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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Dane stops by Oranna's before the departure to Northrend to offer what comfort he can, as the hunter readies herself for a journey she still needs to wait to take. 5k-ish words. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
The Stormbreaker house in Ironforge in the Mystic Ward looks quiet, peaceful, from the exterior. The lights shining in every visible window lends it a sort of cheer, a brightness in the darker subdued light of Ironforge. Except that it's late in the day, and there's movement in most of the windows behind curtains sporadically drawn and open that looks frantic that gives hint to the atmosphere.
On the nicely painted door is a blank spot with a hook, as though something should be there that is missing.
Atley observes the structure from afar. He wears his blue flannel shirt with a sturdy leather vest. His pants match his vest, and his boots match his pants. His hair has been tamed without pomade, and it's clear he's recently washed by the texture and color of the dampness clinging to his other chocolate colored locks.
He lets out a slow exhale before marching up to the Stormbreaker House, raising a fist to the door, before he pauses, noting the vacant hook, and only then he does he knock three solid times.
There's a faint sound from inside — a chair maybe, hitting the ground. The wood and stone do a decent job at muffling the sound, but there it is. Less than five seconds later the door is yanked open with a particular vigor that suggests the person behind the door is almost desperate.
Oranna is wearing mail armor, and her hair looks as though she's run her hand over it way too many times, pieces of it completely free from the braid hanging around her face. There's a wild look of hope as she looks at somewhere around Dane's middle before she inhales sharply, a brief devastation on her face, and she looks up. "Oh." She tries for a smile that doesn't quite work. "Dane. Hullo, lad. I."
That's as far as she gets before a snow leopard shoves her head into the doorway. Hello, Dane. Befound will accept head pats.
Atley slowly leans back upon seeing Oranna in her harried state, but otherwise he holds his ground like a good soldier. He parts his lips to speak something slowly before Befound comes to greet him, and indeed, a Dane hand is lowered to calmly scritch scratch at the creature's head.
"Hullo', terror," he growls affectionately, quietly and discreetly grateful for the brief distraction, before green eyes flick back up towards Oranna. "You look as if you're preparing for a battle, Matron," observes wryly, but with some obvious level of respect, too.
Oranna makes a futile attempt at moving Befound back inside with her hip. The leopard will move when she's ready. Only after head scritches have concluded does she turn with the liquid grace of cats back inside.
Oranna steps aside, moving back inside. The place looks as though at some point someone dumped everything out, and then two someone's put some of it back into order and into a large trunk and a large bag on the table. "I…well. Aye, I jus'…" She gestures to the interior. "C'min, lad."
Atley lets the giant cat go, and his eyes slowly shift from her to the chaotic interior. He sets his jaw a few times before briefly licking his lips.
He ducks his head, whether he needs to nor not, and stomps off his boots before stepping into the dwelling. "You'll be coming north, then. Big news," he growls, eyes somewhat avoidantly looking at the scattered furniture and regalia.
Oranna nods, but it's a too-quick movement, tiny fractional motions that last too long, as her right hand goes to her left arm and squeezes tight.
Befound shuts the door behind Dane by sitting next to it, and it latches with a very faint click. There is now a snow leopard between Dane and the exit. He's trapped here forever now.
"Aye. I…I talked ta' Elo, about comin'. I…I need ta go." Oranna's voice warbles. "I heard ye'll be mannin' th' squad still." An attempt at a smile that falls short.
Atley casually glances between 'terror' and master, comfortably cinching his thumbs in his suspenders. "I will," he growls, his tone neutral. He clears his throat, and rakes a hand through his hair, muffing it up a bit before he turns back to fully face Oranna.
"It's good. That you're coming. 'Stead of lingering about here," he explains, before gnashing his teeth. "I came by to properly express …. well, I don't know exactly," he trails off with another growl, looking past her. "Condolences, obviously. But somming' else. I wager just to be about with you. You've always meant well towards me. Wanted to return that to you."
He glances down at her and purses his lips, brow furrowing. "I'm sorry about'cher lad, Oranna."
Oranna freezes like Dane's shot her, and there's an emptiness in her expression for a long moment. She stares unblinking at nothing, her breathing too rhythmic, too perfect a cadence — a sniper's steady in-and-out.
