirmed arrived, current location unknown)
Underlined twice is the word Ben.
Colson sets it down on the table between them, not looking at Ben as he does, but there’s a stiffness in his shoulders that makes his already perfect posture look almost painful. “I am well aware, Ben. I assumed you knew something about them, and your obvious acquaintance with the man calling himself Alysson suggested that you must have done some sort of investigation or subtle interrogation of him. There are some things I cannot do, and there are things that I can. Speaking to, and requesting paperwork that costs money to have a clerk investigate is one of those things I can do, quietly, without drawing attention to myself. I planned to ask for your help as soon as the wedding was over, to share what I had, and ask what it was you knew. I had no reason to assume there would be some … urgency. I am not one to do things quickly, and I …” He looks straight ahead, his mouth a thin line. “I am not trying to be anyone’s savior or hero, Ben, nor do I have any wish to step in front of you when I would much rather you lead. It is only that when I see harm, I cannot just stand back and …” He breaks the words off, and his face shutters even more, his voice is going hollow and polite. It’s getting harder to read him. “If you would please speak to me about what it is you know, and what your theory is on the Mondragons, I shall share what little I was able to collect beyond this, and who may be able to help us from here, if you agree.”
Ben hesitates, then sets down the teacup he’s just picked up and leans forward. He wipes his hand on the towel still draped over his knee before touching the notebook to draw it closer and read. He is quiet for a time, focused, a line between his brows, and then he taps one of the names thoughtfully with a finger and sits back again.
What he says, though, at least to start, is: “Cole. You know me, an’ I know you. I did not say a single false word on you last night in that speech. You are as good a fellow as I know. So I am sorry if I misread you in all of it. But what’s it mean when you explain to me it’s only because you can’t stand by when you see harm? You worried I can?” He studies Colson, brows knit; the question is an grave and earnest one. “I realize I ain’t a paladin, but I ain’t stood by a harm bein’ done since I was sixteen years old, an’ I can tell you when to the day an’ the hour. But maybe I am just bein’ tetchy on account of wet and mud and hangover. I am pretty used to hearin’ I should hush up or let a smarter man handle a thing, and that does maybe strike a spark even when it shouldn’t no more. I will beg your pardon if it is the case, though. You know I ain’t too big for that, neither.”
Colson sets his hand on the table between them, in a reflexive reach toward Ben; it halts midway, so as not to actually touch the other man, but he lets it linger there between them as he turns his head so he can look into Ben’s umber eyes, Colson’s face softening in the harsh lines, and the sincerity easy to read in his steady gaze.
“Ben, you know how I feel about you, your nature, and what it is to be a paladin,” he says in a soft, low voice. “When I spoke to Miss Westwind before we left Azeroth, I assured her that neither you nor I would let her come to harm; when we arrived, and I knew she had not been fully honest with you about her condition, I urged her to speak to you, for I could never shoulder that burden alone without you; when I considered how we may eventually confront the one who did this to her, I have believed with utter conviction that you were the one leading the charge for that mission — with my support, but not by my lead, Ben. I have always assumed we were working together on this, that you considered me part of …” He breaks off at the word, and shakes his head slightly, his shoulders sinking fractionally, as he drops his eyes to the table. “I only wished to be of use, to do what I might, and to present you with more options to make whatever strategic choice might be available to us.”
The towel has become more of a hand prop than anything, and Colson mechanically folds it in idleness. He hasn’t used it yet, and his hair is still fully soaked with the rain. “I never meant you to see me as one of … of someone telling you to stop talking, or giving you orders when it is not my place to do so. I thought …” He exhales deeply, and closes his eyes for a moment. “You are the only one besides Cressidha who has ever seen me even when I know I am trying hard not to be seen.” He gestures with an elegant hand to his face, which still looks rather stoic, except for those small giveaways: that little downturn of his mouth, the tightness around his eyes, the set of his jaw.
“I did not wish to alarm Miss Westwind, and I believed you would see how frightened I was, no matter how much I tried to mask it. And I thought …” Colson’s eyes flick to Ben’s hands. “I assumed that you would trust my judgment, on that … thing, that I would be seen as a resource, in the field. I can feel the Void, and Shadow, even with my eyes closed, if I know to look for it. I can detect magic, and dispel it if necessary. I am very familiar with enchantments, and jewelry in particular,” Colson says, running his thumb along his forefinger, as a tiny shift to his right shoulder suggests a shrug. “A resource,” he repeats.
