![](http://cobalt-company.wdfiles.com/local--resized-images/writing:2024-09-25-three-may-keep-a-purpose-if-two-are-dead/style="margin:/medium.jpg) |
| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Celaven takes Syarra up on her offer of hospitality, willingly parting with useful information to the two death knights in residence at Redridge. Roper and Syarra decide what they'll do with that information and how they can twist it to their benefit. 10k~ words. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Arc: Death Knight PR
On the day set for Celaven to visit the current home of the Sunstrikes in the Redridge old army encampment, everything is ordered in such a way that seems to present the markings of a lived well, existed-in place, except that (unbeknownst to Celaven) nearly every single thing is technically wrong. That is, this is not the ordering of the home as Syarra and Roper usually exist in it: the bed is set on the opposite wall of the structure than it normally would be; the armor stand is not by the front door, but by the bed, and flanked by a sideboard table with a locked box atop it that ordinarily resides in the perpendicular corner across the way; the table, usually set in the near perfect center with its cushions arranged equally around it now takes up a space opposite the bed, with two small stands nearby for candles that should be paired with the bed; only one thing remains as it would be: that of Florande's little Nightmare carving, displayed as to be the first thing a person might see when entering the interior, in a place of honor on a singular shelf that seems to have been made for it.
The rest of the manner of the interior is truthful, to a degree, in that it betrays the information that the Sunstrikes favor a decor of sin'dorei style, because it is Syarra's doing, and that it is freakishly neat, and scoured to a deep clean, because that is Roper's doing. These pieces of information are permitted to be given to the kaldorei priest.
Roper is already home, seated at the table, his cushion facing the door, dressed not in his armor, but it in one of Cressidha's make — a black turtleneck and black well-tailored slacks, paired with shoes that are more fashionable than comfortable, and soft black cloth gloves covering his hands. His face is left uncovered, his liberally white salted hair styled back from his face, and his eyes aglow with a strong, unquenched blue flame. His right hand fiddles with a silver coin slightly bent, walking it over and over and over his knuckles, as his left hand taps out a rapid, impatient beat so hard that the table faintly rattles with it.
Roper does not have to be patient for much longer. The first thing that reaches the room is the sound of voices - Syarra's voice, cold and measured, and Celaven's, soft and reserved. It doesn't take long for the sound to start to resolve into words.
"…pleased for you that your unit will not be dissolved," Syarra says, with no sign of pleasure in her voice.
"Yes, as am I. I don't know where we'll be next deployed, and I might not be able to tell you if I did know," Celaven is saying smoothly. "That is, not you, specifically, but anyone. There is sometimes secrecy."
The door opens, and Syarra steps through. She's in her casual sin'dorei clothing, tailored to fit by Cressidha - slacks and a blood-red blouse - and her hair is loose. The grey pallor of her skin and the low echo in her voice make it clear she's not among the living. She moves over to stand by Roper immediately, turning to face the entrance.
Following her into the space is Celaven, his robes grey lined with bronze today, and his own long, purple hair tied back. His silver gaze starts to trail over the room, and stops at the Nightmare carving. He stares at it for a long moment before he turns to Roper and Syarra with a smile. "I am not sure what I expected your home to look like, but it is lovely. Thank you for inviting me."
Roper's eyes are unblinking as he watches Celaven, taking note of what Celaven takes note of, and leans his head in a gesture towards Syarra. "Syarra's doing," he says in response. To the way the home looks, or to his invitation? Probably both. He doesn't get up from his seat, palming the coin in one hand as he leans back onto it, and halts his tapping to flick a hand at the other cushions of the table. "You want anything to eat or drink? There's coffee made, and we've got tea we can make if that's your thing." It's like, hospitality and everything. Which might be in some ways more unsettling than just two death knights and their bare bones living space, made up of nothing but death and doom.
Celaven looks as though he's about to decline, but then he frowns and glances past towards where the coffee must be waiting, seeming to balance something in his mind.
"I would not want to trouble you, but coffee would be welcome," Celaven says finally, moving to kneel on a cushion across from Roper in the sin'dorei style.
Syarra sits on the cushion between them, setting her hand on the table on Roper's side. Not taking his hand, just making it clear where she stands in this gathering.
"Celaven was just telling me things are going reasonably well with his unit in the 7th Legion," Syarra says, her gaze fixed on the kaldorei.
Roper's brows flick up and down, as he rises with a smooth agility, crossing over to coffee. "Oh, yeah? What's that mean for 7th Legion, 'reasonably well,'" he drawls, as he plucks up a tuskarr-made mug, flipping it over in the air before catching it a bare quarter inch above the sideboard, setting it down, and pouring coffee into it, and repeating it for a second mug. "Deployment out to only the fucking armpit of the world, instead of the ass end of it?"
"For me, it means that my former captain will not be discharged," Celaven says smoothly, watching Roper pouring the coffee. "Which was not a certainty, given the circumstances during which he acquired the worgen curse. And that I am now a full, official member of that unit." He nods at the carving. "Is that one of your work?"
Syarra smiles, an artificial gesture, and shakes her head. "It was a gift - to Roper."
