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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Roper and Syarra meet for Tuesday after a long week of investigations into where in the world Cobalt Company went to, and enjoy their first real private, crisis free moment in the weeks since they acquired their tuskarr sponsored home. It leads to a confession, and a question. 10,700-ish words. Dark Romance RP, read according to own preferences. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
It's fairly quiet in Kaskala today, though maybe all the nearby mounds of seaweed give an indication as to why. Syarra stands by a rough hewn table in flour-powdered black under armor, staring at an oven as if considering how to force it to give up its secrets. The runeblade lying nearby seems unlikely to prove useful in this endeavor.
There's a smell of baking bread in the air… and possibly burning bread?
On the table are several failed experiments, gooey lumps of not-quite dough and one lump that looks something like coal.
Roper arrives back in Kaskala in a way that seems typical — there's a faint, audible equine scream near the edge of the tuskarr settlement coming in from the east. He likely took the way over land and ocean rather than the road.
There's the drop of a shadow from a horse, and he keeps walking in, zeroing in immediately on Syarra by the oven. He's got the full plate on, but it looks clean. He might not have seen combat recently, or he did and has already removed the evidence.
As soon as he's near, he calls out, "Hey."
Syarra turns at his voice and raises one hand in greeting, a brief smile springing up on her pale face. "Any luck?"
Roper holds out a hand and wobbles it back and forth. "If you can call it that. Got at least some of the things. Managed to get a tuskarr to part with a needle temporarily and thread I got out of Wintergarde. Lot of leather wearers there." He looks at the table and a hand reaches up to his helm, but he lowers it without taking it off. "So…that's going well then?" He sounds amused and there's a sense that he's grinning.
"Then it sounds like we'll be able to mend your armor before the next disaster hits it," Syarra says, a lightness in her tone. "I… have been practicing."
"Looks like it. Which one's mine?" He moves in closer. He can't touch her in the armor with those gauntlets on, but that isn't stopping him from getting well within crowding distance.
Syarra gives a brief laugh, and gestures at the unrecognizable disasters on the table. "If you're like me, then any of them will taste as good as any other. Or as bad. I thought I was doing exactly the same thing as before, but… this is harder than I expected."
There's the sign of a small debate for Roper, as he glances around — nothing but the occasional tuskarr to be seen — before he mutters, "Fuck it," and removes his helm. His hair has flattened out beneath it, falling over his forehead, but there's a small smile already on his face.
He leans in closer, enough to touch. "I don't give a fuck if it's perfect. I just care that it's yours. So, which one is mine, the one you're gonna call the first batch? First one out or first success, doesn't matter to me."
Syarra reaches out to brush his hair from his forehead. "The one in the oven?" She nods over at the table. "The dough didn't come out right, so I didn't bake it. I tossed a bit in to check the temperature and, well… I thought it felt right. It was too hot."
Roper's expression ticks up into a grin, and something softens slightly in his eyes for a second or two. "I'm even worse. I could swear that it feels right, but when it's hot enough to fucking shatter pottery, it's probably a smidgen too hot for food." Just a bit, Roper, gosh.
"There's not any gauge," Syarra says, turning to stare at the oven. "So feeling is what I'm relying on. If… if it's close to correct, it should be ready in… another minute or two?"
"Wonder if any of those gnomes at that airstrip know how to make a thermometer that would work on this," Roper murmurs, looking at the oven with a dark raised brow. "They can't be working on fucking guesswork on their engines. That's a goblin thing."
"I don't think any gnomes would trade with me," Syarra says, continuing to stare at the oven like she might force a honey bread out of it. "But possibly."
"Could send someone like Mordecai for it. He seems to like that kind of shit. Playing diplomat, go-between. Chaplain things," Roper says it dismissively, but without any rancor.
"He seems to like my sister quite a lot," Syarra says, reaching forward to touch the door of the oven. "Maybe that would carry over. I didn't get the impression that he disliked us, in any case."
Roper shrugs, a right shoulder movement of an echo of Colson's, as he leans against the oven, his eyes glancing around watching the area around them. "Don't think he dislikes people in general." There's an odd pause, like he's thinking of saying something more and not sure if he should. "I don't…hate him. Anymore."
"But you used to," Syarra says, turning to him. "What changed?"
Roper looks slightly uncomfortable, and he scans around them again, even as he lowers his voice into the murmur that makes it hard for his words to carry, looking at Syarra with a faint curve of a smile. "You. If it wasn't for Mordecai standing in my way to Colson, I'd have wasted my fucking time getting to him, from a memory of a man I'm not anymore. And you'd have been there, and I don't know." He shakes his head a little. "Might have missed my chance. So I'm grateful to him, for getting in my way so I went the way I should."
Syarra smiles back at him, reaching again to brush his hair back, like she might've missed some the first time. "Then I should thank him as well. I have no idea where I would be now, who I would be, otherwise." Then she blinks, and turns to the oven, her smile fading. "Should we open it?"
Roper's smile grows briefly in response, before he looks at the oven like it's an interrupting interloper and not performing an essential job. "Sure." He is not a patient man. It's been at least two minutes. Open it open it open it.
Syarra opens the oven door. There's a smell of… ash? She makes a small sound of dismay.
"Excellent," Roper says, and it doesn't sound like sarcasm. He holds out his right hand for it.
"It didn't even hurt when I touched it, it couldn't have been that hot," Syarra murmurs, reaching into the oven to lift the hot… bread? It's burnt, but it doesn't look like it's entirely destroyed. Maybe. In the interior. She holds it out to Roper. "I used to be good at this."
Roper's grin is wildly disproportionate to the hot burnt bread he's receiving, as he closes his hand over it like she's given him a loaf sized ruby. "I believe you. Trying to season food when I couldn't taste fucking anything was like playing poker blindfolded."
"I think the bread I baked before was random chance," she watches him nervously. "Anyway, it shouldn't be poisoned."
Roper laughs. "What's it gonna do, kill me?" He teases as he uses his left gauntlet to cut off a piece. He doesn't even examine it to find out how bad it's gonna be; he just pops the thing into his mouth. It's a huge bite, and it distorts his face a little as he tries to chew through it, but the giant grin is still there.
Even as he gets whatever taste he possibly can off the honey bread, nothing about his expression changes. He looks happy.