“But I do not know what that thing is,” Colson says the words slowly, and even through that mask of neutrality there is no mistaking that emotion in his eyes, no way around that look of vulnerability in the paladin. “All I knew was that it was killing her; I could feel it. I did not know what else to do, beyond trying to make it stop until I could confer with you about what we must do now,” he says, as he unfolds the towel again, and stares at it for another moment, before moving to dry his hair with it.
“So,” Colson says as he squeezes the towel around his blond hair. “What do you think we need to do now?” His voice is low, and sincere. “Who are these people?”
There is a second, measured silence. Ben picks up his teacup again and settles back against the wall once more. He shifts his shoulders, trying to arrange his back more comfortably, and takes a sip of tea. The earthenware draenei teacups are not exactly dainty, thanks to that people’s own size, and for once the elegant vessel doesn’t look entirely flimsy in that callused, blacksmith’s hand. He isn’t wearing his own wedding ring today, thanks to the uncomfortable necessity of plate gauntlets, but the chain hangs once more around his neck, and the ring tucked against his chest beneath his shirt is visible through the soaked linen. Just as he felt Rae’s collar emitting shadow, Colson can probably feel — probably has felt — how the ring is actively suffused with Light.
“Okay,” says Ben finally. “I am gonna tell you my theory. You are gonna be the first person I am tellin’ in full, and if you think I’m fucken crazy I will defer and we will leave it lie. But before I get there — few weeks ago at Honor Hold, when we was assemblin’ to go into the Blood Furnace, you recollect a fellow in the inn common room there, talkin’ with Rae and the Captain? Wylderson, he said his name was? Dusty Wylderson?” Ben raises his eyebrows and has another sip of tea, then cradles the cup in both hands to savor its warmth against the clammy marsh chill.
Colson nods, a faint frown forming on his brow. "Yes," he says, clearly thinking back on it. A tiny lightbulb goes off somewhere as he connects two last names, mentioned in two separate places. And yes, of course, one cannot assume a surname is exclusive to a single unified family, but this is far too close a connection for coincidence. "Oh. Wylderson. Yes. Hm." He nods again, this time in a way that suggests, okay, yeah, bro, keep going, I'm following this I think.
Ben nods again. “Yeah, so, him. I was not too pleased to see him in there talkin’ with Rae, but I got there after the Captain an’ all, and it seemed to be windin’ down, so what was I gonna say? I dunno whether he even knows what the rest of ‘em is up to or heard tell of Rae before that day, but it’s a hell of a coincidence if he just wandered into her on another fucken world, and when I say ‘coincidence’ I mean ‘bullshit.’”
He grimaces. “He is how I met Almeiria Fey. How we met her, I guess, me an’ the Captain. Miss Nell was havin’ a hard time with Scholomance, we needed a healer an’ the Captain didn’t think Mizzy was ready for it” — Ben’s tone makes clear what he thinks of that decision — “and then this Wylderson fellow just turn up at Bruuk’s one night and tells Sil he knows a gal. So that’s how we ended up goin’ into Scholomance with her at our backs.” He broods a moment.
“She is not right. Sweet as anything but in a wrong way, like a jar of jam that didn’t get put up right. She says sweet things but at the wrong time, like talkin’ about how pretty the carpets was in that place, and she is always watchin’ you. Like to see if she gets a rise. She’s like … a shadow-Mizzy.” He turns the teacup meditatively in his hands and glances up at Colson. “The collar also makes me pretty sure it’s her. On account of she calls Wylderson her master. I have known people who … go in for that kind of thing, but I don’t get a feelin’ she means it in a regular kind of way. Like, if it is a game, she is playin’ pretty deep. Wylderson told the Captain it’s mostly a thing in her head, like it ain’t his game, and to be honest I do not want to know what all else she has got in her head. I reckon it is a nasty place.”
He drags a hand through his damp hair, tousling out some of the curls. “Now Wylderson, yeah, that’s also the last name of Alysson’s sister, Randy. Miranda Wylderson. Alysson says he is their dad, and also their uncle. Randy took his last name when they found him again. Now, Mr Ference is my dad and also my uncle, but I ain’t sure this is quite the same thing.”
Colson's eyes narrow fractionally at that, but he says nothing, merely nodding for Ben to continue.