Roper arches his left brow as he turns, carting both coffees in hand with the mannerisms of a man who once either genuinely worked or whose one of his persona's worked in food service, setting one down on the table, and sliding with an expert judgement of how hard to push it to have it land in front without going too far over the edge to Celaven's place on the table. He sets his own down with a little tap. "You don't recognize the handiwork? S'from your sister, Florande, after that fucking Nightmare War. She's got skill, good artistic eye, and hey, a good idea of who'd appreciate what." Roper's voice is smooth, no trace of the husky rasp of his natural voice, the barest touch of amused drawl drawing out some of his vowels.
"I recognize the Nightmare," Celaven says, looking again at the carving. He lifts the coffee and takes a sip, not reacting to the likely chill of the liquid and setting the cup down gently. There's the faintest touch of envy in his voice as he continues to say, "I didn't realize the two of you had been getting along so well."
"I have not met her," Syarra says quietly, resting her hands on the table. "I may, someday, but we have not seen her recently."
Celaven raises one eyebrow. "Did you know she was with the team that went undersea?"
Roper's twist of a smirk says the answer even before he says, "Yeah. White Squad, with Cobalt, meant to be out to Tol Barad until whoops, hell of a kraken, and then weeks long lack of communication. Turns out, it's all back to naga and that fucking Twilight's Hammer bullshit. They're up out of the ocean, and working with Vice Admiral Fallon, and the Alliance naval fleet out there." How he knows all that isn't clear — the implication is, of course, that Florande could have been the one to tell him. Or maybe he's keeping other tabs. "But you're not the only one with family at stake on how all that fucking kraken and Neptulon shit turns out." He gives Celaven a cheers gestures before downing half his cold brew coffee and setting it back down, his eyes unblinking as he watches the priest.
"I see I need not share my news," Celaven says with a faintly amused smile. "But you have family there? I was not aware." That he had family at all, or that they were in the sea? Unclear.
"Aze has joined in the fight to tell the naga to fuck off, sharpish. Argent Crusade's fighting the good fight in the Plaguelands, but not a lot of demons out there, and a whole lot more weird fucking things in the ocean that need killing," Roper says, a dark edge in his voice as he claims Aze as his family. "Less weird things here. It's simple. Dragoncrazy orcs, bad. Everyone else, good."
From his expression, it is clear that this is all news to Celaven. "It's good, then, that they will have additional support. It almost seems a good location for those such as you, as you do not need to breathe underwater."
"I would not appreciate the armor upkeep," Syarra says quietly. "And in any case, we are needed here. I prefer the simplicity. How have the rest of your family been?"
"They're in Hyjal for the most part," Celaven says, taking another sip of cold coffee. "I believe the battle there is all but won at this point. I confess I have not been there recently, due to the 7th Legion training."
"Yeah, Colson and Mordecai are out there, and looks like Twilight's Hammer found out the whole Burning Legion fuck around with druids on their own turf and find out thing," Roper says. Did Colson tell him about this? Who knows. He taps slowly with his left hand on the table. Maybe an idle tic. "So, you're what, in a unit with a worgen now?"
"Yes, I am," Celaven says smoothly. "Not originally - we were deployed in Gilneas, and there was an incident."
Syarra does not look surprised by this information. She knew this much, and thus so does Roper.
"We'll be doing some teambuilding exercises soon, but we haven't…" Celaven looks down at his coffee. "We haven't been in the field since the incident. I'm certain it will be fine, though. The worgen I've seen thus far seem very in control of their particular curse."
Roper shrugs, a quick rise and fall of his left shoulder. "If you're expecting me to clutch my pearls at the thought of monsters just getting their footing on full control fighting the good fight, you'll have to forgive me — I left them in my old grave and it's just a hassle to go find that kind of ditch." He flicks his coin into his hand, walking it over his right hand knuckles in a completely different time as the slow taps of his left hand on the table.
"We know what it's like to be new to controlling a fucking cursed existence. And from what I've seen, it's probably better to get them working with normal people sooner rather than later, if you want to use the Ebon Blade as a test case of caution. Some of us got too isolated into the undead social circle and now talking like normal fucking people or behaving like they're not a gods damned freak is suddenly a high ask."
"Yes, well, I am well aware that bearing a curse oneself does not necessarily engender empathy for others in different, difficult situations," Celaven says, definitely not mentioning Aze. "But as it happens I agree. And those I have spoken with hardly seemed cursed, though of course the situation with the ferals and the kaldorei is different. There were ferals on our side, in Gilneas, but also those who were simply… wild."
"How are the kaldorei different?" Syarra asks, watching Celaven carefully, even as her body language puts her firmly on Roper's side of the table.
"That's where the curse originated," Celaven explains. "It was a… failed druid form. Too dangerous to be controlled."
Roper's head tilts. "But it can't just be that, now. Unless Gilneans got real freaky behind those walls and druidism blew up in popularity more than when gnomes invented a fucking automated bread slicer," he drawls. "Does it curse people into druids, or is it separate? Your former captain was a warlock. What's happened to that?"
"It's a long story, and one kept quiet for a considerably long time," Celaven says, taking a breath. "But no longer, I suppose, so it is free to tell. The druids from that time were not slain. They were left sleeping in the Emerald Dream." He nods at Roper. "A place you and I at least might find familiar."