"The next one," Syarra says, waiting for his expression to change. "Lower temperature, it'll be better." She steps closer, lowering her voice. "Can you taste the honey?"
"Nope," Roper says around the piece of bread, because he doesn't lie directly to her. "Tayfs sveet though all the fame." It's probably for the best that he can't choke to death as he runs the risk of it trying to talk around the maximum mouthful.
"You're sweet," she mutters, almost too low to hear. Louder, she adds, "I'll get better at it."
Roper laughs, and coughs by what might be reflex, as some of the crumb tries to go down the wrong pipe. Not that it would matter, but reflex seems to play a part in it. He swallows, at least most of it. You'd think he just won a prize from the way he's beaming. It's fading, but slowly.
He takes another bite, slicing it off with the gauntlets sharpened to points meant to slice into people. It's fine. It's at least a more normal size bite. "You might need a taster who can taste things. The tuskarr just eat fucking fish, but…" He shrugs.
"I could ask, but I'm not sure they know what sweet's meant to taste like," Syarra smiles faintly, watching him eat. "There's Aze, but… another mark against me being her sister?"
Roper raises a brow. "I think she already knows that part enough after my cooking. She's just fucking lucky that I could actually taste that pepper, and realized that if I could taste it, I shouldn't put it into the food. They call it a 'dragon breath chili' and in her case I think it'd have been felfire." He pauses, and his brows draw down into a slight vee. "That's actually something she mentioned. Something odd — that she can be a 'portable oven' the way I'm a portable fridge, but only if you want the food she makes to taste of fel."
"Maybe you should have, see if she could handle it now," Syarra says, eyes going a little distant as she looks down at the almost-honey-bread. "But… what does she do? Set herself on fire? She's alive, that seems painful."
"Reminds me of a warlock. Felfire armor, the way I use the ice," Roper's voice is low, and there's that softening of his sibilants. It's made worse because he's still eating as he talks. It's amazing he's even comprehensible. "I could feel the heat of it even through the frost. Some sort of shadow thing. She disappeared and reappeared in a shadow stepping. Oh, and she turns into a demon. With wings."
Syarra takes a step back. "She… what? Literally?"
"Literally." Roper stabs little bits of honey bread with his finger tips, biting them off one by one. If he's not careful he's going to cut his tongue, but he doesn't seem to care. "Powerful as fuck. Didn't last though. Left her disoriented after. It's how I got hit in the back. She wasn't defending herself, just fell into the snow. Says it's dangerous, that she can lose herself in it, not come back."
"Like us," Syarra says, watching his armored fingers just a little too closely. "If we're not careful. If we don't manage the hunger. But… she didn't want pain?"
"Nope. She killed the demon dog and it was just like," he tosses some of the honey cake into his mouth, chomping down on it deliberately. "Done. Healed."
"So she does crave death," Syarra stares at the remainder of the honey bread, as if it might hold the answers.
"And violence. The fighting itself was fun for her." If the honey bread holds answers, it's running out of time to give them. Roper's going through it like a man who hasn't eaten in years. "She's fucking fast, and strong, and fights smart. The only thing that's going to get her possibly killed against one of us is if we slow her down, or make her fight long enough, she'll flag. And we won't. I made sure she knew. If she goes after Enaliya…that's what Enaliya does. Wears them down."
Syarra goes still for a moment, then nods. "Yes. That's what she does. That's what we do. It's good that she knows, if she's going to be fighting in Northrend."
"Yeah. She might have a shot though, if she goes hard enough, fast enough. But I don't know. I wasn't fighting for real, and neither was she."
"She took to it quickly, even before the demons. She always said it was like dancing, in a way," Syarra says, with an almost imperceptible shiver. Then she turns to Roper again. "Any other news, from the Fjord?"
Roper's attention sharpens at the shiver, his head tilting slightly. "Met her human. Sil." He shoves the last of the honey bread into his mouth and talks around the oversized last bite. "Goff the 'nfo Mourn wanted. Porbal went to Dalaran."
"Portal?" Syarra seems to come fully back to the moment. "Isn't that terribly dangerous?"
Roper shrugs, as he chews. "Creshidha seemed to fink so, but this wash the person," he swallows, and there's a touch of a grin again at it, before it fades back into the sharp look. "She needed for the portal problem they had before. Gwenivene Whittle. Kirin Tor portal prodigy, one of Cobalt's. That's not the problem though. The problem is Dalaran."
"Gwenivene Whittle…" Syarra says. "She seems to come up often lately. But what's the problem with Dalaran?"
"Fucking mages. SI:7 used to hate everything about trying to get an agent in there. You can't fake having the arcane. And finding a mage willing to be, and be fucking good enough to be a spy, is like finding a star on a cloudy night. And they're closed off. Elitist. You're either one of theirs, or you're a fucking outsider," Roper says and it's dismissive rather than angry. "Which is annoying when they're on the ground. And they're not anymore. I went and looked where they said it'd be. It's a fucking floating city."
"Floating," Syarra repeats, but she sounds amazed rather than disbelieving. "What is it with mages and things that float. I might…" This time she pauses and looks around as if someone might be listening. She continues in a lower voice. "I have some connections. Little through my father, but… there's Gethennis, in the Coterie. And…" the next one she draws out reluctantly. "…Elivia's family."
Roper arches a brow, looking around again — Syarra's glance has apparently upped his paranoia even further — and then nods at their home, shoving off the oven in a smooth motion. He picks up his helm, and starts walking back towards it.
Syarra follows, leaving the failed proto-honey-breads behind for now. If kvaldir show up and want to eat the watery dough, they're welcome to it.
Roper opens the door, and walks down the ramp without pausing to see if Syarra's following, tossing his helm onto the armor rack with expertise, already picking off his gauntlets.
Syarra closes the door behind her and follows down into the room. "So we don't have any eyes in Dalaran? And what was Aze's human like?"
"Colson's in Dalaran. So is Mordecai. I wouldn't call them 'eyes' though," Roper answers, moving through his armor slower than Syarra can. He doesn't have as much practice. "And Aze's human was…" There's a strange note in his voice. You'd think desire, except the smile he wears is cruel, and there's a familiar look in his eyes. "Scared. Of me."
Syarra moves over to assist him with the armor and lets out a low breath. "I expect you didn't hurt him, though. I wouldn't have thought someone who's attached to a demon hunter would fear one of us."