Ben has a sip of tea and drops his head back against the wall. “The first time Alysson turned up at Bruuk’s, it was when Rae run off to Kalimdor. We didn’t even know it, then. But Alysson turned up to tell us oh, he run into her over there, she had gone into one of them quilboar dens on her own and took sick, and he got her out of there and brung her home, where his sister — that’s Randy — was lookin’ after her. Only then Rae run off from them, and Randy was pissed — that’s what he said, she was pissed, not worried — so he come to Ironforge to see if she’d come back to us. You know, just checkin’ in and all.” The set of Ben’s jaw says he does not believe Alysson was, you know, just checking in and all.
Colson's jaw says someone else is pissed, and he nods sharply at Ben's analysis. "I see."
The storm on his face has been growing throughout Ben's tale, and Colson makes a harsh tsch sound as he taps the table, hard enough to make a faint noise. "You know," he says in a deceptively calm voice. "The clerk could find nothing on him no matter where she looked; as far as the legal documentation of the Eastern Kingdoms is concerned, 'Alysson Mondragon' does not exist."
"Now, I will admit," he adds, "Sometimes that happens because original papers have been lost, or were destroyed in the wars, or remain but in places like the City Hall of Andorhal, but this …" He nods at the paper with the information on it. "That was the one family the clerk could find close to the entire family's registry for, up until the Third War, particularly in regards to what Alynnra listed as all of her family on her refugee paperwork, all of which was cross referenced successfully. Nothing about another brother or cousin or …" He trails off shrugging his right shoulder. "With his age, he would have been. Except, and I cannot possibly fathom how, every instinct I have makes me suspect this 'Alynnra' is, somehow, his mother. 'Alys’ 'son,'" he enunciates it slowly. Colson looks at Ben with a vague gesture of wtf, bro? and then rubs his eyes hard. "Do you believe he was genuinely trying to warn us of Miss Westwind's condition with the lie, or is he merely an incompetent spy of his sister's?"
“Oh,” says Ben drily, “he is definitely an incompetent spy. Sil and I was nice to him enough that he just told us flat out. I mean, we known it even before he told us — he would just out and say shit like, ‘Wait, is that what Randy told me to say?’ — but then later on he just out and told us that he was meant to keep eyes on us. That Miz Fey had told him to. The last time I saw him at Bruuk’s, in fact — before this last time — Miz Fey herself shown up to drag him out by his ear for talkin’ too much. I done my best ‘well gosh miss’ at her an’ she pretty much straight up threatened me. That was when I went to Ivri.”
He finishes his tea and sits up to pour himself some more. “Now, the family names thing, yeah. This is where it gets weird, an’ where you get to tell me if I’m crazy.” He subsides, warming his hands on the cup again. “Aly’s son, yeah. Is what it means. And the only Aly we heard of? Yeah. So.” He sips tea, takes a breath, and shifts his back against the wall again. He is clearly preparing An Story.
“So. Alysson mention to us that when he and his sister got here, they had to find their dad. Only they never met him before. Alysson wanted to do up a poster, drawin’ a picture of a fellow he never seen before who goes by ‘Pops’ — that’s about as bright as he is, to give you an idea.
“The whole thing was so much fucken nonsense, an’ then I started pressin’ on him about where he’s from. He is from a place called — mind you, this is where he couldn’t remember what Randy told him to say, an’ he had to think on it a bit to scrape somethin’ up — a place called Stormgust. In Brown Dragonville. Which Sil an’ me cannot visit because it is a floatin’ island, he decided, and once you have fallen off it you can’t get back. So they come here looking for their dad, who is, wait, no, actually their uncle. Also, their Ma is pregnant and Aly’s son is real worried that she is gonna die in childbed, but his dad won’t listen to him. That’s pretty rough, I tell him, but how come you’re worried? Is she sickly? I mean I do figure maybe the ma of a fellow Aly’s age is pretty old for a new baby. But no, what he says is, ‘Because that is what killed her before.’”
Colson clasps his hands together, cupping them around each other. He inhales deeply, moving his shoulders up and down, but says nothing, waiting for the next.
