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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Siamus Fallon follows up on a concern about how much of a soul-sucking monster Roper's wife may or may not be, and discovers that may not be the most disturbing fact about her. 4100-ish words. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Arc: Death Knight PR
The little group of sailors in Fallon blue who rowed ashore at Moa'ki with the Vice Admiral troop up the path that leads away toward the low-slung inn in a boisterous cloud of talk and laughter, arms slung companionably around shoulders; it appears to be a reunion of some kind. Vice Admiral Fallon himself accompanies them only partway and then, with a smile after the group, turns away from the inn to head solitarily toward a bonfire near the edge of the tuskarr village.
He is dressed in a heavy blue greatcoat and tricorne hat, with an Alliance officer's epaulets of gold braid, and a sash of Alliance blue and gold — from which, today, hangs his sabre in its scabbard at his left hip, a pistol thrust into the sash at his right. Unlike the last time he met with Roper, he is armed.
But then again, maybe they're just the accessories of his wartime uniform. He doesn't seem particularly tense or edgy as he approaches the bonfire. He doesn't even seem to be anticipating anything in particular; he doesn't hurry, doesn't look around expectantly, doesn't look in general like a man on his way to a meeting.
Curiously, he doesn't stop immediately when he reaches the bonfire, but circles around to its far side so that he is facing not just the fire but the sea below and beyond it. Unlike some people might, he does not hold his hands out to the fire to warm them. He stands at the farthest possible distance from the flames at which he can still be in the circle of their warmth. He watches the water past the fire, rather than the fire itself.
Quite some distance away, obscured by dense trees and away from the possible glint of the Northrend sunlight, a death knight in well fortified and detailed full black saronite plate armor, lowers his spyglass at the sight of the Vice Admiral, vanishing it in a sleight of hand near a bag at his waist.
"That's Fallon. Came with people, sent them off, and now he's alone, with them in shouting but not easily visible distance," the spy reports, his voice clear and drawl-free, and flips his helm up from the ground with a kick of a boot, catching it neatly in a black leather clad hand, and he pulls it on over his face. "Good enough."
Roper turns to his wife, his expression hidden behind the helm, but he sounds serious, like he's looking at her intently. "Ready?"
The slender figure clad in spiky, saronite armor next to him nods, any subtlety in the movement that would indicate enthusiasm or reluctance hidden by the helm. Then she takes a breath and says quietly, "A good sign. Whatever Westwind said, this doesn't look like an ambush. I'm ready."
With no further waiting, she steps out from the trees and begins to make her way down to the tuskarr harbor town, raising a hand in greeting to several inhabitants as they pass.
Roper is a shadow just a step behind her, but he is behind her, not entirely at her side and not out in front, at least not yet. Their even heights making them seem even more alike, more anonymous in their armor, but despite it, as Roper nods at the tuskarr they pass, both of them are recognized; Roper in particular is greeted by name, his hidden face a common feature.
Before they're even within hailing distance of the Vice Admiral, there are those audible greetings from the kalu'ak, usually Roper of Karkut more than anything. As they get close enough to Siamus that he doesn't have to shout, Roper greets him politely. Well, okay. He says what he always does, his voice possibly familiar, his tone friendly enough.
"Hey."
As the tuskarr greetings come within range of him, Siamus turns his head; he watches the last of the death knights' approach mildly. When Roper greets him, he turns to face them and inclines his head politely. "Roper, apparently," he greets Roper’s armor in turn, with dry courtesy. "And, presumably, the lady wife?" He offers another respectful nod to the second suit of armor. "Is this… a regulation uniform, then, or simply a local dress code?"
"Bit of both. Some of it's that it was free armor with the knight part of death knight. But if you ask me, mostly it's for the aesthetic," Roper drawls, a hesitation before he pulls his helm off again, revealing the same ordinary human man's face as before. Still just as dead. His body language is relaxed (though Syarra would note, not dangerously so), not tense, a casualness in his voice. "And yeah. This is my wife." He doesn't introduce her, but that's not really his style anyway.