"I didn't hurt him. I played nice," Roper says, some of the predatory look leaving his expression as she helps unstrap the armor. "He's what I figured we'd run into eventually. He was there, or close enough, when Kaela Mondragon killed Mourn, the first time. And he fought at Light's Hope. To him, we're the evil monsters to be feared."
Syarra leans in closer as she helps, and says, "He knows what we are then, at the worst. Did he try to run from you?"
"He thought about it. Aze made him stay — I threw her name out there to see what he'd do. He actually cares about her, enough to sit back down with a monster." Roper flicks his brows up. "He'll get her leathers. Dalaran will have quel'dorei, and it won't be as traceable back to her."
"She has a way with people," Syarra says, setting aside a piece of armor. "But if he's tangled with Kaela Mondragon before, he could be useful. Do you think he's in love with my sister?"
"Don't know. The fear covered too fucking much to get a good read on him," Roper says and despite the words, there's a soft sigh in his voice, as if savoring the memory. "He cares, and he sounded like he's used to calling her a friend, but all I could see was him white knuckling it talking to me. Almost had him a few times, almost forgot what I was, but he remembered it. The worry for her, the caring, that seemed genuine."
Syarra touches his arm lightly as she continues to remove the armor. "That's all we can do, I think. Play nice, try to calm them. Time will help."
"He's walking around with memories of seeing us on the other side. So, you counter that. Make him see us on the same side. But that's…harder to do in a bar," Roper says and there's a touch of the drawl in his voice. "But that's not the only way. You move Aze, you move him. Get the string around one and pull them both, get the pieces into play."
"Move them where, exactly?" Syarra asks. "Into combat? Into the whole… Mondragon situation?"
"We could. Aze would jump on it, and it'd direct her into seeing us as on her side, working with us. Him…I don't know. He knew about it, and it might be personal. Could be that if he fights the monster he's really running from, with us on his side, he sees something different."
"If we want her to influence him, I should make sure to lay the foundation soon. Do you think he'll bring her the leathers in person?"
"Should. I warned him about the dangers of sending it by mail." Roper gives a dramatic shudder. "Pink." With the armor off, he reaches out, predictably, moving a hand behind her to try to catch the tail end of her braid.
Syarra leans in to kiss him lightly on the cheek, the motion making it easier for him to reach the braid. "At least yours was fixable. I can nudge Aze that direction, when I see her again. See if it moves them both."
Roper turns a little into the kiss. The braid is not long for this world. "Make it a condition that if she wants to hunt Kaela Mondragon, that it's with at least one of us with her. None of us should be trying to go at her alone, when we can corner her with more." He flips a bag open and reaches in with his left hand to take out the leather repairing tools. "Speaking of fixable leathers though."
The leather working needles are thick, one straight and one curved. They've been threaded already — not correctly, but it seems likely from the way they've been wrapped against the thread that it was deliberate for transport — and look sharp.
Syarra reaches out to take the needles. "For your leathers? I don't think they were so badly damaged that they wouldn't mend. The tears were mostly clean."
Roper shrugs. The braid is gone. The damaged leather jerkin is removed from its bag. "I wouldn't know. I really wasn't the kind of guy who got stabbed much, alive. If it came down to me getting hit, it usually meant I'd fucked up, and I didn't fuck up often. I know the guy to replace them or fix them, but he's in Stormwind, and I'm pretty sure he'll have a heart attack and die if I tell him the last set came to me dyed a shitty pink." It would help if Roper's voice didn't make that sound desirable, but that's probably just the death knight talking.
"Heart attack aside, I think we still can't make that boat trip back," Syarra moves over to take a look at the damaged leather. "I'll see what I can do? This is one thing that shouldn't be affected by dulled senses. Except that I might prick myself with the needle."
Roper's expression grows into faux-innocence. "Oh no, not that." He doesn't keep the expression for long; the wicked grin grows too fast. He moves to the table to sit, taking the leather with him. "The runeforge is going to be our biggest problem being cut off from it. It was what I thought, when I…" He waves a hand in a sketch of what happened. "That I wouldn't be able to get through the ship back with the living. I'd slaughter enough to need to be put down."
Syarra nods. "We made it with fish, but people. That would be entirely too tempting, stuck in close quarters. And then imagine if anyone were injured, or struggled with seasickness." She can't quite keep the wistfulness out of her voice.
Roper pats the cushion next to him in invitation, spreading the damaged leather out on the table. "I'm good at looking long term, but if I was a saint I wouldn't fucking be here. But it's another reason to find Kaela Mondragon. Because I bet they've got another runeforge here, and I want to know where."
Syarra gracefully folds down to sit on the cushion next to Roper, looking over the armor. "If we can take that… I suppose it would likely mean we've won. Or close to."
"It'd cripple whatever new army he's been dragging up. That's the kind of thing SI:7 does best. Don't wait until things are on the battlefield. Hit them at home, undercut what they need to be a collective force, and then let the soldiers roll out over the weak," Roper says as he immediately repositions to set his head in Syarra's lap with the sense that he was just waiting for her to sit down for the opportunity to do so. His cushion has been abandoned. "I just don't know that I want to risk handing over that info to SI:7, how much we rely on that forge. Acherus is a sitting duck. Hitting it now and capturing another that they could control, and force us to use through them is a checkmate we can't allow."
Syarra leans over him, laying a hand against his cheek as her loose hair shields them within a dark curtain. "We will have to trust our allies. But I think that would be entirely too much trust. We cannot tell them how to turn on us, when they decide we're no longer worth the risk."
"Exactly." Roper turns his face into her hair, inhaling as if he can smell something. "Or how to rule us. Humans in particular hate sovereignty of others, and want it constantly for themselves, and orcs…well. They never met something they didn't want to conquer and force into their Horde. It's only a matter of time before someone suggests that the Ebon Blade becomes owned by King or Warchief. And that… would be a problem." He looks up at Syarra.
Syarra trails her fingers down his face. "If that happens, I would prefer to take my chances without a runeforge. I've already decided who I belong to, and it isn't any Warchief."
There's a bright flash of a grin before he turns his head into the touch, nipping playfully at her fingers, not with enough threat to actually be something that would lead to pain. "At that point, we'd be better off finding how to make our own. Someone has to know, because they sure as fuck aren't plucking them off a runeforge tree."
