(2023-05-08) A Stormwind Encounter

Details

Author:	inkie
Summary:	Captain Zath Tyrrell and Commodore Siamus Fallon re-encounter one another in Stormwind a few days after their initial meeting at Wintergarde Keep.
Rating:	M for Mature 17+

Arc: Ringside Seats

As Captain Zath Tyrrell strides down the street near the Park District, heading toward the Mage Quarter in his unseasonal long black coat, the nearest walking family takes one look at him and doubles back slightly to take the bridge to the other side of the canal. Tyrrell looks like he has never met the sun before today and is extremely displeased to make its acquaintance.

His gaze is intense but not particularly purposeful; he doesn't seem to be paying much attention to his surroundings and may be following a certain path by rote.

A gentleman is approaching from the other direction, Mage Quarter to Park District, at an easy, loose-strolling pace. Zath might be forgiven for not recognizing him at once, even if he were paying attention: The gentleman in question is definitely a gentleman today, in a fine navy blue coat and waistcoat, a white cravat and trousers with riding boots. He is leading a horse: a sleek black mare, groomed to a gloss like water. He's carrying a tricorne hat under his arm.

He is also singing under his breath to the horse as they walk, in nonchalant, unselfconscious fashion. The horse seems pretty accustomed to this behavior, and ambles along beside him, head low, twitching an ear in his direction now and then.

Whether Zath recognizes him or not is of little consequence, because as the severe, black-clad figure approaches (and the mare lifts her head to eye him a little warily), Siamus Fallon pauses in his stride and eyes him appreciatively up and down. "Well," he drawls, "look what the wind's fetched up."

Zath stops abruptly enough that the hem of his coat does a dramatic little forward swirl around his calves.

"Commodore Fallon," he says, and gives him a little bow. "And this must be your lady wife." He bows to the horse. His manner is so serious, almost severe, that if it weren't so obviously a joke, one would wonder.

Siamus puts his head back and laughs with such unabashed delight that even the horse looks at him.

"Tides below," he grins at Zath when he's caught his breath. "Ye bloody charmer, Tyrrell."

His initial surprise at the sight of the other man has passed, and now as he assesses Zath more closely, his smile fades. He arches a sardonic brow. "Are ye coming from your funeral or going to your wedding? Because ye've got a dead man's look about ye."

"Don't even talk to me about weddings," Zath says, with a sudden snarl in his voice. But then he dials it back and says, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you where I'd just come from. Perhaps I should just make something up. Something improbable such as, 'I just spent twenty minutes calling the House of Nobles a dangerously imbecilic flock of incontinent pigeons directly to their faces.' I did not do that, but I could see in some of their expressions that it was heavily inferred."

"Seems a bit uncharitable," Siamus says dryly. "Incontinent pigeons, at least, can't help themselves." He casts a look in the direction of the distant Keep and for a moment there's a flicker in the merry facade and his expression is hard and assessing, a commander's look.

Then he looks at Zath again and gives him a sardonic twist of a smile. "That'll be the Wishock business, then."

Zath does snarl this time, white teeth bared as he releases a guttural sound of fading rage. There is the sense that Siamus is hearing the receding rumble of a storm that has already spent its worst.

"I have been saying since the start that letting them all cluster together in the dark out of the sight of decent folk is a stupid idea. But apparently I didn't shout it loud enough, because now a man is dead. An absolute cunt, but still, there was no reason he had to be a dead cunt. He was no cuntier than most of the House of Cunts. Perhaps they will listen this time. Or perhaps they will listen when I come perch in Wishock's vacated seat like a carrion bird; I've gone ahead and thrown my hat into the ring just now as well. Their absolute ignorance of the dangerous magics being practiced right under their noses is going to be the death of the city otherwise."

By the end of this speech, Siamus’s laughing manner has slipped away again, and he's regarding Zath in that sharp, black-eyed, assessing way.

"Well," he says. "Ye'll no' be the worst o' the cunts in the queue. I can tell ye it'll be an uphill queue for ye, wi' the city mood and some o' these oily bastards lined up for it with ye, but the strongest medicine's a bitter one, aye?"