Syarra stares on impassively, volunteering no information about what she might have been doing during that time. "That still doesn't explain how it reached Gilneas."
Celaven gestures to her, accepting the comment. "It seems that a mage, seeking to defend Gilneas from the Scourge, unwisely found a way to summon them from the Dream. Not long after, it was determined that the curse could be spread via bite. Thus, the Gilnean worgen are not druids, not necessarily. They are whoever they were before, warlock or baker or housemaid or whatever else. Only now, with an unlooked-for curse."
Roper's eyes narrow. "So what you're saying is, doesn't matter if they're a druid, just gotta be someone. And the worgen can make more of themselves with a bite." He flips the coin in his hand, catching it between his two fingers, and flicks his wrist; the silver coin disappears, a gold one sanded down on one side replacing it. "That's one real difference between worgen and death knights or even demon hunters. We might know the how, but it's not something we could do by fucking accident or in a fit of rage, and in our case, you need a fucking Lich King to even raise one of us. Don't envy them how that whole curse-passing-bite is gonna go over with most people." He regards the coin like it's the one about to do something very interesting. "And it's only a matter of time before someone decides they want to be cursed, for the power or because they just really hate buying winter fur coats, and then that'll be a whole barrel of fish to sort out. If it's allowed if it's voluntary, if anyone can spread it for any reason, or if it's illegal, and all that will mean is that it'll still happen, just on sly."
"You needn't worry, for yourself," Celaven says, and takes a moment for another sip of coffee before he explains. "There is a conflict of curses."
"Conflict of curses," Syarra repeats, her brow creasing. "What do you mean by that."
"It is something we learned in Gilneas," Celaven explains. "Worgen cannot be raised as Forsaken. By corollary, I assume the undead cannot become worgen. At least, neither way without the meddling of someone powerful, like a Lich King. And I think these days he would not."
Roper makes a ha of a sound. "Yeah," is all he says on that, studying his coin in his right hand, while his left hand tap, tap, taps. His gaze shifts to Celaven. "What about the rest of it? The arcane, the fel, the Light? What else does the curse conflict with?"
"The fel seems not to conflict, as my former captain is still a warlock," Celaven says, considering. "As for the Light, there are those among them who wield it. I'm afraid I've seen no evidence of the arcane, but it seems like the situation is similar. Perhaps it is that the curse is associated with druidic magic, thus life magic, and its opposition in death magic."
"That could make sense," Syarra agrees, tapping the table soundlessly with one finger in an echo of Roper. "You know many worgen, then?"
"Not many, no," Celaven admits. "I've met a few… are you interested in worgen?"
"Isn't everyone?" Roper asks with a shrug, a careless lazy sort of half wiggle of his shoulders more than anything. "They're new, and they're some kind of fucked up weird, but like with anything, the more you know about something, the better you understand it, and know what you're going to do about it. The scariest monsters are always those you don't know anything about." He palms the gold coin, leaning forward again to pick up his coffee and finish it off. "Any of those few worgen you met out this way? I heard they were mostly over in Darnassus, but at least some got to be starting to wander over back this way to the Eastern Kingdoms."
"Well, there's my former captain, and some joined Cobalt Company prior to my departure for the 7th Legion, as well," Celaven says, watching the coin disappear. He keeps his own hands still and calm. "The Gravehowl Pack, they call themselves. A few of them were at the recent Aspenwood wedding - a harvest witch, a healer, an architect, if I have my rumors correct."
"Sounds like the set up for a fucking bar joke," Roper drawls, but it's not amusement in those burning eyes, there's an intensity that some would find unsettling. "What kind of architect?"
"Homes, mostly, I think," Celaven's gaze travels around the room. "Why, are you interested in hiring?"
Roper moves both his hands in an open gesture, palms up. "Never know when a contact like that might come in handy, and someone like a worgen architect might be just the type to really get the whole 'throwing stones from glass houses' thing."
"We are always open to new allies," Syarra says with a smile too brief to truly tell if it's genuine. "What else do you know about the architect?"
Celaven looks from Roper to Syarra and back. "She's red-haired, which I'm given to understand is uncommon for humans. She seemed… rather confident in herself? Oh, and her name is Merelda Veyne."
"Just so you know, 'Merelda Veyne' as a name is a whole lot more uncommon for humans than red hair, so you might want to lead with that one next time," Roper drawls, a dark amusement in his voice. His left hand is still tapping slowly, as if he's got some sort of slow song stuck in his head and he has to keep the beat going. "Who were you there for, the wedding? Bride, groom, or just the free food?"
Celaven actually does chuckle briefly at that, fair point. Then he answers, "The groom, I suppose, though I didn't know him well. He was in Cobalt, and invited the Company. But also, my partner and…" Celaven pauses, less than a breath, and continues, "She was interested in attending, meeting new people."
"I've heard the danger is past," Syarra says, watching Celaven closely. "The death knight situation, regarding your partner."
"Yes, that death knight is now truly dead," Celaven confirms. "The danger, at least, has been dealt with, though not by me."