Syarra makes a tsk sound and pulls back her hand, tapping him on the nose. "The Lich King knows, for one. It's something to look for, as we head into the continent."
Roper laughs at the boop, only half heartedly snapping his teeth near her fingers. He reaches out a hand for hers in retreat. "Or he knows who can. Corvus either didn't know or wouldn't say how they're made, but he knows how to maintain the runeforges. They can be broken. But not by sweet potatoes. I checked."
Syarra tries to lace her fingers between his. "Runeforged sweet potatoes? Maybe that's what we should make for company, when this is all over."
Something settles in Roper, as he looks at their intertwined fingers. "You actually enjoy it, huh. The whole… having company over, entertaining." It doesn't really sound like a question, but there's a curious note in his voice, dark and husky.
"You don't? I have to admit part of me is pleased Aze isn't staying here permanently. She can be very… distracting… sometimes," a brief hungry gleam in her eyes clarifies what she means, "but yes. Maybe especially now. Knowing that people have come, just to see us, despite everything."
"Before, I liked going out. I didn't like people in my space, but I liked figuring people out, being around them. I think. I can't…remember it, just remember around it." Roper makes an expression that seems like he's over it. Weird brain things. Nothing new. "But I was a spy then. Now, it's useful. Some people we're never going to move past a point, but others…we get them here, where they can see us, we can prove that we're people. Next time they hear a horror story of a death knight, they've got a memory of another one pouring tea and asking about what's in fashion for sleeves. Another kind of game." He smiles at that, the lure of a different sort of fight.
"All towards the same goal," she smiles down at him. "Don't hide that we're monsters, but confuse the matter. Make them see the person too."
"Exactly." Roper sets her hand against his face. He has the same chill as always, but there's no frost at the moment. "For me, that's what it is. The information I can get. The things I can put in their heads. But you seemed… like it was natural. Like you were enjoying it on its own. And you said before, friends just stopping by without warning. Is that what you want? Friends. Like that. Again."
She hesitates, looking into his eyes. "I… think I would enjoy that. If it were possible. If I could be sure I would not slip up and ruin it all." She shifts her gaze to her hand on his cheek. "I know it is likely not. It took so much effort to get even Aze to see me… and I do know the others were here for business, not really to visit."
"I was curious where they were. Aze played her part so perfectly that I was almost disappointed. Although, she did get Lady Cressidha to say 'tight' like she was attempting to sling words down with the Commoners, so that was worth half of it on its own," Roper drawls and he sounds amused, even if his eyes have that sharp intensity as he looks at Syarra like he's memorizing every detail.
Syarra gives a brief laugh. "Her part? I think her fondness was genuine. It usually is, if I remember her correctly."
"No, the way she treated you. The casual insults, the dismissiveness," Roper says, waving a hand in the air. "You can tell where the other two stand by it. You ask someone directly, 'hey, if a friend of yours starts talking shit about Person, do you say anything?' And 9 times out of 10 they get all huffy and say of course. But when it actually goes down, people justify it. They don't want to say anything. I wanted to know what they'd do, with her like that. Ignore it, or join in. If they'd joined in, we'd have had a problem. It would mean I'd fucked up, read them wrong. But no. They're exactly where I thought they were, which means even like this, I still know people."
"You said it didn't bother you," Syarra says, watching his face. "I think it was just insecurity, on her side. She was afraid they'd see her in our company, and they'd write her off as another monster. And that would hurt, because she likes them. I don't think she'd admit any of that, but… I think that's what it was. Though yes, it was good they didn't join in."
Roper presses into their linked hands, and it's brief, but in the description of the read on Aze, the sharp attention flows into a look of open desire, before it bleeds away again. "Fuck, that's hot," he mutters. He moves his other hand to his chest, setting it there. "It doesn't bother me. All information is worth having. It was just predictable, and that made it boring. The only one who did anything I wasn't expecting was you. I didn't know if you were worried about me, or if someone had gotten a shot off at you, and not showing it except for that. Reaching out to me."
"I was… a little worried you might hit back hard," Syarra says, squeezing his hand gently. "For me. And things could have gone badly from there. So… I suppose I was a little tense."
Roper sets his lips against her fingers. "Oh, I took my shots later, where I wouldn't risk fucking up what I'm building with the Aspenwoods, and where I could push Aze more into the web you've laid down. I play a long game, Sya. If you wanted a white knight to defend your honor at any cost…" Roper lets a hint of teeth into a kiss against a finger. "I was never that before, and I'm not that now."
"I prefer you as you are," Syarra says with a brief flicker of a smile. "And I wasn't sure how to not mess things up… I don't know Mordecai and Cressidha as well as either of you. Mordecai seems accepting, but nervous. Cressidha… I don't know what's behind the courtesy. I would know how to read sin'dorei nobility, but…"
"It's like watching a warped Colson mirror. She's not as stoic as she seems, and she's not cold. Practical, definitely. The courtesy is genuine, that I can see. I think she likes you, better than me for certain. You could still make inroads with her, more than just acceptance. No disgust hidden beneath that Aspenwood face mask. Just hasn't been hooked yet," Roper says, no drawl or husky edge in his voice.
Syarra hums thoughtfully. "If I hook her with anything, it has to be true. So we'll see, I suppose, if there's anything in me she genuinely likes."
"Or you her. You could get her here, now that Aze is gone. I can make myself scarce, whenever. Run errands, maybe chat up those gnomes on what their fucking undead tax is like for thermometers," Roper drawls.
"Do the gnomes dislike the undead?" Syarra tilts her head, shifting the curtain of dark hair. "I think they will have had very little contact with the Scourge, wouldn't they? The prejudice may not run as deep."
"Not all of them. The Captain of Cobalt, the one Alaisa was pretty sure is the only one of their command to even try for, was ice fucking cold to me, warm to Cressidha. Didn't seem personal, either. Less me, more what I was. But she was at Light's Hope. Don't know yet how common that's gonna be generally, but I'll find out."
"She spoke to you, though," Syarra points out. "And someone like that… someone who's responsible for so many others… It might just take more time, more confidence, for that sort to see you and not only the monster. And then, there's Light's Hope. It was not the best first impression, though I hope most understand that we were not ourselves."