She turns to Dane like she's surprised he's still there, as though she's lost time, and says something in Dwarvish that sounds fierce, blinking her eyes rapidly as tears form in them. ["He's not dead, he's missing. He's not dead."] She repeats the same thing in Dwarvish, insistently, her hands balling into tight, red knuckled fists as her voice cracks. She might not know she's not speaking in Common.
Atley reaches a hand down to firmly clasp her shoulder and give her the smallest of shakes, as if he's just trying to tether her to the physical world, to the here and now, as if he's seen this before, perhaps on his own features.
"I'm sorry 'bout him being missing," he clarifies with a pointed growl, enunciating carefully, slowly, and calmly. "He's a special person for you. I know that, we all know it."
Oranna looks up at Dane, blinking at the words for a moment like she can't understand them, as he shakes her. There's that strange emptiness in her eyes, as her mouth parts.
The words seem to land a moment later, because her expression collapses and she leans forward into Dane with a sob. She says something, in Common likely given the sounds of the consonants, but it's badly muffled and distorted.
Dane grunts lowly, but it’s long and drawn out like some sort of reassuring growl. He doesn’t flinch away, but his other hand raises to give her some form, grounding pets on the back, right between her shoulder blades. “Ah…”
He gives her shoulder a squeeze and nods. “There’s a lass. It’s a hard time we live in. A dark time. There ‘tis.”
Oranna unballs a fist by her side only to swap targets — as she grabs onto Dane's shirt like he's the last steady thing on a rapidly sinking ship. She barely lifts her head up enough that she's coherent. "I dinna wha' I'm gonna do, Dane. Wha' if he's no' missing?" The word almost isn't the correct sounds; the second half is more a sound in the back of her throat.
Her body shakes like a leaf in a high wind, and it's obvious she's crying, but aside from when she speaks, there's no sound to it. These are the silent tears of someone who learned for a long time how to cry without anyone hearing her.
Atley quietly exhales and allows a moment of (relative) silence to pass between them before he gives her back a few more pats. He’s rigid in his posture, but that’s how he always is. He’s not locking up out of discomfort or awkwardness, but instead remains firm for her.
“I know wot’ you’ll do,” he growls at long last, gently prying her off of him to look her in the face. “Survive. You’ve always survived, Oranna, and you’ll do it again if you must. If not for yourself, myself, and the company, then for that beast,” he says, nodding in Befound’s last direction before he shakes his head. “But that does not mean it’ll be without pain.”
Oranna looks up at Dane, deep shadows under her eyes, and lashes now heavy with tears, but some of the desperation has left her face. Exhaustion takes its place. "I'm jus'…so tired, Dane. I dinna want ta go back ta jus' surviving. I…I had it. I had more. An' now…" She shakes her head back and forth, tight little motions that send flyaway strands around her face, some sticking to the wet streaks on her cheeks.
"E'eryone keeps actin' like it's already too late, like he's already dead, and I canna. Dane." His name comes out as a plea. "He canna be dead. Tha'…tha' canna be all I got!"
Dane peers down at her and patiently sighs out the corner of his mouth, listening to her words, visibly digesting them. "I cannot say whether he's living or dead," he growls out flatly. "Nor can you. Nor can anyone else. The only thing as of now that can be said, is that he'll be absent."
He grunts, lifting his head and looking off. "Whether or not he returns, you'll survive. You'll done it 'fore. But it'll not be the last thing you ever do. You've survived to live, and you'll do that again. In moments like these we cannot properly judge our own strength, so let me judge yours for you, and deem you capable."
Oranna stares at her hand on Dane's shirt, her mouth twisting around as though she's afraid to say the words out loud. "He…he promised he wouldna do this to me, Dane. He promised." The fight seems to drain out of her, as she relaxes the fist, leaving a crumpled wrinkle behind on his shirt. Her voice drops into a whisper, a terrible secret. "I dinna want ta do this again. I dinna want ta be the last Stormbreaker, again."