Roper's head tilts to the side. "What, disappointed that it wasn't?"
Celaven considers that as if it is a genuine question and not a taunt. Maybe it is. Then he answers, "No, not particularly. I am sure you've noticed that I have, to some extent, further developed my abilities with shadow. Nevertheless, I have no real desire to cause harm to others, even those who merit it. I was not even present, in the end, when the death knight in question was killed. My partner was - she fights her own battles."
"You trust her," Syarra says, and it sounds like a question.
"Yes," Celaven confirms. "And you, are you pleased that the ringleader Scourge death knight is now gone?"
"Yeah, I am," Roper confirms, an echo in his voice as he leans forward. "And yeah, for the record, I am disappointed I wasn't there at least to see it happen, watch her finally go down, see the moment she knew she'd be rotting in the fucking Void for the rest of eternity." He leans back again, the echo tucked back away, that dark, vicious edge sheathed like a knife that slipped out. "If your girl's any good at carvings the way your sister is, she ever get it into her head to do a commemorative carving of Kaela Fucking Mondragon meeting her end, tell her I'll buy it off her."
"She is not," Celaven says, almost apologetically. "And I don't think Florande takes commissions. But if she ever does make art of the moment, I will tell her."
Syarra glances at the Nightmare carving. "That might merit a spot of prominence. The conclusion of the first mission I took on after death. Maybe one day, if she lives long enough, Westwind will realize I was never the enemy."
Roper snorts, a bitter look pulling up his lip in the start of either a sneer or a snarl, before clicks his tongue against his teeth. "Doubt it. Some people, they look at what you do and what you say and decide if you're friend or foe. Other people, they decide what you are, and then frame everything you do or say to what they want to believe. Westwind's proving she's the second type. Doesn't matter what we do or what we say, we're the enemy, and so everything we do will be shoved in to fit into that. No fucking point in trying, because there's no winning that game any more than playing to win in a gambling house."
"When it comes to her, I've said what I've said and I've done what I've done, and I have no regrets," Syarra says simply. "If anything changes in her regard for me, it will be in her own mind."
"It must be difficult, facing something like that," Celaven says, in a possibly reflexive reach for empathy. "I hope you know that whatever support I have failed to give in the past, it was not from judgment in advance. It was from… knowledge, and my own uncertainty with how to arrange it in my heart."
Roper gives a cold laugh, but there's no threat in it, his eyes narrowing in amusement. "It might surprise you then to hear me say that I don't fucking trust anyone who trusts us right off the bat, without any reason to do so. It's why I give references and reasons, because anyone worth working with will check them. The smart ones know to actually wait and see for themselves what we are, who we are. Death Knights aren't just people with a complexion problem and excellent taste in cutting edge armor fashion," Roper says, his voice midnight dark.
"You should treat every one of us you meet with caution, because we aren't a fucking monolith, and some of us are always dangerous, and not to be trusted at all among the living without supervision, and you should not let your guard down around them, and we'll be the first ones to admit it. Doesn't mean we aren't people, but anyone who looks at us and sees nothing wrong has something fucking wrong with them and it'll probably get them killed eventually."
"I will never look at you, or her, and see nothing wrong," Celaven says mildly, with just the faintest hint of a shift back from the table. "But however much or little you hold in common with who you were before, I agree that you are people. I cannot speak as to any other death knights, but I have known you both for nearly two years now, and I believe your actions demonstrate your goals and values."
Roper gives Celaven a sharp smile, the curve of his lip pulling up, his eyes focused on the priest, as he spreads his hands out in an open gesture. "Exactly. See, you get it."
"Do you think that these new allies, the worgen, get it?" Syarra asks with a mild curiosity in her cold voice.
"I don't think they know anything about death knights at all," Celaven says, with a slight shrug. "None of the baggage and none of the knowledge. They were hidden behind a wall during the Third War, and have only just emerged to be attacked by the Forsaken. I can't guarantee they would not just group all undead together in their minds, but they have no history with death knights."
There's a greater chill in the air at the mention of what the Forsaken may have done to set the tone for the Gilneans, and Roper makes an annoyed tsch sound as he sits back, pulling the cold back to leave only that memory of the passing dip in temperature. "Fucking Forsaken," he says with a hard edge to his voice. "Forever committed to their whole thing of being the cautionary tale of going so deep into cackling evil aesthetic that they believe it and act on it. You heard about how that Banshee Bitch has taken one of ours, Ebon Blade, holding him in who fucking knows what?"
"Yes, Syarra mentioned something of that," Celaven says, his brows lowering. "One would think they would seek to maintain a cordial relationship with a force like the Ebon Blade."
"One would think," Syarra says dryly, her face dropping into lines of blank neutrality. "But then we are not seeking to make more death knights, and they are able to make more Forsaken, with the val'kyr. Perhaps they believe they can gain safety against us through numbers."
"Having fought with your kind in Icecrown Citadel, I find their chance of realizing that hope… unlikely," Celaven says, taking another sip of cold coffee.