"I'm not worried about it. I kept my hood on. Don't need her to see 'Roper,' just need her to see the Ebon Blade. Neutral is good enough to be willing to ask for more the next time they need it. But, I've been waiting for something I can use for an approach for the station up north. Gnomes do better with concrete asks. Go in trying to just chat them up, and they'll eventually just fucking wander off to go build something," Roper says dismissively. "Set them on a task though, and you've got an in."
"A thermometer is simple enough," Syarra frowns. "Maybe too simple for them. What could we add to complicate it? Measuring also… humidity? Or perhaps it needs to say the temperature out loud?"
Roper laughs into her palm. The drawl is deep in his voice as he adds, "Able to withstand extreme temperatures, and it also has functional taste buds."
Syarra grins. "Then it will need to talk, or else it will just suffer. Then again, can a thermometer suffer? A gnomish one?"
"If it did, would that be a bug or a feature?" Roper asks, flicking his brows up at her.
"Feature, definitely feature," Syarra's expression relaxes into a cruel smile for a moment, and then it fades. "Though I suppose it would encourage poor baking, which is not ideal."
Roper grins back, nuzzling into their linked hand, the permanent stubble of his jaw scraping the skin. "Tsk, the things we sacrifice for the living's comfort. Alright, I'll ask for a suffering free, taste testing, speaking thermometer, and see what abomination of technology that gets us."
"I'm sure they'll come up with nothing we expect," Syarra says, flexing her fingers slightly to brush against his rough cheek. "In the meantime… we have no visitors or houseguests."
The lingering amusement in his expression rapidly fades, replaced by an anticipatory tension that draws taut as a bow lined up for a shot, waiting for the command to fire. "None at all," he agrees, and the drawl is gone, but the husky sound of his voice has dipped into a dark scrape.
"I recall you saying, a while back," Syarra leans over him, and continues in a low whisper, "that it was all worth it, if the next time I teased you, you got to fucking do something about it."
The tension moves up another notch, his eyes looking brighter. "Yeah." His hand linked with hers starts squeezing, and it keeps slowly tightening, hovering outside of enough to hurt, just to the point of illustrating how fragile fingers can be. "You gonna tease me?" It's a question, technically, but there's something in the tone that makes it sound like a demand, as he continues to hold his fire for the arrow of himself.
"Maybe," She says, not even trying to pull her hand away. She bites her lip lightly and then increases the pressure to the point of pain, watching him.
There's a softening around his eyes for a brief moment, but the expression of a dark desire replaces it almost immediately. There's a low, needy sound, and then a shift in the grip of his hand on hers, subtle and small, as he adjusts to apply intense pressure against the joints of her knuckles, giving a sharp twist enough to dislocate one of them right out of the socket.
Syarra cries out and sits straight up, her hair falling back behind her.
Roper keeps her hand trapped in his, pressing into it, as he kisses the dislocated finger. It does not, unfortunately, make it all better. If anything, the pressure only makes it worse. He inhales deeply, everything in him relaxing in a contented exhaled sigh.
Syarra squirms, simultaneously trying to pull away and trying to keep herself from pulling away. She lowers her pain-dimmed gaze to catch Roper's gaze, breathing shallowly.
It's obvious in the way he's looking at her, as if his entire world just narrowed in focus down to one sin'dorei woman, why he wanted a locked door. The look of helpless desire and love is written in intense, bold expression on his face, completely at odds with the pain he’s causing.
"Hurt me." It's a whispering, haunted echo in his deepest register. "Anything you want. Sya." Her name sounds almost like a plea.
Syarra reaches over with her undamaged hand to where he's holding hers, and trails her fingers along the scars on the back of his. Then she digs in her nails, hard enough to draw blood.
There's a look of genuine shock on his face, as if she's done something unexpected, and for the first time that she's ever tried to hurt him, Roper flinches, trying to pull his hand away, and there's a pain in him deeper than the physical, a mental anguish that squirms under her nails in the scars.
If Syarra is disturbed by his reaction, it doesn't show in the focused, almost blissful expression on her face. In another context, one might call the look in her eyes adoring.
She twists her damaged hand around to hold his in place, trembling with another jolt of pain.
Roper's eyes flicker closed and he leaves his hand where it is, but he's breathing shallowly, as if trying not to intensify the pain from broken ribs. He's holding still under her hand, but there's a shake to his hand he can't disguise.
Even in the sweet haze of pain, Syarra notices the way he's breathing. Almost curiously, she lets go of his hand and clenches her fist, making a sharp jab at his ribcage.
It's met with a hard slab of flexed muscle with no physical pain, but there's an uncontrolled whimper — a sound she's never heard him make — and another shock of mental pain, even as he opens his eyes. He looks up at her, his gaze unfocused as though he's seeing something else, frost creeping over his hands involuntarily.
"Anything you want," he repeats, the echo jarring, but his voice oddly soft, as he pulls their still linked hands to his face, heedless of the blood smearing against his cheek.
Syarra seems to focus on him again at the words and the creeping frost.
It takes her a moment to find her words, but then she says, quietly, "And you. Take what you want."
"I have what I want," Roper says, turning his face into her hand, relaxing at the sound of her voice. There's something vulnerable in him, that he's deliberately leaving open for her to see.
Syarra presses the dislocated finger against his cheek with a low gasp of pain.
Roper whispers her name into her palm, inhaling like he's trying to catch his breath, as the frost fades.
Syarra just closes her eyes, curling over him protectively.
The pain in Roper's hand fades quickly, but the pain in him keeps flickering in and out, as if he is continually turning something over and over in his mind, mentally tonguing a sore tooth repeatedly. It takes longer for it to stop, and when it does, he sags against her like he's finished running from something and can finally rest.
Syarra lets out a slow sigh as Roper's pain fades, and then winces as she moves her own hand and re-encounters her own pain.
Roper makes a low sound in his throat, and it takes him several seconds before he loosens his grip, moving his other hand around to hers. "Hold still," he murmurs, and the echo is faint, even though his voice still has that midnight dark scrape to it.
Syarra grits her teeth and nods, carefully not moving her hand.
Roper inhales, stroking a fingertip over the swollen joint with a deceptively light lover's touch, before there's a quick movement — a brief sharp pain — and the joint is back in place to heal correctly.
Syarra gives a muffled whimper, and then pulls the still-hurting hand away.