Dane grunts lowly, but it's really more of a hum. "We ought to forgive mortals for the promises we make… They make," he growls thoughtfully, slowly. "And as for your clan, Oranna, it's in the name, innit'. You need to know here and now … that this is another storm to be broken upon your shoulders, whether it's welcomed or not … it is upon you," he explains gently without any sort of mirth or judgment.
Oranna presses the heels of her palms against her eyes hard enough that it must hurt, but she inhales and nods. "I… I've been trainin' fer this." She swallows and her voice clears as she lowers her hands. "Fer this sort o' thing. Ta go into enemy terrain an' track an' surive as a scout." Her voice hardens. "I'm goin' ta find him, Dane. One way or another. I'm no'…" She swipes hard at her face. "I'm no' just gonna leave it be." She meets his gaze and there is something different in those brown eyes of hers. An emptiness, a sort of deadly calm that has no business in a face like hers, the sort of look one would expect more from someone who spent a year doing nothing but maintaining a sniper's position on a wall. "I'm goin' ta Northrend. An' I'm not leavin' until I've found him."
Atley slowly takes his hand off of her as she seems to transform into a different person before his very eyes — or perhaps, regress into an older person.
He gives her a stern look, his square jaw set as his eyes partially narrow. "You will," he growls, an agreement, maybe a prediction. "But do not forget that you have allies, Oranna. We may not be clan members, but we are your mates. Your teammates. You are not alone in this, no matter how lonely you feel. Know that."
Oranna turns partially away to look at the assembled gear.
Befound makes an emphatic rumble as though to punctuate Dane's words.
"Tha's wha' Jo said. But it's no'…" She tries to take a deep breath and gets stuck halfway through, and there's a brief chatter of her teeth in nerves before it stops. "All of ye have yer own things ta see ta. Jo's th' captain of th' Company. Yer a knight an' a squad leader. Cress is on th' front. Elo and Niris are stayin'." She turns her gaze back to Dane. There's a slight flatness to her tone. "I asked fer ye, lad. An' th' simple truth is tha' ye canna do both. Ye have more importan things ta do tha' see ta me. 'Sides. Elo's set a minder on me anyhow."
Dane grunts. "Wager that'll be 'nuff, then. Aye. When I'm in the field, I'll not be able to look after you, but I'll not always be in the field. None f'us will."
He turns to peer northward, as if looking through her wall, the walls of Ironforge, the mountain itself. "We live in dark times. The only way I've seen folk survive dark times is by pulling together, in wot' large or small ways we can." he growls, turning back to her. "Think of it, Oranna. Think of wot' you'd ask of him, if you were the one missing, and he wasn't. Whether he lives … or not, you owe it to him to look after yourself as he'd have you do."
Oranna almost smiles — there's a softening of the edges of her mouth, something around her eyes, and she looks to the right for a moment. "I remember when I was th' one sayin' the same ta ye lad, no' tha' long ago." It's been over a year, but what's that to a 94-year-old? "I know. I…I'm tryin'. Ta keep care o' his heart while I…" She licks dry lips and sets her left hand on her right arm. "I've rented a room a' th' inn. I canna sleep here an' it's only goin' ta be harder on th' boat."
Dane glances around. "If it was the same for I'd not be able to dwell where both Ivri and I did. I'd have you keep your beast with you, for as long as you're able," he says, growling vaguely towards Befound. "Though I doubt y'need to hear that from me." He grumbles lowly. "The boat … Aye, it ought to be miserable, but not due to the folk. Wager the folk'll be one of the few things that make it tolerable. Our crew, I mean. M'glad to hear you decided to come along. We'll need that sharpshooting in the north, and you'll need it, yourself."
"I still canna sleep around a lot o' other people," Oranna says, a little too calmly as she moves to the table to set a hand on the dark canvas bag that looks over-engineered. "But, I promised Elo tha' I'll do it. I can. I did it afore. Eat. Sleep. Get on th' wall. No matter wha' it costs, I'll get north an' I will…" She breaks off the sentence, and turns to Dane, those dark eyes with that odd sheen of empty calm in them. "I'm on th' Northspear."
“There are plenty of other good folk on the Northspear, as well.” He says. “Aye, you and I’ll be separated … but not in duty. If anything’s been proven these past few years it’s that our bond as a company transcends wherever ‘tis we end up, whether that’s ‘cross continents, great lands. Even worlds.” He’s glaring but his eyes smile faintly. “I’m not afraid of that.”