Roper runs his tongue along a tooth. "No, but it's the game of winning a war of attrition. If one side can refill their ranks, and the other won't, it doesn't matter if it takes them a hundred Forsaken to take down one of us, as long as they find another hundred to take down another one of us, we're down two that won't be replaced, and they don't give a fuck about raising up more to get their own numbers back up. Our morals against spreading our fucking existence could damn us, if we're left on our own to fight that sort of show down," Roper says, the echo faintly reverberating in his voice.
"I understand, then, why you seem so driven to secure allies," Celaven says calmly, watching Roper. "I hope we never come to the day where you are forced to consider violating your morals, in order to survive."
"We will not," Syarra says, her voice cold. "I would not allow it, for one, if it were within my power. What was done to us should never be done to anyone."
"But there's always gonna be someone who would, like that bitch Kaela, and we don't want to give them a reason to start thinking like the Fucking Forsaken. We're on the same side as the living in that. And not only that, but we can't be idle," Roper says, flicking his silver coin into his palm, dancing it across his knuckles. "Working with the living to actual fucking purpose instead of mindless slaughter of whatever's managed to drag itself up in the Plaguelands keeps us where we should be, and on the right sides. Shadow can fit right into the scheme of things with the light, right?"
"There is a time that I would not have agreed with you," Celaven says, setting one hand on the table. "But I have always tried to keep an open mind, and I have found my perspective… challenged in recent years. I think it is good for everyone to have a purpose, to work for something beyond mere survival. However, I must tell you that you will likely find no welcome among the kaldorei. My partner Velrin is surprisingly sympathetic to the plight of the Ebon Blade, but that is not a common sentiment. I think you are right to pursue your path among humans. I expect the practicality of gnomes and dwarves may also lead them to make good allies. I cannot say as to the worgen, but you do have some commonality in having an unasked-for curse forced upon you."
Roper shrugs, a quick rise and fall of his shoulders. "Welcome is relative. We don't need to be loved or lauded. Tolerated is good enough, and hey, you never know. Could be some day down the line someone does something real fucking stupid like tries to destroy the kaldorei on Azeroth's home turf, and if that happens, we'll show up in defense. We know what side we're on."
"On the side of the Alliance?" Celaven asks. "Or do you still maintain neutrality?"
Syarra doesn't answer that one, looking to Roper.
Roper spread his arms out in a gesture of look around at where they are. "We're on the side not trying to kill us and lock us up somewhere. The Ebon Blade can afford to be neutral the way the Argent Crusade can be neutral. But individuals? Can't be fucking neutral when one side offers an opportunity for citizenship and protection and the other side is out there doing shit like pushing the limits of becoming the next Scourge."
"That is a very practical approach," Celaven says dryly. "But you may want to phrase more about believing in the ideals of the Alliance. Such as the ideal of not imprisoning one's own allies and attempting to become the next Scourge."
For a brief moment, Syarra smiles at that, but then she nods. "I tend to agree with those particular ideals, yes. Of course, you know one other reason we're bound more closely to the Alliance."
"I… yes, I remember," Celaven says quietly. "Though I believe that is still not widely known."
"Only a matter of time. A secret that big isn't something that can be kept. There's a reason everyone knows that SI:7 exists, and the head of it is Matthias Shaw. If you tried to keep that shut up, you'd have to kill so many people that it'd be a fucking slaughter, and that would be real fucking stupid," Roper says, flipping the coin, catching it, and then rising to an agile stand as he brings his coffee mug up with him. "Sometimes you just gotta let free will be free will, and deal with the fall out."
"In any case, I will not spread the knowledge," Celaven says firmly. "Velrin does not even know - she fell from the Citadel before the end. And it didn't seem… relevant, after that, to discuss what became of the Lich King. I would not lie to her, but I will not bring it up."
Roper looks to his mug, swinging it around by the handle, as he goes to refill his cup. "Sure. As for us, you know what they say: three may keep a secret if two of them are dead."
"Then perhaps the three of us will do," Celaven says with a quirk of a smile. He finishes his own coffee, and rises to his feet. "I thank you for your hospitality, but I would not want to overstay my welcome. Should you have need of me, you know where to send word."
"Of course," Syarra says, keeping her eyes on him but holding to her seat. "And you know where to find us, as well, should there be a call for our particular form of problem-solving."
Roper raises a hand, flicking his wrist in a suggestion of a wave. "See ya, Celaven," he says, his back still turned, his attention on his own coffee.
As soon as the kaldorei priest has gone, Roper lifts his coffee up, drinks it in one long pull, and sets the mug back down with a faint thunk, turning in place to lean back against it as he faces Syarra, a twisted smile on his face. "If there wasn't a part of me that just wants to rip his eyes out of his skull every time he looks at you, I'd like him," he drawls. "Or something close to it anyway."
Syarra smiles, maybe imagining ripping eyes out of skulls, and says, "He's turned into a good ally. As you said before, it's better when they're wary at first, when you can win them over with time. His connections, as well, could be useful. The priesthood of Elune, the kaldorei, the 7th Legion. And his sister - if she's accessible, you do seem to have made a good impression."
Roper puts a dramatic hand to his chest, fingers splayed and palm arched, as he feigns a gasp. "I'm hurt," he says, definitely not hurt, as she can well tell. "You say that like it's a surprise, as if I'm not obviously very charming with all my first impressions." He blinks his eyes like a debutante trying out her first flirtation in the ballroom.