Ben waits a beat, letting this settle. He drags a hand through his hair again. “Now, when the Captain and me was in Lordaeron, we met up with a Bronze Dragon. Disguised as a gnome, but still. She was real worried about the timeline? In Lordaeron? Gettin’ fucked up? Shit from other timelines bleedin’ in. That was the problem with that first lich we killed. Twice.” He raises his eyebrows significantly at Colson, then has a sip of tea. “I think,” he says, “that we are dealin’ with two sets of the same family. Or … some of ‘em, anyhow. Reckon their Alynnra is dead over where they come from, died years back in birthin’ Alysson, and they come not just through but back somehow. To here. Alysson is dumber’n a sandbag, but I mean he is too dumb to make shit up to cover for himself, you see what I mean?”
Colson leans forward, touching his lips to his hands. His face is a picture of thought and consideration, and he appears to be taking Ben’s words very seriously. There is a faint nod at the question, as he remains silent, absorbing the information.
Ben nods back at Colson. “I wrote to Gerhold about bronze dragons, to try and find out whether it’s even possible, but when he wrote back he just kind of went off on me about how nobody should fuck with a bronze dragon ever for any circumstance. The problem is that I ain’t the one fucken with ‘em here. But I reckon that someone has, and I will be damned how we untangle it all or where Miz Fey comes into it, or what is their interest in Rae.”
Ben shrugs. “So my guess is you can not find records of an Alysson Mondragon because in our time, he don’t exist yet. One does, but he ain’t ours.”
He rests his teacup on his thigh, balancing it with one casual hand, and awaits Colson’s verdict.
Colson takes a moment to think, his mouth still pressed to his knuckles, and it is clear the paladin’s mind is ticking through several settings, making adjustments, calculations, judgments. At the conclusion of this Think, he draws back slightly, and ever so slightly shakes his head at Ben as he says, “I do not think you are crazy, Ben. In fact, I believe you have done what you do best — cut through the noise,” there is a distinct sense in his tone that makes it clear that ‘noise’ is Aspenwood for ‘bullshit,’ “analyzed the field, and landed precisely at the heart of the matter.” He exhales slowly, his face very solemn, even for the ordinarily serious paladin.
“A place where once you have ‘fallen from the edge you cannot get back.’ It would have sounded like a fanciful story, but we have seen such now, have we not? Here, on this broken world, islands that float in the sky, endless chasms of darkness that if you fell into would be impossible to climb back out of. That another place like this might exist, that in some possible future, there is a world like that and someone from our world may have access to it is no longer outside the realm of possibility, and we have proof of it.” Colson turns his head to look at Ben, and there is a simmering righteous wrath in his eyes, that little bit of the holy paladin peeking through the seemingly calm, grave expression on his face.
“If you are correct — and I truly believe you are — then we may be both in far more danger, and far more out of our depth than we have thought,” Colson says. “Mr. Fauntleroy is not wrong in his assessment of willingly interfering in the business of the Bronze Flight, but we cannot alter what they have already done, and we cannot ignore this now that we are aware of it. We may indeed need to apply to them for assistance, to right this wrong if it can be.” He taps his hand on the table, and his jaw clenches hard. When he speaks, his voice has gone lower, and there is a hard edge to it.
“We may not yet know how they have done this, or why, but what I do know, what seems most clear of all, is that we must stop them from taking this person, this Alynnra Mondragon, back through time to that future, if that is even possible or their goal. Not only because the damage to the time-line may yet cause some new catastrophe, but also because I believe that this person is the one who harmed Miss Westwind, and that this Alynnra may be the only one who knows how to cure Miss Westwind.”
Ben considers this. He taps his thumb thoughtfully on the edge of his teacup, frowning into space. “I don’t — it is my guess they don’t mean to take her back with them to a different time, on account of what Alysson said about not bein’ able to go back there no more. But that is a guess, and if there is some kind of master plan that he ain’t privy to, well, I guess I cannot blame anyone for not sharin’ the plan with him. I would not share my middle name with that fellow.” He makes a face and has a sip of tea. His expression is still faraway. “My question is how come they come here in the first place. Alysson said they wanted to find their family — their ‘uncle,’ who I am guessin’ is their dad where they come from, but if this Mr Wylderson is from our timeline maybe he don’t know what they fuck they’re about either, so they shown up and claimed to be his nephews? Niece an’ nephew. Like, if he don’t believe Alysson that Alynnra’s gonna die in childbed, then he must not know that Alysson knows that from … a different world. And if it is Alynnra we’re talkin’ about here, that ‘Aly,’ then I guess that makes her Mr Wylderson’s woman? So he may be a way we can get to her. But there’s that Miz Fucken Fey lurkin’ behind all of it, callin’ Wylderson her master, and I do not know what she’s up to or why but that bitch is poison.”