Roper lets it go with reluctance, his fingers lingering on hers, but he reaches out his undamaged hand up to her face, aiming to thread his fingers through her hair. "[So fucking beautiful,]" he says, the Thalassian a mix of unaccented and accented words. There's genuine sounding love in his voice, although how much of it is pure feeling and how much of it is from her pain drawn into him is unclear and impossible to know.
Syarra leans forward to let him, the hunger slowly fading from her eyes. Without thinking, she answers in Thalassian. "[I hurt you. Less… and more… than I meant to.]"
Roper’s eyes are softer still, an almost dreamy look on his expressive face. "My fucking weakest points," he purrs, his voice low and rough. It sounds like a desirable thing, a compliment, even as his injured hand rotates at the wrist in an automatic gesture. His blood is slowly drying on his face, but he doesn't seem to notice or care at the moment, as his fingers slip along the strands of her hair like he's testing fine silk.
"I always seem to find them," Syarra says, touching one finger to the blood on his face. "But I will guard them."
"They can't take what you don't give them," Roper says, not for the first time. He presses against her finger, a relaxed languor to him, his sibilants a little hushed. "I said. Fucking anything. And I meant it. Yours to take."
Syarra focus sharpens at that, and she takes a shaky breath. "I don't want to take… more than you have. I'll be careful."
"I trust you," Roper says, trailing his fingers down her hair, parting the curtain gently. "I just like it. Seeing you happy. Even if it's only for a few seconds, and it's just…sucked away by the fucking void or whatever it is that takes it from us. I still want it. I want to make you happy." There's a wistfulness in his tone, fading quickly as Syarra's finger heals.
"Sometimes I think you trust me more than I trust myself," Syarra says with a noise that might be something like a laugh. "And maybe, someday, there will be other things that make us happy. Not only the hunger."
"You make me feel…something. Sometimes it's like happiness, I think. It's gone so fast that I can't always…" Roper shakes his head slightly. "But then there's times I…" He sighs and there's a thought that passes across his face, but the details of it are lost as he sits up, moving to roll into a stand.
Syarra looks up at him curiously, cradling her healing hand in her lap. "There's times you…?"
Roper tilts his head back enough that something makes an ominous cracking sound in his neck. It's probably fine. "There's times I could swear that I feel more. Than before, after we took back Acherus." He straightens but he's still not looking at her, his back to her. "And I do mean feel….everything more. Anger." His voice drops lower. "Regret." His right hand rakes through his hair, and he steps towards his bags. "I don't know. Contentment? Fuck. Something. Just being around you, it's like the Hunger is louder and quieter at the same time. It hurts less."
"We do still feel," Syarra says, rolling back onto her feet and rising to stand. "Even before Light's Hope, I did feel… some things. If it's stronger for you now… maybe it means that something in your soul is… healing?"
"I don't know. It's not like they explained fucking anything," Roper says, a darker note in his voice as he pulls out a rag. Ice forms on his fingertips, and then melts away into the rag. It's probably for his face, to clean off the blood. "I don't even know if it's Northrend. Proximity."
"To the Lich King?" Syarra's expression darkens. "I hope not. That would imply, after we kill him…"
"Yeah." Roper turns to look at her, brows raised in an odd expression of conflicting feelings. "Yeah," he repeats. He lifts the rag to his face, wiping at the blood on it. "And I don't know. I want to think it's just me, something but I fucking hate betting on me for shit like that. It's made me wonder if something will happen to us, if he's just gone. Like he's a runeblade we don't know yet that we need."
"I hope that's not true," Syarra looks around their little home. "Even if it is, he has to die. Whatever the cost. But I hope… the cost is not too high."
Roper finishes wiping at his face, and tosses the cloth at the bucket in the corner that accumulates laundry. He brushes his hand through his hair again. "When do you think you wanna try to get Cressidha here as company slash tailor?"
"Soon," Syarra says firmly. "There's no reason to wait. In fact, there's reason not to. We don't know how things might change, after. For us, and for how they think of us "
"I think she's in Dalaran. Try there first, with a note. If it bounces back, let me know. I'll find her," Roper says, as he reaches out his left arm for her waist to pull her against him.
"I'll try that first, then," Syarra says, moving closer to Roper, reaching to curl her arms around his neck.
There's that flicker of something brighter in his expression for the briefest moment before it's gone again. "She travels here though, and she won't come alone. I'm not worried about an ambush from them," he admits, as he sets his other hand against her hair, leaning in close to set his cheek on hers. "And I know you'll play nice. But whoever she brings, if you put on that dress for her to adjust, that other person doesn't fucking see you in it." The echo reverberates, his voice a midnight whisper of a chill wind. "That's mine."
"Yours," she breathes back at him in agreement, relaxing against him. "I don't expect she'll bring anyone who would have a problem with death knights."
Something in Roper settles at the confirmation. "Not intentionally, maybe. But she seems like an honest person, like Colson. And honest people don't usually assume everyone is lying to them. If you don't recognize who she brings, make them wait outside the yurt. They could still set a bomb outside if they did, but they'd have to be willing to risk both the tuskarr and Cressidha caught in it, and that's a lower amount of people. But it's still a good plan if you were trying to kill us and you realized you could use Cressidha to get close enough." Not that Roper is paranoid or anything.
Syarra nods, brushing her cheek against his. "If I don't recognize them, I'll do that. I have not seen any eagerness to destroy us, though. Reluctance, distaste, but not a tendency to violence."
"Westwind was ready to consider taking herself out at the same time to destroy me with a fucking bomb in her bag, when I met with her in Ironforge. She showed it to me and said, 'start running,' as the only warning. Anyone else who was eager to destroy something like me is dead in the ground now, but I'm missing the metal in my armor from it." Roper's voice has a low, bitter anger in it, but he drawls, "Maybe I just have one of those faces."
"I should have clarified - no one I can imagine Cressidha bringing with her. I don't imagine she keeps company with crazed hunters. Westwind… I have not met."
"She's one of Cobalt's. She won't be the only one who feels that way, and I don't know that Cressidha couldn't be manipulated into it. But," Roper allows, moving his head slightly. "Westwind met with Mourn, in his tower. Maybe he's managed to get her from destroy on sight to talk long enough to wonder why the fuck he doesn't clean his fucking armor. So, maybe that's one less."
"One less," Syarra agrees. "The only way we can do this, influence one by one. Like the ones I ran into over in Quel'Danas. They were not… accepting. But, not killing on sight."