He surveys Zath, head to boots and back again. "And speaking o' strong medicine, I've a bottle of twenty-year Dabyrie that might do ye some good, if you're inclined."

Zath's eyes flare suddenly. "Fuck yes," he says. It is unclear whether he has read more into the invitation or whether he just really, really wants some good whiskey right about now, but either way, whatever he thinks is being offered fills him with a naked surge of pure greed.

Siamus, still unsmiling, nods toward the road ahead, where it wends up and around the Park District to the harbor. "This way, then, aye?" He resumes his easy walk, and the mare resumes her clip-clop amble beside him, though she carries her head higher now and keeps a wary eye on Zath.

"I'll no'say you're the last man I'd expected to see in Starmwend this week," Siamus says conversationally, "but I might've ranked ye maybe one place higher than the Greymane."

He gestures around the bend in the road toward the row of white townhouses, as the harbor opens out below them in a glittering panorama.

Zath's pale eyes narrow as he looks out toward the harbor, as though its jeweled brightness is painful to them.

"I was headed here eventually," he says vaguely. "I do have land in Redridge that I try to look in on personally at least once a year. But I returned sooner than expected, yes. I wasn't comfortable letting the current course of the kingdom be replotted without doing my best to make sure they don't plot us directly into the maw of Sargeras."

"Considering the last year or so we've been climbing out of one maw and the next, maws seem all the rage right now." Siamus glances over at Zath. "I hope your ears weren't ringing. I did mention ye when the subject first reared up. Wishock's death, that is. Announced in the middle of a Children's Week fête, no less. Ye should have seen e'eryone scrambling to change moods in a fashion best to appeal to the public eye. Press present, and all."

They've reached, by now, the last townhouse on the row, the one with the dark blue door and the windowboxes spilling effusive waves of blue and white flowers. A groom has been waiting, apparently, for Lord Fallon's return, and Siamus hands the horse off to him with an absent smile and nod. (The "groom" is a shrew-eyed whippet of a man with a neck tattoo, in an extremely correct groom's uniform. He bows respectfully, first to Lord Fallon and then to the gentleman guest, before he and the horse depart.)

Zath is meanwhile studying Siamus with those glacial eyes. "I'm flattered to hear that you remembered me after such a brief encounter, but I hesitate to inquire as to what might have induced you to mention me in a discussion of a warlock-hating inebriate who mysteriously dropped dead after draining the wrong cup."

"Defense o' the broader species," Siamus replies lightly, mounting the steps to the door. He glances back at Zath. "By way o' contrast wi' the particular lot under the Lamb. Honorable service to the Alliance, principles and so on." He pauses, gazes thoughtfully into the middle distance. "I did also tell a pretty lass to send ye a bottle of expensive whiskey. But that was a different conversation."

He flashes a smile and opens the door to usher Zath inside.

"Ah? How pretty? And how expensive?" As though these were the most salient points of Siamus's response.

Zath steps in after the Commodore, and his gaze moves over the interior as though he is going to be tested on its details later.

The interior is a clean, airy space, of white wainscoting and very pale grey-almost-blue walls, whitewashed floorboards in lieu of grand marble or dark parquet. There is a pale-blue-and-ivory rug running the length of the hall, and portraits of ships lining the walls. It feels a little like stepping off a grand street in Stormwind and into a summer cottage. But, like, definitely a Money summer cottage.

Siamus considers the questions. "Pretty," he recalls. "Dark hair, blue eyes, lovely figure. Tennerow's sister? And very expensive." These are replies to the two different questions, apparently, and not two answers to the first. Apparently.

A burly butler with long gray hair tied back in a sailor's queue, wearing a very correct butler's coat, white gloves and steel-rimmed spectacles, materializes. "Milord," he greets Siamus, in a tone that sort of manages to imply bro.

"Barbour," Siamus says. "Is she home?" As an afterthought, as he unbuttons his coat, he adds, "Captain Zath Tyrrell; Barbour. Barbour, Captain Tyrrell." Does one introduce dignitaries to one's butler? I do not know. Siamus does it anyway.