He drags a hand through his hair. “But also, like, what’s goin’ on where they come from? Do they know somethin’? Are they gonna fuck around with somethin’ here, like Gerhold worries about? And what the fuck has it got to do with Rae? What is their interest in her?” He hesitates. “I will tell you, though … whatever that thing is that Alynnra did to Rae? I will make you another bet that Miz Fey knows what the fuck it is.” Ben arches a grim eyebrow at Colson. “And I will also bet you that collar ain’t just there to shut Rae up. I think maybe Rae was so worked up about … totems that can watch — or listen — from a distance for a reason.”
He shrugs wearily. “That bit could be me bein’ skittish. But I will tell you that Miz Fey makes my fucken skin crawl, and there is not a lot of people I can say that about.”
Colson’s eyes are ice cold, and there is a faint sheen of golden Light around the edges of his hands. “Yes.” He nods to the paperwork. “I suspect she is the most dangerous of them all, and it is entirely possible she is the mastermind behind this all, either using, manipulating, or supporting the others in these deeds, no matter that she calls another ‘master.’ but, I believe that woman, Almeiria Fey, and Alynnra Mondragon, are intimately related somehow. Not familial, but either friendship or something else. And we know for certain that Fey is in Stormwind.” His hands clench in hard fists that he forces back open with effort. “She was there. She did something to Miss Westwind at my wedding, where Miss Westwind should have been at her safest.” It is clear from the way the paladin speaks that he blames himself in some way for that harm. He inhales and leans back more, crossing his arms loosely across his chest, his face flinching slightly at the cold, wet shirt.
“What I know of Alynnara Mondragon is that she has virtually disappeared. There are official records of her at the Cathedral in Stormwind, just once. And then nothing. But,” Colson’s voice is hollow and cold. “She is a paladin.” He takes a hard breath. “And not just any, but one who studied from the Holy Libram before the fall of Lordaeron. I do not recall her,” he says quickly. “There were many paladin elects, but the timing of her instruction would have put her in the city at the same time I was, the same time Sir Gavynn was. It is unlikely, but it is possible he may recall her, as he spent more time among the trainees than I did. But, even if he does not, I know others who might have. With enough time, I might find others who would have known her then, who would know where she would be now, who may even yet remain in contact with her. I am already awaiting a letter from my old training Sergeant who would know exactly what Alynnra looked like, at least then. I simply would need more time,” he says, shaking his head harshly. “And I am not certain we have that now.” Colson looks out of the inn, presumably in the direction he believes Ralaea is.
“What I believe is that where Fey is, Alynnra Mondragon cannot be far from her. Confronting Fey now, before we know where Alynnra is, may cause us to lose that quarry before we have a chance to know which among them knows how to remove that plague from Miss Westwind. My suggestion, given that we cannot possibly direct our full attention to this matter, and we know not exactly how deadly any of these people are, is to see if we might find some way to Fey’s associates without alerting her, and track this Alynnra to wherever she is, separate from Fey and her power. It would require someone who is friendly enough to make inquiries among the merchants and houses of Stormwind without arousing suspicion, someone who could have any reason to be asking around about a paladin or a priestess, and someone who could be the equal to someone as potentially dangerous as Fey should that hand get tipped.” He pauses and taps his hand on his bicep. “Miss Estel Herald would be my choice.”
Ben weighs this. “Wylderson might be a tie too. If she’s carryin’ his kid. But I dunno what he knows about all or any of the rest of it, and what he might give away to Miz Fey or the rest of ‘em if we start askin’ him.” He scratches his jaw. “Estel is tough as hell. If she’s got to be back in Azeroth anyhow, on account of my aunt —” A thought strikes him and he arches a brow at Colson, frowning. “You reckon Miz Fey’s still in Azeroth, or she come through now too? Because the” — he gestures at his own neck — “if it is passin’ anything on to her, can it do that across the Nether, from a whole other world? Or she got to be at least in the same world as it?”
He taps his thumb idly on his teacup again. “But if — I still don’t know I want Estel pokin’ around on her own. We can ask Ivri back in, maybe. Just so Estel’s got someone at her back.”