"You do have a certain type of charm," Syarra says seriously, "Especially when contrasted with an eldritch nightmare, I'd imagine. Do you think we should ask my sister to further the acquaintance, or would she be more likely to destroy it? Then again, we would have to write to her…"
Roper drops the affronted act, and shakes his head. "No, in this case, Aze might be something of a liability more than an asset, because it's not just living or dead. The kaldorei have some real fucking hangups around demon hunters thanks to that — fucking bastard Illidan." The suddenness of the rage is explosive, ice snapping over Roper and across half the floor, leaving him struggling to contain it. He had always reacted with some inner anger at the mention of The Betrayer, but now, the cause for his anger, the memories that fueled it, are truer and fuller. He clenches his jaw as he tips his head back, hands clenched so tight into fists that he is causing himself the smallest amount of pain. His voice is raspy, and echoing as he continues, "It'd be bad not just for us, but could put Aze in danger. We keep her out of that corner."
The ice remains, shimmering with lethally cold temperatures.
Syarra shifts at the sudden brutal cold, but not to move away - she raises a hand towards him by reflex more than feeling, and then she looks a little puzzled at her own reaction and lowers it to the table.
"You weren't this angry before. Has something changed?" Syarra tilts her head. "Should I warn Aze, before you see her again, if she's likely to provoke a similar reaction?"
Roper shakes his head, somewhere between a negation and like a dog shedding water, muscles twitching in his face, as he holds out a hand, clenches it into a fist, and then lets it go, the ice dissipating. He twitches his shoulders, his body moving in tics, as if he's slipped a little outside his body and is resettling it now.
"No. No, it'll fade again," he says, the echo still bouncing around in his voice. "I just know why I hate the demon fucker. Alaisa told me it was a brother who died, that I cared about. I'd told her that much after it happened. She didn't know that it was fucking Byron that it happened to. I remember him. He was the only one who cared about me, of my family. I know that about him. He did everything he could, and he scraped and scrounged and suffered onto the straight and narrow to do better for all of us, and he got killed because Illidan couldn't fucking — " Roper stops midsentence, closes his eyes, a strange, ruthless smile that seems too sharp and cold to be anything approaching amusement.
"Doesn't matter. It's done and gone, now. He's dead, and if I ever have a shot to take at Illidan, if he's still fucking out there, I'll take it, but otherwise, that's the Other Roper's anger," Current Roper says, the anger starting to fade back once more.
"Byron," Syarra says, trying out the unfamiliar name. "From what I know, at least, Illidan Stormrage is dead as well, along with most of those who followed in his footsteps. Aze seems to hate the… demon fucker… as well. Or dislikes him. Or something different? I do not always understand her feelings. But I believe the origin is considerably different in nature. She doesn't speak to me very much about her affliction or the time leading up to it, so I cannot explain why." Syarra falls silent, her brow creasing as though she is thinking through something, before she finally adds, "It is good to know, that you had some family that was worth the name."
Roper snorts something like a laugh and a scoff. "He changed it, you know. His name. Refused to by 'Favre,' because that name meant shit. Went by 'Eden,' a made up name. You wouldn't find his records properly in anywhere, got his papers scrubbed by fucking SI:7." He shakes his head, and spreads out his hands. "That's something more you and I have in common, though. A sibling that caught in the wake of that demon fucker. And he was killed. But that's not the same thing as being dead, or gone. Who fucking even knows if he was mortal enough to die properly, or what someone might have done after. Fuck knows Kel'Thuzad's been stomped down enough times, and the shithead lich won't stop clawing his way back through hell."
"If Illidan was enough of a demon not to die…" Syarra frowns, and doesn't finish that thought. Instead, she says, "What happened to him? Byron Eden, that is. The Third War, was it?"
Roper clenches his hands into fists, crosses his arms, and leans back against the sideboard, frowning. "He was a…diplomat." His face flickers in various half starts of expressions. "It's not entirely — I don't remember it all clearly. It's not burnt, just…hazy. He was working at Mt. Hyjal, with the Alliance. He wasn't like Alaisa or anything with languages, but he was good with them, quick on picking up expressions and reading people, good at talking. Things went wrong with Illidan and his fucking parole deal, and Byron was caught in the crossfire, because Illidan didn't give two fucks about anyone but himself and never has. There wasn't even anyone around who could try to resurrect Byron, or the rest. I didn't know for weeks after. I was elsewhere, on mission."
"It's important to have a healer," Syarra murmurs, almost mechanically, as she takes in the information. "He sounds like the sort of person you tend you appreciate, even beyond his connection to you as a brother. And… you lost him not so long before you died, yourself." Syarra pauses, thinking, and then says, "If there's ever an opportunity to take vengeance, I will help, if it's something you still want by the time the opportunity rises. For the time being, though, it seems we will be constrained to fighting orcs."
Roper shrugs, a right shouldered roll, as he unfolds his arms, and turns to pick up the sideboard from its place, moving it towards the center as he begins the rearranging of furniture to where they actually belong. "Orcs are better than fucking demons anyway. Those things taste like fel and ash, and never really satisfy no matter how many you kill, even if you can get real inventive with a lot of them."