The other figure doesn't offer a hand to shake, but that's probably due to the dangerously spiky gauntlets. She nods a greeting to Vice Admiral Fallon, and then removes her own helm. Beneath, her dark hair is neatly braided back, and her face is pale, calm, and neutral — and clearly elvish.
"Syarra Sunstrike," she says by way of greeting, watching his expression. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Siamus's expression does nothing — which is to say, it goes from its usual faint, sardonic gleam to absolutely nothing, wiped neutral.
"I see," he says after a moment, though this doesn't seem to be an answer, exactly, to anything Syarra has said. He regards her for a moment, and then courtesy wins. "Likewise, Mrs. — it is Mrs.? — Sunstrike."
The glance he flicks at Roper could plausibly mean this question was directed at him, but in fact the look seems to be asking an entirely different, perhaps slightly stronger-worded question. What the fuck, perhaps.
"Or simply Syarra, if you prefer," she answers, nodding slightly in acceptance of the courtesy. If she caught the glance towards Roper at all, she makes no sign of it. She seems, still, entirely untroubled. "I understand that we know some of the same people, from whom it is possible you may have some misconceptions about me. I would be happy to clear up anything that I can."
Roper spreads his hands out — in those soft leather gloves of his, they're not as inherently threatening as his spiked gauntlets would be — in an open gesture in response to Siamus' strongly worded look. Roper's face is much more mobile than Syarra's, but at the moment, his isn't doing much beyond a slight flick upwards of his right brow. He never said Syarra was a human, just that she was his wife. And, his silence says, she can speak for herself. Given her tone thus far, it might be also more obvious that Roper's wife is the diplomatic, polite one of the two of them.
"May I ask," says Siamus in that same tone of genteel courtesy, "whether you are a high elf or a Horde elf, Mrs. Sunstrike? I realize that is perhaps an indelicate question to put to a lady at first meeting, but your husband is familiar with my allegiances, and I've been in talks with him regarding Alliance citizenship for Ebon knights. Which is, naturally, not an offer I can extend to agents of the Horde." His Gentleman Voice has slipped all traces of Kul Tiras, straightened out of his ordinary accent into a crisp and formal Stormwindian one.
"I am an agent of no one but the Ebon Blade, and I stand with my husband," Syarra says evenly, showing no sign of concern at Siamus's sudden change of manner. "I have a long history with the Alliance, as it happens. Your tongue, for instance, I learned while fighting alongside humans during the Second War."
The mention of the Second War does something to Siamus; it's evident in the flicker of his expression, the sudden easing of his posture. He reconsiders Syarra. "Where did ye fight, in the Second?"
"I was ground-based, rather than naval," Syarra admits, with a touch of reluctance. "Initially in Quel'Thalas, but then back towards Lordaeron City. It was… frustrating, how insistent our leaders were on isolation in those days. I wish they had chosen to build stronger ties, to dedicate more to the fight."
Roper gestures with one hand up to his right ear, finger tracing in the air around the roundness of the top, as he mouths we have cute ears. It was probably not for the cute human ears.
"Ye fought orcs?" Siamus flicks a sidelong look at Roper. It is unclear how funny he finds this in the moment, if at all.
"Yes," Syarra says simply, something shifting slightly, darkening in her calm expression, as she recalls the memories. "The orcs brought… enslaved red dragons with them. They burned the forests — it was devastating. But yes, I fought and killed them, and the Amani as well."
Siamus shifts his weight slightly, another degree away from the bonfire, and there is a pained crack in his own expression, though he recovers it almost at once. He nods. "I served in that war as well. I was there when they burned the Third Fleet."
Wait a sec, how old is this guy?
He gives Syarra a curt but respectful nod, and glances again at Roper. Okay, buddy, I guess she passes the test.
Roper's answering lopsided grin is maybe softer than it should be, the glow of his eyes just a little brighter and sharper, but maybe it just makes him look, for a moment, more animated.
Roper is not as much of a math guy, but he seems to be calculating something about Siamus all the same. "That's when I learned how to make a sword, or at least, that's the sword I know how to make. Standard Issue Alliance Infantry, circa the Second War. Probably was an apprentice to a blacksmith, but I'm not sure anymore. Memory problems. I just remember the swords and the making, not the people." He flicks his brows up and down.