"I'll be with th' Company, one way or another." Oranna's lips move in an attempt at a smile, but it falls into a flat line. "It's jus' tha…th' longer it…" She squeezes her arm so tightly that it has to be hurting, but there's no flinch of pain in the hunter.
Befound gets up from the door to bump her head against Oranna's leg.
"He…" Oranna's voice cracks and she tries again. "Th' Alliance said he went overboard on th' way back from Northrend. I'm no' sure where. So, he could ha' ended up anywhere on th' coast." Her voice has a false hope to it. It's obvious from her face she doesn't believe what she's saying, but she's trying to believe it. "So if ye see anything."
“See or hear,” Atley grows reassuringly, reaching down to give her shoulder a clasp. “You ought to hope for the best, expect the worst. He’s of the Wildhammers. They’re a most hardy folk, Oranna…”
He idly gnashes his teeth together. “I dunno’ wot’ it means to you, but I’m not a praying sort. It may bring you some comfort to reach out to one of our paladins or somming’…” he shakes his head. “P’raps the Chaplain Mordecai.”
Oranna frowns in thought hard enough that the worry line in the middle of her forehead, already more pronounced, gets a smaller friend of another line above her brows. "Th'…th' one who did yer wedding? Married ta…" Oranna blinks twice like she's trying to sift through thoughts made of sand. "Cress' brother Colson?"
“Aye, that’s the one. He’s a fine priest. A wartime chaplain. Young … but wise for his age. He’s seen more than he looks like he has,” Atley growls. “You can speak to me, f’course, as an ally, friend, but you may find more comfort in gentler words.” He lets out a small sigh. “Though I’m not a religious man, most of the wise men I know are religious themselves. He may’ve bit of wisdom for you, Oranna.”
Oranna nods, and there's a ripple of pain across her features, a stone thrown against the eerie calm. "An' if I need a…if he's…" Oranna doesn't finish the thought, but it's there on her face: Mordecai also does funerals. She sniffles hard, and loud, a thick sounding snort more befitting a creature five times her size as she reaches out a hand to touch Dane's wrinkled shirt. "Yer a comfort, lad. More than I…" She sighs. "I breathe a little easier when yer around. I'm jus' suffocatin' here." She looks around the walls of the house like they're hostile terrain.
Atley raises his head bad looks around at her suffocating dwelling and its scattered items before he sets his jaw and grunts. “Well, come on then. Nearest pub’s far. I dunno’ about you but I’ve a mind for cold ale, and fresh ribs, seasoned and just waiting to be stripped off the bone. A hearty meal and drink’s always welcome in a time like this, innit’.”
"I dinna drink," Oranna says, turning from Dane, and there's something odd in her voice, disconnected and cold. "I've a room in the Stonefire ta get ta tonight an' Firebrew…" She stares unseeing at her bag.
Befound makes a feline chirp, looking at Dane with pleading eyes.
"He remembers me. It's where I was afore." Two quick breaths. "Afore Bargrimm." More breaths. Too fast — she's moving into hyperventilating territory. And then suddenly — it stops. Her breaths go slow and steady metronome perfect. "I'll go as soon as I get th' trunk ready ta go over."
The dark wood and metal trunk, roughly three quarters the size of Oranna herself, sits near the kitchen table, looking heavy and unwieldy.
Dane watches her carefully as she starts hyperventilating, and stares even more intently once the attack stops seemingly as soon as it arrives. His gaze flicks away as Befound chirps at him, and he immediately and instinctively grunts something at the feline.
“Well then,” Dane issues, leaning back to cinch his thumbs in the base of his suspenders again. “When do you wager that’ll be? I’ll haul it for you.”
Befound sets an enormous, claws retracted paw on Dane's boot.
Oranna stares at the trunk like it has the answers. It doesn't. "Jo an' I…" She sighs, and rubs both hands over her face. When she lifts her head, she seems calm. But it's that odd calm, an enforced calm from pushing things away rather than truly feeling it. "Now. I'm ready ta go now. I just want out o' this." What 'this' is seems ambiguous, but she moves to the canvas bag and shoulders it, gesturing to the trunk.