Colson nods in thought. “As far as I know, Fey must still be in Stormwind. The Alliance is still controlling who does and does not go through, and I cannot imagine how she might have secured legal passage,” he says, but it’s clear he’s considering how one might secure illegal passage. “Hm. The necklace felt automatic, more of a geas than someone actively listening and controlling, but I truly cannot say for sure.” He steeples his hands together and leans forward into them. “I do agree that Miss Herald should not be alone. That is a good thought, particularly now with this new … information. Miss Barlowe might be best if we do need someone to tail Alynnra, or if we must go so far as to … eliminate a player in this terrible situation, but … I do not know that I could ask that of her or Mr. Atley,” he says as he looks at his wedding ring, his eyes soft. “We both know what it feels like to have someone we … love on the other side of that portal, even now with travel possible, not knowing if they are safe.” He inhales sharply and sits back, placing his hands flat on the table. “And, truly, we cannot know how dangerous it might be for someone who is not …” He pauses. “Able to defend against the two things we know for certain they use: shadow and disease. Perhaps …”
There’s a brief pause, as Colson stares at his right hand for a moment, before reaching over and stroking his left thumb against the center of his right palm; there’s no mark, no scar, nothing beyond a smooth, well lotioned hand. “Sometimes the best resource to see to a fallen paladin is another paladin.” There’s the slightest tremble of emotion in the words, before he continues in an even tone, “I confess, I would prefer Sir Ference, but I know that we cannot ask that of him now, not with Lady Ference so close to her confinement. I know of only two in the Company who are in Stormwind at the moment — Dame Kitharian Du Lac, and a draenei woman named Erixa. I would trust Dame Du Lac to see to Miss Herald’s safety in any actual fight, but there is no guile in her whatsoever; I fear Miss Herald would find her a liability. As for the other, I am afraid I do not know her at all. Still, there would be nothing inherently amiss about a priest and a paladin together. I would not be able to evaluate her as a useful resource for Miss Herald,” Colson admits, and looks at Ben, “But that is something you can do far better than I, and your judgment will be enough.” There is no trace of envy in the statement; it is said as a simple fact, deeply believed. “Or do you know of any other who might be of more use, not a paladin necessarily, but someone you feel would be of better assistance?”
Ben frowns, assessing the options. “I know Miss Erixa. I don’t know — I mean, I like the hell out of her, but I don’t know that I’d call anything about her guile. She has always come off pretty, ah, direct. I think if we got Estel for the Holy side of it, and Ivri for the guile side … I mean, Sil’s sneaky too but I would not call him guile neither so much as just … well.” He drags a hand through his hair. “He knows Alysson an’ Mr Wylderson, which could be an advantage, or could not be. Maybe he could cozy up to one or the other. And he wasn’t there the night Miz Fey come in and threatened me — but it’s possible if she’s been keepin’ a real close eye that she knows him, which seems like a pretty clear disadvantage.” The frown deepens.
“I do think I like Estel and someone who can do some … not-church work for her, if you know what I mean. For trackin’ this all out. Once we actually catch up with that Alynnra — I wonder, actually, whether your Sir Gavynn ain’t a help in it? He is a paladin, and the Scarlets … I mean, around the bend as most of ‘em is, he seems pretty solid with us so far, and I reckon that even when a lot of ‘em is hearin’ bats in the wall, some of ‘em have seen a thing or four up there in Lordaeron since it all.”
Colson inclines his head to this, ready to abide by Ben’s decision. “Once we are sure of where she is, and that we may hold the advantage in confronting her, I will be there, if I am able. She has much to answer for, and we will see her answer to the Light’s justice for it.” He runs his thumb along his finger. “As for Sir Gavynn … I am unsure if he will be able, or if we should ask for his assistance at all. Once he returns to Azeroth, unless he leaves the Brotherhood, he will be at their direction. But, their leadership is fractured, and their direction is … unknown. If they discover that Miss Westwind has some form of the Plague, I believe they will kill her, and possibly anyone they believe she has ‘infected.’ I am not certain that Sir Gavynn’s loyalties would prevent him from obeying the order, or reporting her condition to his superiors.”
Ben’s jaw sets. After a moment he nods curtly. “Okay. Then yeah, no. We will leave him out of it.”