Roper makes a sound of agreement. "I never said it was going to be easy, or fast. SI:7 has the benefit of hundreds of agents. We've got a handful." There's the feeling of him grinning. "Which just means when we win this in the long run, that we're fucking better. That's one thing we've got on advantage. We can wear them down. We've got the time."
"And we'll make use of it," Syarra pulls back to look him in the eyes.
"Yeah, we will." Roper's grin has a dangerous edge, but it doesn't last long, something softening in it as he looks down, exhaling a faint laugh. The dusting of flour has spread. "In the meantime, baby, do we need to get you an apron?"
"Ah… maybe," Syarra follows his gaze. "If I keep up the practice." She turns back to Roper. "Would it be too strange, me wandering around in an apron?"
"You should keep it up," Roper says, and looks her up and down with an appraising expression on his face that makes him seem younger, more human. His voice has a playful, teasing note to it. "Strange? Fuck no. I bet you're too fucking cute in an apron." He brushes a hand along her hair. "Gonna have to be black though. Maybe some frills. Dark frills. Dangerous bows."
"Maybe hidden spikes, or blades," Syarra adds, a hint of amusement in her voice.
Roper laughs, a low sound, as he wraps a length of hair around his hand. "That'll be a real challenge for Lady Cressidha. 'An apron that strikes fear into the hearts of men.' Maybe put a skull on it."
"Nothing unhygienic," Syarra says in a teasing voice. "There's already enough corpse near the food without throwing that into the mix."
"Hey, I'd wash the skull first," Roper says, sounding mock-affronted. "I'm a monster, but I'm not going to violate kitchen rules. All skulls washed and boiled, chef's honor."
"Well, if it's washed and boiled," Syarra gives a mock-reluctant nod of her head. "I suppose I can work with that."
Roper gives her a lazy, lopsided smile as he shifts his weight onto his back leg, moving her hair along his palm. "Besides, all cooking is based on corpses, bones, and death. Dead plants, dead wood, dead animals. You're never the only fucking corpse in the kitchen."
"I can guarantee I never thought of it that way," Syarra says, shifting with him. "I'm sure I would remember that."
"I've made a lot of bone broth. Takes way too fucking long, and you start thinking way too much," Roper drawls. "Six hours of simmering bones and you eventually have to confront your own mortality and question your bones' place in the universe."
"I'm sure I would make the most delicious bone broth," Syarra says dryly. "So delicious that I think I will deprive the universe of it. Forever."
Roper laughs, stroking a line along her spine. "So cruel," he purrs.
Syarra arches her back into the touch, and the corners of her lips twitch with amusement. "It comes naturally."
"It's beautiful," Roper says sincerely, a light in his eyes briefly. He jerks his head in the direction of the bedroom side of the yurt. "Come to bed with me? I've still gotta work on some math for some things that still aren't fucking coming out right and I shouldn't keep putting off, but you could bring the," he gestures vaguely at the jerkin.
"Sew in bed?" Syarra asks, pulling away from him and sliding her hands to his shoulders. "And then… sleep?"
"Yeah. And you've got those needles for a few days, so tomorrow, if you're expecting to have living company soon…" Roper's lip quirks to the side. "We could take it out, see how long those mage hunters in the east last when we sew their fucking mouths shut. I can hold them for you," Roper offers, leaning forward almost as if for a kiss, the chill around him growing colder.
Syarra's expression brightens with an anticipation that has nothing to do with visitors, friends, or baking. "Now that sounds like something I'd like to try."
His expression grows into a wicked grin. "They didn't put any limits on how you could use them," he says. That's the same as permission, right? There's something though that flickers over his face, before he releases her and moves to step away towards the bed, shifting his face away from her view. "Oh, one odd thing though."
"About the needles?" Syarra asks.
"Yeah. Sorta. I had to explain what I needed," Roper says, staying turned away from her, as he brushes off any residual flour on his under armor, walking towards the bed. "The tuskarr have some sort of…engagement thing. Women make men a leather vest to propose." He gestures backwards at the table with a hand.
"And, uh, well. They made assumptions. It made them willing to part with it so. I just didn't correct them." He turns a little over his shoulder. "You can, if you want to. Correct their assumption."
"Propose…. marriage?" Syarra's eyebrows raise as she follows him toward the bedroom. "I suppose… we could let them believe what they want to believe? Though maybe I should make you a vest then."
Roper freezes. Not literally, at least.
Syarra stops in her tracks. "Unless you want me to correct them?"
Roper looks for all the world like a thief who has been caught in the middle of a robbery because someone turned the lights on. He raises a hand to his cheek, inhales a breath he doesn't need, and exhales a sigh as he drops his hand. He turns to face her.
"No. I don't." There's that 'come here' gesture with his head as he stares at her. "Come here?"
Syarra draws closer to him, watching his face with a mixture of curiosity and concern. "What is it?"
"You remember how I said I could remember everything that happened when I lost…" Roper trails off in suggestion. Syarra knows. "The thing was that, in the moment, I couldn't fucking feel anything. I twas like I wasn't there, just…" He shakes his head slightly, reaching out a hand to her. "I wondered, after, if it it's what it was like for you, with the Other Syarra, just this fucked up sense that you were there, but it was empty."
"Maybe something like that," Syarra says, frowning. "It took me a while to… piece things together."
"Yeah, it was there, I just couldn't look at everything. Most of it, it's just…" Roper shrugs. "Deaths I didn't get to really appreciate. Irritation at myself more than anything, after, but nothing during. Except there was this moment where I could almost feel it, through the ice, this…" Roper makes a soft, faint sound in his throat.
"You cleaned me up. You cleaned my face, and you had your hands in my hair, combing it out, because you knew that if I was really there, it'd have bothered me to be like that and I just…when I had time to think and look at it all, and I hit that memory I had this thought." His voice has that deep whisper to it, like he's telling her a secret of dark and hidden places. "Something I've never thought about anyone. Ever."
Syarra steps closer, listening.
It takes him two times to start it. He licks his lips like they're dry, as if they aren't always dry, a nervous tick of movement. He blinks rapidly, and finally closes his eyes like he's afraid to look at her as he speaks. "I thought. That I would marry you, if I could," Roper says, a plea of something in his voice. He opens his eyes, filled with a desperate type of hope, his mouth quirking sideways as he adds, "Assuming you'd even have me. I can pull off a vest."