Syarra shifts her stance, a position slightly more at ease, even if the change is not evident in her face.
"It's different for each of us," Syarra nods at Roper's comment. "I recall more, but there are other things. In any case, I'm a veteran of the Third War as well, though I was unfit to continue after the fall." Of Quel'thalas, she might mean, but it could also be Lordaeron. "My sister continued the fight against the Scourge in Lordaeron, and does still, with the Argent Crusade."
Siamus nods to Syarra again. "I served in the Third as well. All the way up through Theramore, at the end. And I'd thank your sister for her service in Lordaeron — on behalf of my lady wife — and for her present service. The Argents are doing good work." He does not say in spite of Tirion Fordring, so he deserves a cookie for his self-restraint.
Syarra will work on it for next time. Roper will not be allowed within 10 feet of baking cookies, to avoid the explosion of the oven after he tries to turn it up to 4000 degrees to make the cookies bake faster. Roper shifts his weight idly, his left hand tapping mostly silently against his leg, slow tap, tap. "And that's where we are now, cooperating with the Argents on their push into Icecrown. In our spare time, keeping up with our hobby of trying to keep Kaela and her fucking band of merry Scourge serving bitches from killing off our allies, whether they appreciate the efforts or not."
Siamus turns a sharper look on Roper. "Has she been up to more, lately? We kept Miss Westwind safe as we could for as long as we could, but now wi' the trial behind them, she and Morningdew are off again." He sounds more personally concerned for Rae than one might perhaps expect; almost paternally concerned, despite that Miss Westwind.
He sort of says Miss Westwind like it's a fond nickname. Ask his wife about it sometime.
Syarra tilts her head slightly, noting the manner of address. Maybe she'll ask his wife about it sometime, should the two ever meet and no combustion happens.
"Westwind is still a target," Syarra says, with a faint frown. "I would not be certain that Mourn alone can keep her safe."
Though there is also a hint of concern in Syarra's address, the feeling behind it is closer to how one might refer to a stray cat that refuses shelter in cold weather.
"Westwind's got Cobalt behind her, and she doesn't want anything to do with us, so we won't push it." Roper shrugs, a twitch of his left shoulder. "And we still got a target on one of the Argent's here, former honor guard of Mourn's, Tabiana Lynds. Her sister's one of Kaela's. Taya — the sister — made contact in a threat after Tabiana was down in Stormwind for the trial, but it was more a message, and given how things were, didn't seem directed by how Kaela would play it. Taya might be acting on her own. And that might be because Kaela's plans might have been fucked with recently. Based on what I saw in the Emerald Dream, Kaela was probably one of the sleepers, one of the shadows we fought."
Siamus raises his eyebrows. "Is that so? Well, then we can hope it's thrown her off. I confess I was — surprised to learn that Ebons ventured into… the Emerald Dream. That ye do sleep, and dream. If ye'll pardon my saying so."
Syarra's mouth opens slightly, and her careful composure breaks for a moment, but she doesn't speak. She turns her gaze towards the ocean.
Roper's tapping halts abruptly, a hand covered in a light frost out onto Syarra's shoulder — barely avoiding the spikes — his own expression serious but not hostile as he shifts his weight in just such a way to put himself more at her shoulder, not a step behind her, drawing attention to himself and away from his wife. "Yeah, we can. We don't have to, but we can. Most of the time it's a bit of a fuck you to Arseass, because under his rule, sleep was punishable by obliteration. Some of us were taken in the first sweep, before we knew what was fucking happening." He doesn't say that Syarra was one of them, but Siamus can probably put that math together. "It took Alaisa, too. Theris went to help, a guard that would never need to sleep once we knew to avoid it. And then we answered the call. I would have fought anyway even if no one I'd knew was taken, and so would those of our team because that's what we stand for, that we will show up when Azeroth needs an army."
Siamus nods respectfully. "Aye, a point I've been trying to make back in Stormwind. I know Morningdew was there as well, to assist."