Colson looks grim. “He is a good man, truly. But, loyalty can be … a difficult virtue to navigate. I fear he has placed his against his own nature, but we all must walk our own paths, and I have faith that Sir Gavynn will find his, in time,” Colson says. He shifts in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, as he pulls a little at his still wet shirt. “Miss Barlowe, and Miss Herald. We can cover more ground together. I can speak to Miss Barlowe, if you are willing to see to Miss Herald? It would give you an opportunity to see your family,” Colson says gently, a faint smile on his face. “I have some coffee for Lady Ference I was able to purchase in Shattrath that I would love if you might deliver to her and Sir Ference. I would be very glad to hear of her opinion of it. I haven’t the faintest idea what it may taste like.”
Ben smiles crookedly. “It is damned good, is what, though I have not thought myself to bring any back for her, so I will do that with your compliments. I got to go back tonight or tomorrow morning anyhow to — for — other family shit.” His expression fades wearily and he scrubs irritably at his damp hair again. “That is probably also … listen, Cole, I’m sorry, it is probably also how come I am on a trigger today. I ain’t mean to bite your head off.”
Colson moves his hand to the table again, not actually moving to touch Ben, just placing it closer, in a reflexive motion as he reaches for the warrior. “I am sorry to hear of it, Ben. If there is anything I can do — “ He breaks off, and sighs a little. “I am here, if you need me.” He looks down at his hand, the one reaching out and his mouth moves a little. “I … I do not care if others see me a certain way. I learned long ago to ignore what people thought of me, and I know that I am seen in the Light. That is what matters, but. I care, deeply, about what you think of me, Ben. I have never had a friend such as you before. I do not wish to … disappoint you, or hurt you. Forgive me, for the harm I have done.”
Ben snorts, a weary, deprecating sound. “You ain’t done a harm, Cole. We all got to be assholes sometimes and maybe I just mixed up whose day it was.” His faint smile is wry. “I would be obliged, actually, if you could get me the name of a good lawyer your family relies on. For shit in the line of finance, inheritance, landholdin’, that.” He raises his eyebrows. “When you got time, I mean. Now ain’t the time, I don’t reckon.”
Colson's brows raise slightly in response, and he pats one of his bags, a small mageweave pouch he rarely seems to use. "Hmm, actually, I should have the card on me … if you would like it to hold onto, for when you are ready."
“Oh, sure.” Ben nods gratefully and leans forward to set his now-empty teacup on the table. “‘Preciate you. I will hang onto it, maybe send word to ‘em when I’m back in Azeroth this evenin’ or tomorrow. They’re in Stormwind, or where?”
Colson opens up a very small mageweave pouch that he doesn’t often touch; it’s clearly older than his others. He dries his hands again on the towel before he reaches carefully inside, and takes out a small stack of business cards tied together with a blue ribbon. It doesn’t take him long to identify the one he’s looking for. “She’s currently in Southshore,” he says as he takes out the card from the stack, and replaces the others back into the little pouch. “However, she is willing to go anywhere within the Eastern Kingdoms with an appointment. Her assistant is a mage,” Colson explains. “Ann Victoria Hopecroft. She’s the one I went to see about adjusting my contract with Mordecai; I put in certain … new stipulations, shall we say, to ensure his family could not possibly have any hold on mine, financially, in the future.” He says the words calmly, but there is no way Ben has missed the flash of cold anger in the paladin.
“She recommended a book to me, at my request, so I might have some better understanding of what I should ask for, or what might be possible. I found it useful. ‘Farechilde’s Treatise on the History of Land Inheritance,’ by Warren Farechilde. It is in the Stormwind Library. I’m not sure you need it, and it is more than a little dry, but it was informative for me,” Colson confesses as he holds out the card of the lawyer.
Ben takes the card and salutes Colson with it. He contemplates it a moment, nods, and then slips it inside one of his gauntlets on the table. “Obliged. And I will look for that book, too. I’ll be in Stormwind, but then I reckon I’ll stop through Southshore this week before I’m back here anyhow, so I can see the lady then if she’ll have time.”
He sighs, takes the towel from his knee to mop at his neck and hair one more time — less necessary, now — and then folds it neatly on the table by the tea tray. “I should get on now, though. I got to stop back at the Hold and see if Mizzy’s ready or they need me for anything there, an’ then head back to Azeroth. I’ll catch Estel while I’m over there. Lemme know how it goes with Ivri, yeah?”
Colson inclines his head. “I shall. Light be with you, Ben,” Colson says as he passes a Blessing of Might on Ben. He looks tired, but strangely … happy to realize he’ll be headed to Honor Hold. He smiles as he collects his armor, strapping back in with military precision, wet shirt be damned.