Atley glances down at the paw, and then into the feline's face.
"Now, then," Atley repeats, slowly trying to move his boot out from underneath Befound's paw. If he's allowed passage by the great cat, he'd march over to the trunk and heft it up with a grunt, tucking it in under one of his burly arms. "You were about to say somming' about the captain? Jocoza?" he asks, turning back to Oranna, his profile nearly doubled with the chest in tow.
Befound lets Dane move, padding beside him with an air of a thwarted feline who is nevertheless humoring the large cat who must need things spelled out for him. Unfortunately, Befound doesn't know how to spell.
"She was here ta help with th' packin'. I canna…" Oranna shakes her head, as she moves with deliberate strides to the door, opening it with unnecessary force. "I canna take everything with…" She looks at the empty hook on the front door, and then to the broken wreath on the side table. Small pieces of it have fallen off and there's a dent that would need to be repaired. Oranna puts her free hand over her mouth and although no sound comes out of the hunter, it's like she's covering a scream.
Atley slowly looks between Befound and Oranna before he leans to the side and carefully lowers the chest to the ground. He gives it a single pat as if to make it stay in place.
“Where … is the captain? Did I only just miss her?” he growls inquisitively, turning back to Befound as if willing the cat itself to speak. Speak, damn you, speak.
Befound looks at Dane, huffs, turns a pointed feline gaze on his hands before she sets a single paw again on his boot for a moment, and then stalks to her hunter. If there's something the snow leopard might be able to convey, it's likely lost in translation. She stares up at Oranna.
Oranna squeezes her eyes closed and there's a moment where it seems she's so deep in her head that when she opens them again, she blinks repeatedly at Dane, as though not sure how he got there. She clears her throat. "I need ta go. Jo was here, afore, an'…it's been…time since." Oh, that's awfully vague. "Thank ye, lad. Fer th'…fer bein' here. An' th' helping." She looks at the trunk as though not quite seeing it.
Atley frowns before shaking his head and snapping his teeth, sharp words escaping from his lips. “Oranna. How long’s it been since Jocoza was here? You’re not in your right mind at the moment, lass…” he earns more than he observes, folding his burly arms across his chest. “‘Fore anything else you ought to sit and speak plain. Come,” he walks over to the nearest chair and even uprights it if he must. “Northrend will wait for a time.”
The furniture of the place is in their right spots. Oranna did not attempt to take those, at least.
Oranna's spine stiffens, and she turns in the doorway. "Bargrimm canna wait." The words have a ring of finality to them. "I'm not helpless, Dane. I'm jus'…" She blinks rapidly, swallowing hard to try to keep her voice steady. "I'm jus' not…here all th' way. I need ta be already out there an' I canna keep it all straight, all th' things I need ta see ta afore I leave, an' who's been here when, e'verythings gone gray an' I still need ta think and answer questions an' tell people that I can do this."
She inhales a deep breath, and sets her hand against the doorframe, still one foot out the door. Bargrimm isna here, that's what I know, Dane. He's no' here, and he's s'pposed ta be, and I'm still jus' here." The word is uttered with an almost choking start of a sob that Oranna catches with her hand pulled back to her mouth like she can stop it from spilling out.
Atley faintly tips his head back, and tilts it to the side as he watches her, as she explains. He hums quietly and lowers his gaze, before flicking his eyes to Befound.
“Aye, well, you’re right. He’s there. You’re here. And there’s naught that can be done about that.” He growls. “Storming off alone is not going to help you, and is not going to help by him, no matter how much you think it’s right, no matter how much you feel it’s owed.”
He marches over to her and tries to clasp her in the shoulder again. “The boats will leave soon. The kingdoms are practically emptying with all who’s headed north. This feeling you have, of being trapped here, away from him, will not pass easily or quickly. It is quite a thing to live in such fear, even temporarily, but there’s no other way for now, ‘Ranna.”
"I'm no' alone," Oranna says.
Befound yawns in punctuation. She's never alone, gosh, Dane.