He glances briefly back to Syarra, possibly doing that math, but doesn't comment on it.
Syarra takes a breath, and turns back to Siamus, composure back in place.
"Then things are going well, I would take it?" Syarra asks, starting to force a smile, and then stopping. People have told her that's disturbing. "I am curious if there was a particular reason you wanted to meet with me, if it wasn't…" she trails off. You know. The elf thing.
"To be honest," says Siamus, because he is an honest guy, "things aren't going much, at the moment. Morningdew lost us ground — I couldn't very well persuade half the House that Ebons are valuable allies wi'a case that sensational splashed across the papers. And then this business wi'the Dream… near everything came to a halt. I'm hoping that as we gain ground here in the north" — which, obviously, they're going to do — "and your lot throw in more visibly wi'the Argents, I'll be able to make a more persuasive case.
"And I wanted to meet ye because I'll no' make that case wi'only two Ebons in my acquaintance, aye? I should know more of ye, including the wife of the gentleman I've been dealing with." He looks Syarra up and down in what might be a certain sort of appraisal if she were alive, but probably is not since she's undead. I mean, probably.
"Also, Miss Westwind had some… things to say about ye, and I'd prefer to know a situation firsthand than trust to gossip and imagination."
Roper's attention goes sharper at the appraisal, the curl of his hand on Syarra's shoulder tighter on the metal. He's fine.
Syarra does not seem bothered by the appraisal, or maybe she doesn't exactly recognize that sort of thing easily anymore.
"Westwind is a person of…" she frowns, trying to find the right words. "…very delicate sensibilities. I confess I cannot predict what she might have said of me, given how her opinion of the Ebon Blade seems to fluctuate so wildly."
"Her opinion of the Ebon Blade seems fairly consistent; it's her opinion of Morningdew in specific that doesn't seem to fit wi'the rest." Siamus looks from Syarra to Roper and back again.
"She said the both of ye are a pair of monsters, but Roper's an honest one and you're a monster that 'destroys people from the inside out.'" He arches an eyebrow. Syarra Sunstrike, do you accept the charges against you?
Roper makes a quiet tsch sound. What's probably more telling than anything is that he doesn't seem insulted, on either of their behalf — he looks and sounds genuinely amused, rather than defensive, as he shakes his head.
Syarra spreads her hands in a measured gesture of helplessness. "I don't recall destroying anyone from the inside out during the time I was near Westwind," she says with a faint bafflement. "I only worked directly with her for a brief time, during which she claimed she wanted an unedited view of what death knights were like. I believe she was dishonest in that way. But to my memory, everything in that situation worked out exactly to her specifications, so I'm not certain I understand what grievance she holds."
"Something to do wi'an old comrade of hers, turned Scourge?" Siamus looks between the pair.
"Yeah, that's when we worked with her for a bit. It was the operation when we were trying to get to Kaela in Northrend, after she'd attacked Mourn, and one of Cobalt's went missing. Westwind insisted on coming with us, and she had good intel on Kaela, so." Roper shrugs, a swift rise and fall of his shoulders. "We found out that our information was outdated. It wasn't just Kaela. She'd raised her old squad, which again, Westwind had useful intel on that Mourn didn't. In particular, she identified the weakest link for us, guy named Mevlin. We set a trap, with Westwind's help, and got him separate, to get better intel on what Kaela was up to, and what her assets were. It's how we found out about her plans for Jenzelle and who was on her squad, and who wasn't. Westwind wanted to destroy him before we had all the information we could, and that's where we parted ways."
"We didn't have strong ties with the Argent Crusade in those days," Syarra adds, with a stiff shrug of her own. "Westwind claimed she would consult them on what should be done with the death knight. In reality, she was trying to find the nerve to kill him herself. My sister and I were guarding him on the day she decided to see if she could. She could not." Syarra pauses, perhaps considering whether that's a complete story, then continues, "In any case, we concluded someone with a pulse was needed to deal with her, so we sent my sister. My sister returned to say she'd been entrusted with the execution by Westwind and the Argent Crusade, and that she would carry it out according to Westwind's wishes. I'm… not sure where internal destruction comes into any of this?"