"She is not," says the butler, and turns to offer Zath a polite half-bow. "Shall I take your coat, sir?" The sir has a much crisper edge than the milord did.

Zath takes off his coat and hands it to the butler with a slight, grateful inclination of his head. Underneath is more black. So much black. None more black.

"Dara," Zath clarifies. "It was the middle Tennerow, Leric, who suggested to me that I ought to try for a seat. Something about Ridgewell wanting a stronger representation for Redridge?" He shrugs as though it Matters Not. "Given that we're neighbors, I've no doubt Devon will offer his poor sister up to me like a bouquet of daisies soon enough. I never thought I would be in a position to… disappoint so many."

Siamus hands his own coat and hat off to the butler, who offers a general sort of bow and vanishes. He glances over at Zath and arches a brow, surveying the other man again with something like amusement. "Ah. Ye've got them queueing, have ye? I sympathize." There is a sly, ambiguous undertone to the latter statement that makes it possible Siamus means he sympathizes with the queue-ers as much as the queue-ee.

He turns and beckons Zath along with a tilt of his head, unbuttoning his waistcoat and tugging at his cravat and collar as he goes. "My sister is attempting to line them up in parade, I think. She finds me hopeless. I believe the other evening she said something about my dying 'a man-spinster wi' venereal disease.'"

"Surely you've a priest on your ship for such things," Zath remarks casually, watching Siamus disrobe. He makes no move to loosen any of his own buttons, literally or metaphorically.

It's possible he is just making another of his sly little jokes, or it is possible that he is making absolutely sure the venereal disease thing is a joke, for Reasons.

"Surely," Siamus agrees, and casts another amused look at Zath. "And always Light-priests enough ashore." He pauses outside an open set of double doors to usher Zath once more.

The room within is a study, a masculine island of dark floors and two walls of bookcases, a heavy wooden desk offset to one side of the room with two leather-upholstered chairs before it, and another pair of the same chairs arranged before a small hearth. There is a broad casement window on the far wall, and above the low fireplace on the hearth wall is a painted mural map of Azeroth. A slightly startling amount of Azeroth.

The ceiling, alas Sintha, remains dull.

The place is immaculate and immaculately-organized; even the books on the shelves are ranked like soldiers. A cylindrical basket beside the desk holds what appear to be a number of sea-charts, tightly rolled and tied. At one corner of the desk is a globe, and arrayed in a neat row beside it are several polished brass navigational instruments. In a tray at the opposite corner are two precisely-squared stacks of letters, a silver letter-opener laid atop one in neat parallel to the envelope-edges. At the center of the desk blotter are two ledgers, a smaller one stacked on a larger, both of them square with each other and the desk itself, two pens laid neatly beside them.

It does not appear to be the office of a man who would go around carelessly beset by venereal disease.

Zath moves to the globe and gently turns it with very white fingertips. He addresses the globe as he says, "The 'she' you inquired about… does your sister live here? Or…?"

"Aye," says Siamus. He goes to a sideboard near the window and lifts a bottle of whiskey to show to Zath. "Is that a probl—" He pauses and tilts his head, eyes gleaming, as he considers whether Zath might have been asking for a different reason.

Zath's reasons are quite possibly as inscrutable as his ice-chip eyes. Or at least, he endeavors to make them so.

"I suppose your being away so often keeps it from becoming… contentious, as some sibling relationships can tend to be," he observes dispassionately. His fingertips still rest on the globe, but he has returned to studying Siamus's face.

"I've only the one sibling relationship, so I can't say as how they all go. My family situation has always been… peculiar, I expect. Sintha is —" Siamus turns back to the sideboard to pour the whiskey. "Sintha's my family. And a plague on my life." The first sentence is quiet, serious. The second, apparently an attempt to lighten the first, is a dry but distinctly affectionate assertion. "I expect what’s contentious is she'd like me home more than I can be."

"Ah," says Zath. He turns his eyes back to the globe and gives it another gentle turn. "Well." The silence is just enough to be slightly awkward before he says calmly, "Don't tease, Commodore, I beg you. Bring the whiskey."