"Aze was… in my nightmare…" Syarra's gaze goes unfocused, a faint shiver in her arms, before she shakes her head. "You're right. That must be why she was… like I remembered before Outland. In any case, we'll have to be careful - Celaven happened upon me finishing a fight, the last time we met. I wouldn't do anything too unpalatable in an uncontrolled environment, but it might have been enough to startle those church girls, or Kalindra Azuredown."
Roper crosses the room to pick up the nightstands that go elsewhere from where they currently are. "Always gotta assume you're being watched by someone," says the paranoid spy. "But, there's 'startle' and then there's storming in with self-righteousness to smite the fucking abomination against nature caught red-handed not being a fucking saint. That priest and her paladin have at least been around one of us long enough that they'd probably pause before taking out the Light hammers. That Azuredown likely to get up in arms about it if she sees me at it, or was it enough meeting you to realize we're not mindless things to destroy on sight?"
"It's the opposite for her, I think," Syarra rises, moving around the room to shift other bits and pieces into their appropriate configurations. "She was very sympathetic - I don't know how much of that was a sense of shared history, or how much was simple pity. She was curious about the Hunger, but not repelled by it. I think she wants to look at us and not see a monster. Which could be dangerous, if one day I slip in a way that doesn't fit the idea she forms of what we are."
Roper moves his head side to side as he sets down a nightstand to where it really goes. "Could be. Could go the other way around, too. Someone likes, and more importantly, wants to like someone, they'll fit actions into that frame even if they've got to slice off pieces of the actions to fit the metaphorical shoe, especially if they've started riding their own reputation on claiming someone as a friend." He adjusts the nightstand a quarter of an inch to the side until it is just so. "Get up high enough in someone's hierarchy and they'll bend over backwards against even their own morals to keep you there."
"I can try to move things that way," Syarra says, setting down a cushion in the appropriate location and moving to lift another. "I did not try to discourage her sympathy in any significant way. I tried only to be direct and honest, so that any surprises would hopefully not seem so in retrospect. There is scope for deepening ties - she is building a quel'dorei hunting lodge. I have offered to teach what I can, from my own training prior to death, though I do not know if she will take me up on that." Syarra moves over to pull the table to its place, and adds, "She is quel'dorei, by choice, which is a thing that would have stood between us, if I were still alive. Other Syarra's… opinions."
Roper's head turns, brows flicking up and down. "Other Syarra wouldn't have had anything to fucking gain from linking up with a quel'dorei stranded out here in the Alliance. This one though, teaching at a lodge, that's a fucking windfall of an in for a future. Like with the Argent Crusade. The more people who train around you, especially as a teacher, that's another entire group willing to volunteer to work with us next time some big thing comes along and the question is raised, hey, who the fuck will stand shoulder to shoulder with the death knights? And if it goes well? You could get an entire additional squad of people willing to take action when you ask for it, bound to the tie of a student to a master."
Syarra lets the table settle with a solid thunk, and says, "I hadn't thought that far ahead. I suppose I'm still a little uncertain of my place here, and I was not looking for too much prominence. But… I could build on that. I could speak further with Kalindra more, express more of a desire to teach what I know - what will be acceptable to the living. Not full-time, naturally, but I think I can remember how to be a good teacher for long enough. Like with the Argent Crusade and the Crimson Coterie, I have enough control that I won't fuck it up." Syarra looks to Roper, something of a question in that last statement.
All Roper does is think that far ahead, ten steps out always. He pauses in his room reorganization, moving his fingers of his right hand idly like he's walking an invisible coin over them. "Even if it was short term, it'd be worth it. Could be some people's first up close and personal with one of us, and you've got the skillset to make them see the right things to take even the dangerous ones down a notch from thinking they'd execute one of us on sight if they got a chance, to pausing and reconsidering if they got the opportunity. Kalindra herself might be the most useful asset there for it. Where she leads, her followers might follow. Just be careful with that edge between palatable and lying, even the direct and honest lying of a paladin," Roper says, his voice dry and amused.
"But it's a good use of our time here to build the connection. Might want to wait until Kalindra's got enough of her own pull in place for students, but that gives you time to get her up to an asset. Move in too early, and some people might balk at coming to a lodge hearing that a death knight is in it. Slow and steady with building up the disease until they're fully caught in the palm of your hand, never having noticed it taking root," he croons. "Your specialty."
"Nice and slow, and let it spread before they even notice," Syarra nods, with a faint smile, as she considers the potentially contagious properties of mutual respect. "There's no need to rush. This plan of hers is, I think, for decades. We have time." She moves to grab the rest of the cushions. "We may not stay in Redridge forever, though, so I should try to make sure that connection is built before we move on. Wherever we go, I expect I will be able to return to the Lodge, to teach from time to time. Provided I have secured a welcome. I will do my best." She drops cushions, each in place, and says, "Do you have any more leads among the humans? Perhaps the Tennerow girl and her paladin, if they seem sympathetic?"