Was that a proposal? It's unclear. That if is sure pulling a huge amount of weight with it. But given the context…
Syarra steps closer, reaching out to embrace him. "I feel I've said before that I wanted forever. With you. I meant it."
Roper is breathing shallowly, as if he needs it, the nerves in him obvious despite attempts to seem confident. "Yeah. But that's…it's words. An agreement. Something like…" He can't even say it a second time. He makes a vague head gesture to imply it. "That's legal. Assuming we could even…I don't know. The Ebon Blade isn't necessarily sovereign enough. If we go by the fucking kingdoms and Horde, regular citizens can't just…" He's babbling.
He stops, exhales a breath. "But would you want it? To actually, I don't know. Call me that?" There's no way for him to blush, but the way his face tenses suggests he would be, if he could. "'Husband.' Fuck."
"I think… the words are the heart of it, aren't they?" Syarra tries to pull him closer. "The legal part… that still only binds as much as we make it. I don't know where or by who… but maybe we could define what it means… to people like us."
Roper goes willingly, with relief, moving his face against hers where she can't see his expression. Hiding now. Feelings are embarrassing. "It wasn't…ever a part of a plan for me. Something like that. I'm not used to even thinking of it. But I have been. And if it's legal, if it's something witnessed by other people, it's different. It's…something I want. If-if you do. Something fucking binding. Something that means something to us, and everyone else."
"For me it is already binding, witnessed or not," Syarra says quietly by his ear. "But we could… if we knew someone who could officiate, witnesses… I don't think I would want an elaborate wedding, only the people we know would care."
"Mordecai's a Chaplain. Weddings and shit is what they do. Getting him to do it wouldn't even be a real challenge," Roper says, and that might be a note of genuine disappointment that it'd be potentially easy. "But it's not…" He drops his head to burrow into her neck near her hair. Still hiding. "Fuck. It's one of your worst possible strategic moves. As your Shadow, I should be trying to talk you out of it."
"But…" Syarra frowns more deeply. "Would it not make them see us more as people? Is that not strategic?"
"Right now you can still call me anything you fucking want. Use whatever you want to anyone, make them see whatever serves you." Roper lifts his head to look at her like something has compelled it, a jerky feel to the movement. "But once you…if you marry me publicly, that's all I'll be. You won't be able to sell it as anything else." Oh, what a terrible, desperate hope in those eyes. His words sound steady, a dark husky warning, but those eyes are begging.
"You'll have tied yourself and your name to me: a dead human man with no family house to his name, and no assets beyond what he has now. And whether or not it's true in allegiance, right now my race still marks me as Alliance. Silvermoon could deny your claim to your home on that alone, Sya. You could lose it, especially if Aze fights you for it. They could try to ban you from the city as a traitor of the Horde."
"No one calls the Dark Lady a traitor," Syarra counters, then hesitates. "At least, not due to who she loves. Though… I suppose Nathanos Marris is likely unwelcome in the Alliance.
"The fucking Forsaken are Horde. Legally, on paper, and they're sworn to her, personally. I can't do the same. And I don't even know what SI:7 does when I…if I do this. Right now, I'm at a truce, but publicly declaring my personal allegiance to a member of the Horde, on paper, could be a risk they're not willing to take." Roper's words certainly sound like he's trying to talk her out of it. But the way he's clinging onto her, his fingers gripping tight enough to almost hurt, suggests that presenting the potential outcome in such a light is costing him something.
Syarra curls her arms around him. "As for me, I told you I'm yours. If I lose what few rights I have in Silvermoon… it'll be time to see how well I've done with Aze. But if SI:7 decides to kill you then that defeats the entire point. And I don't think we could keep it a secret from them, even if we tried. Could you… ask in some way? Some way that wouldn't bring down the same reaction?"
"No. Even Alaisa wouldn't know for sure, not without asking him. And in SI:7, asking is the same as doing. It's intent declared and w — they never wait for shit to happen to take action. That's how you end up a step behind." Roper shrugs. "I have an agreement with them. I keep fulfilling it, then it may be seen as another advantage. Or they'll send a dozen fucking assassins after me as a honeymoon door to door delivery."
Syarra tenses, pulling him closer. "It could cause problems for them, with the Ebon Blade. Would they want to risk that?"
Roper sets his forehead against hers. "To take me out of the game as a risk of an information leak? Yeah. They might. They already tested me once. They sent Alaisa to find out where I stood. I told them the truth: I don't fucking remember enough to be a threat. That they let it go means Alaisa went to bat for me. I wasn't just nobody in SI:7. I was on my way up to the top. And I was almost there. The only thing stopping him is that I look exactly like what I've said. The only asset I've contacted is Colson. I haven't used any of my old names. My story is consistent."
"This might corroborate. If you remembered, surely you wouldn't want to bind yourself to a member of the Horde?"
"Not if I wanted power however I could get it. I can't be a spy. Doesn't mean I couldn't use the information I had in my head to my own benefit."
"But, Sya, baby. The second I was visibly staying in the same room as you in Shattrath, it's been a risk that SI:7 would take it the wrong way. I knew it then. I'm…" Roper's voice hitches slightly, the rasp strong enough to make it sound like a whisper of secrets in the dark. "I'm fucking stupid in love with you. I gave up all hope of ever making the smart call with you before we got off the water of Lake Darrowmere. I know what I want, I weighed the risks, and I'm stupid enough to grab it knowing the possible costs." Roper tilts his head down, looking up at her through dark lashes.
Syarra presses a kiss into his forehead. "Then that settles it. We take what we want, and we'll deal with it if people turn on us. But…" she hesitates. "…do you want us to change our names? I know you don't remember, but… would you… want mine?"
Roper closes his eyes. He makes some small sound, a hitch of breath, and a brief, barely there tremble passes through him at the question before he crushes her into him. In his voice there is no echo, just a desperately human ache. "Yes."
"Roper Sunstrike," Syarra says quietly, testing out the sound of it. "And if we could have Aze for my family, Alaisa for yours, and Mordecai to make it official…"
If not for the way he's holding onto her like he's afraid if he lets go she'll evaporate into thin air, he'd sound casual as he drawls, "Then all that's left is measuring me for a vest."