"We did, by the way, let her sister fucking destroy him the way Westwind wanted — I held him for her myself," Roper adds, with a touch of a drawl.
Siamus does not respond immediately to any of this. He considers it with the distant, patient air of a man who's been presented with new data and has to erase his whiteboard to revise some calculations.
"Well," he says at last. "Miss Westwind can be… volatile. She's young, and gets her hackles up. She seems a poor candidate for intelligence work generally." (He means that in the sense of information-gathering and espionage, Rae, please don't bite him again.) "I expect the internal destruction means it was… a difficult business for her in some… emotional way?" Ha ha young ladies and their emotions, what funny lil guys.
"She was clearly distressed, but that was simply the situation," Syarra says, her gaze going a little distant as she thinks back. There's a faint quirk at the corner of her lips, but then it fades. "In any case, I assumed Aszera would have seen to whatever… emotional… things… needed seeing." Emotional things? Ha ha living ladies and their emotions, what even are they?
Roper didn't know even in life, don't look at him now. "Sometimes you gotta just work with what you have, and at the time Westwind was what we had, but she's Mourn's to deal with now, and we still work with him just fine. For all of her grudge against us, we're still not gonna let Kaela take her, and we won't fuck with her emotional shit if we can avoid it. No sudden drop ins, no jump scares of being in places she'd be, no unwanted letters. We may be monsters by some people's definition, but we're not fucking rude."
Siamus spreads his hands: et voila. Don't be rude, that's all he asks. Well, don't be Horde and don't be rude. "Then that's all sorted, aye. And I'm obliged to ye for clearing it up."
Syarra nods. She might not be hitting all his requests exactly, but she's close enough. Hopefully.
"I am happy to do so," she says, and if her carefully measured tone doesn't quite sound happy and eager, well, maybe that's close enough too. "If there is anything else I can do to help the cause, I would be interested to hear."
Roper's all cute rounded ears as well.
"I've nowt at present." Siamus shakes his head. "If there's news from Stormwind I'll let ye know. The word from the 7th is that we'll be breaking through to Icecrown in a matter of days — I don't know what ye've heard from your Argent friends on the matter, or if it's different. If it's true, I expect we'll all have our business to attend there, but if there's aid ye can offer particularly that would shine a light on ye for the Alliance, I'll be sure to tap ye for it." His expression frosts over distantly for a moment. "I've… a matter of my own to set right up there, apart from the main order of business."
Roper raises his left brow high, and glances at Syarra, before looking back to Siamus. "Well, you've got a favor owed, if you decide you wanna cash in on it. In the meantime, we'll do what do." He weighs something in his mind before he adds, a slight scrape to his voice, "And Fallon — we'll remember that you came to talk about this, to clear it up, and listen. It's not a thing we always get a fucking chance to do. Thanks." Aw, look at him remembering his manners. Well, it's more like remembering to acknowledge the scales of perceived debt, but maybe that's close enough for government work.
Siamus raises his eyebrows and studies Roper for a moment. "I'm a man of my word," he says. "I'll no' throw a thing over lightly."
He turns to Syarra and offers her a courteous not-quite-bow. A lean of farewell. "Mrs. Sunstrike."
Syarra considers the courtesy, her gaze flicking over Siamus in a colder sort of appraisal. Then reaches to unlatch her saronite gauntlet, pull it off, and extend a pallid hand towards him.
"I am pleased we're on the same side, Vice Admiral Fallon," she says evenly, waiting for his reaction. "And I will watch for your people in Icecrown."
Roper watches Siamus, his eyes bright, for that reaction as well.
Siamus accepts her hand politely and without hesitation. He does not shake it as he did her husband's at their first meeting, but holds it a moment and offers another bow over it, this one more definite than the last; a gentleman's courtesy to a lady.
If he has feelings about the temperature or texture of her hand, they are no more evident than they would be if hers was the particularly clammy or sweaty-palmed hand of an anxious debutante. He is, after all, a gentleman.