Siamus turns back to return to Zath and the desk, and offers one of the glasses of whiskey out.

Zath takes the glass from him gratefully. The size of the glass makes hand contact easily avoidable, and yet, briefly, there is hand contact. Zath's fingers are cold.

He raises the glass to his lips, eyes still on Siamus, then closes them as he samples the whiskey, as though to shut out further sensory input.

"Mm," he says after swallowing. And then opens his eyes again, his gaze steady on Siamus's.

Siamus is smiling at him faintly, attentively. He doesn't move away from Zath, instead turning to settle casually against the desk and sip his own drink. "I'm not much a tease," he advises Zath. "I believe I'm a fair straightforward man."

In the hallway outside, the passing Barbour pauses to discreetly close the study doors before moving on. He has practice.

Siamus has another sip of whiskey, tilts the glass to consider the liquid in it. "You, on the other hand, Captain." He glances over at Zath again and arches a brow.

"Caution has served me well," Zath says mildly, eyes still steady and searching. "I am the first to admit that I am, alas, not a straightforward man. Unless admitting that is in and of itself a sort of straightforwardness? But when something is earnestly desired of me, something that I can give without catastrophic repercussions, I think you will find that I am not an ungenerous man."

That, and the way his tongue eeeever so slightly leads his lips in reaching for the edge of his whiskey glass as he maintains eye contact, are about as straightforward as Captain Zath Tyrrell gets.

Siamus watches the action of lips and tongue — tongue and lips — with intent, black-eyed interest and the same slight, knowing smile. He shifts against the desk to twist slightly and set his glass beside him. As he turns back, drawing breath to speak, there is a faint sound of voices in the hall — Barbour's low, resonant murmur and a lighter, female voice.

Brisk steps approach the study door and stop. Siamus glances mildly in that direction, unperturbed.

After a moment, a young woman sighs dramatically just on the other side of the door. "Absolute beast," she declares in an aristocratic drawl, still somewhat muffled.

Siamus smiles faintly. "Monster," he answers in a conversational tone.

The footsteps move away from the door and fade down the hallway. Siamus glances wryly back at Zath. "And now ye've been properly introduced. Lady Sintha Fallon." He makes a sort of ta-da gesture at the door, and then straightens from the desk's edge. Not to go anywhere, it seems; just to stand. Casually, he reaches up to tug at his loosened tie again, pulls the pin from it — and sets it on the edge of his desk with exactly the same precision as everything else on the desk — and then draws the tie free. He coils it neatly and sets it beside the tie pin, and with one hand and some apparent deft practice, unbuttons his high collar so that it hangs casually open.

"Ye realize," he drawls, "that we could be in opposition o' sorts, now, as I'm aimed at the House myself."

He reaches up and, without breaking eye contact, takes the whiskey glass from the other man's hand, tips it back and drains it himself, and then sets it on the desk beside his own. His smile is a lazy, speculative curve, his gaze locked with Zath's.

Zath watches the tie removal and unbuttoning with calm interest, then returns his gaze to Siamus's eyes once he's finished. His own eyes spark a little when Siamus takes the glass.

"We could be in opposition yes," says Zath, stepping closer and reaching past Siamus for the bottle.

He lets his gaze fall to the open portion of Siamus's shirt as he fetches the whiskey — less than two inches between them for a moment — and then retreats slightly with the bottle.

"But there are four open seats and only two of us," he says, pouring a small amount back into his emptied glass. "I see no reason we need be in direct conflict. Unless you find yourself inspired by the existence of a worthy nemesis." When he's finished pouring he doesn't take the glass back up, simply sets the bottle down near it.

"I'm a man that lives for a challenge, Captain," says Siamus, still with that smile. "But I also know some challenges are better met wi'a good ally beside." He reaches up to smooth an end of his moustache. "I'd say if we propose to establish alliance for the House, we'd have to know each other better as men. I don't suppose I could prevail on ye to stay for supper?" He pauses for a beat and then adds, in the same smooth, smiling tone, "After the fucking, o' course."