"An' Elo's sendin' a minder with me. Part o' th' agreement ta send me out there." Oranna looks up at Dane with pleading eyes. "Th' waitin's drivin' me mad, Dane. I feel like there's no' enough time an' too much of it all at once an' I just want ta get out of it."
Atley lightly touches a fist to her chin. “Aye…” he growls sympathetically. “Only there is no way out of it. Around it. There’s only through,” he sighs with a growl. “It’s only ever through it. The wait would drive me mad as well, Oranna, make no bloody mistake about it.” He looks down at her and lowers his voice. “You know him. Wot’ would he have you do? How would he have you be, now?”
Oranna looks briefly devastated, before she closes her eyes, and sets both arms around herself. It's clear from the way her face moves that she's having some sort of internal conversation with her. "He'd…he'd want me ta get some sleep. An' somethin' ta eat tha' wasna jus'…" Oranna swallows. Who knows what she's been eating the past few days. Trail mix, maybe. "But, Dane." She opens her eyes and they're filled with tears. "He'd be here. He'd be th' one holdin' my hands, an' helpin' me stop jus' being here in my head long enough fer me ta do it. An' he's not. An' now I have ta jus' do it, without him."
Atley nods a few times and pats her shoulder. "I know. I know." he muses 'softly,' lifting his head to glance around at the inside of her dwelling. "But there is no other way… and you know this. He is not here, though he would be. Ought to be. Should be. He's not. It's left to you, to act how he'd have you act if he were here. Provide those things for yourself, as … difficult as the idea is. I know you, and I know you'd rather press on, no matter the labor, than sit and wallow. If you weren't built that way, you'd have died off years ago."
Oranna looks older, a weight of 94 years in her eyes. "I never believed they survived," she says, like a confession. "My family, when we were separated afore th' Siege. I didna see it all, an' Topa…she said we could hope tha' somehow, some of them were still alive, outside th' gates. Until we saw fer ourselves, they werena dead. It's wha' Elo said. Until we know, Bargrimm is both…" She shakes her head. "But, I dinna think…" Oranna inhales slow and deep, and bites hard on her lip. It might leave a bruise later, but she nods.
"Aye. I'll…" She gestures towards where the Great Forge is. Maybe that's where she thinks the inn is. "I'll get there, Dane. I'll take care. Fer him, an' fer…" She tries for a smile. It almost sticks. "Everyone who would worry about me if I didna. I promise, lad."
Atley briefly looks off to the forge and lets out a small sigh. “I cannot say whether he’s alive or dead, Oranna…” he muses sympathetically, as if reminding himself. “But let me help you to the inn. You’ll not be alone, as you’ve …” he nods to the Befound. “But take me as a companion. Let me help you move wot’ needs moving.”
Oranna nods. "Alright." A smile almost makes it up, her lips moving into place, but it's her eyes that break it — too tired, too sad, too filled with despair. "Let's move."
Atley nods and moves to collect the chest, perhaps giving Befound another head scritch along the way. He’d help carry whatever Oranna needed to and either wait with her at the inn until she sleeps, or he does.
At the inn, things moved, food acquired, and room issued, Oranna asks one final favor of Dane before he leaves — if he'll hold her hand, until she falls asleep.
Atley lifts a brow in faint surprise before he pulls up a chair by her bedside. “Aye. I wager I can do that.” He lays out a heavy arm and a rough hand, palm up.
Her hand is small in his, almost childlike in comparison, but the grip is a grown dwarven woman's, and she holds on tight. It doesn't take long for her to fall asleep; there seems to be something particularly comforting about Dane, where for the first time since a letter arrived, she feels safe enough to rest.
Befound settles down next to Dane, a dangerously rough tongue meant for grooming darting out to lick his elbow before she sets her head down on Oranna's hair, closing her eyes. The snow leopard is not asleep. She's still watching over her hunter.
Atley seems quite comfortable to settle in and tether Oranna to the world. He does briefly raise his brows as the giant predator licks his elbow, and grunts equally briefly in thanks. He himself dozes off at a certain point before he shakes himself awake and looks over Oranna and Befound. He slowly pulls his hand out from under hers, adjusting whatever covers need adjusting, before dousing any lights left on, returning home to pack for Northrend.