Roper snorts. "Me? With those two? No, they've still got all their Light wielding baby teeth, anyone can see that. Mercy's done what's needed, being an ex-Light wielder and a believer herself. I was a fucking heathen even alive, and all I'll do now is piss them off more the longer I'm around them. Even if it is funny to watch Little Dara play at being a priestess," he says. "And there's a tricky line to walk there with her brother. One hand, he'll want to know what she's doing, and she's definitely not telling him everything. Other hand, getting that information by actually hanging around, or worse, following his sister around, even if all we did was report it through the people they've been talking to, isn't how he'd want the information. It'd remind him that his baby sister is associating with our kind."
"Playing at being a priestess," Syarra raises an eyebrow. "You don't think she's serious? Or did you know her, before, now that you can remember? She didn't seem to recognize either of us. But I do think Mercy was doing good work there, whether she intended it or not. As for the brother… we can bolster that connection. He was wary, yes, but wariness can be overcome with time. That might be to our credit when he finds out all the things she isn't telling him. It may be that the idea of a baby sister with our eyes on her is better than the idea of her facing orcs and Scourge remnants and whatever else, alone with her girlfriend."
"Knew them both before, not closely, and not usually as Tibault. Had a few turns here and there as hired on extra staff for events where they were, good places to observe them along with others. Dara was always a flirt and a flit, given to taking risks chasing down a bit of fun that she'd regret and became someone else's problem who would have to clean it up, usually her brother," Roper says dismissively. "Devon was always warier and quieter. So quiet in fact, that he usually didn't chase after a thing he wanted. That wife of Devon's was his flame back in the day, the one that got away, so with him getting her at long fucking last, it keeps him in a good enough mood to be easier to turn to something he might otherwise push back harder on. But at the end of the day, us killing off orcs around his territory is what's gonna put a smile on his face. " He contemplates this as he moves over to the bed. This one he can't move on his own.
"It's the paladin that I don't know at all, just the name. 'Valonforth' meant something in Lordaeron nobility. They're so deep into the devout propaganda that they're practically born with their heads up their holier-than-thou asses. Either one of us is likely to trigger that itchy paladin Light worshiper hammer finger, and without someone willing to be a barrier between us and her, it'll just be a matter of time before the house of cards comes down," Roper says. "And that won't be Dara. She's not going to side with a death knight over her girl, especially since they're engaged."
Syarra nods, clearly fitting these new pieces of information into her model of the three people in question. "Mercy was in a much more precarious situation than I realized. She did remarkably well, in that case. They spoke of her as a valued companion, despite how deeply Valonforth is into the Light. As for Dara… people can change. I think I do see that in her, what little we spoke, a certain flightiness. But then, she was also working in the Plaguelands - to the extent of dying to Deathwing - which is a far cry from chasing down inadvisable fun in a ballroom. It might be that her involvement with the paladin will make her more dangerous to us, but then again, if they've found some way to incorporate the facts of our existence into their idea of the Light…" Syarra raises one hand, a half-shrug, and steps over to help Roper move the bed.
"It's also possible they have no idea what they were dealing with in Mercy, if she was very well-behaved. Perhaps they saw her merely as an unusually pale and noble companion.They did seem nervous of us, so if that is the case then Mercy may have unintentionally made a trap for us to fall into. If they see us as we truly are, the hammer comes down. With her living here, we may encounter them, so it would be good to know on which side we stand. As for the brother, yes, we agree there on how to handle him. The other brother, I do not know at all."
"Mercy was enough of a believer before to come crawling back to be in the Argent Crusade even on the outskirts of it, with all the commitment and none of the benefit actually being in it," Roper scoffs, as he lifts the bed up. "She'd have kept her mouth shut enough, or agreed on any part of her damnation enough to trigger that paladin 'redemption' streak. We fit ourselves into that enough, we'll stay on their good side. It's showing up and not being willing to play into the self-flagellation of that fucking 'redemption' that runs the risk of being seen outside that cozy convoluted worshipper fanaticism that says we should be given a chance to save our souls."
The bed takes little effort for the two to move into its proper place, where it truly belong. "As for the other Tennerow, classic middle child. Not really taken seriously as his older brother even in following the same military path, not given the same indulgences as his younger sister even though he was as much of a flirt. Not at all surprised to see him deciding to move out in a marriage into another House, a practically unique quel'dorei situation, so that he can stand out finally. He's the one who would take a dangerous risk if it meant he'd get his name in big font on some newspaper, but just cautious enough to not want it to be a real fucking scandal."
"I'll lean on that, then, if I run into either of them," Syarra nods, resting the bed in place. "As it happens, I do think I should be given a chance to 'save my soul', so it isn't even a lie. Not that I need redeem anything that was done to me - that fault lies elsewhere. But we…. I… do need to demonstrate that I bring value to this world, which I think is the same thing." Is it, really? "And we're doing that, here, defending the living, as we did in Northrend. As for the middle brother, it doesn't sound like he'll be much of a barrier to deepening connection with Kalindra and the lodge. He might even be more interested in associating with death knights - his fiancee is sympathetic and it's yet another way to stand out that isn't much of a risk, given the support we've found elsewhere in the Alliance. There aren't so many of us, so I doubt every nobleman will have his own death knight allies, after all." Syarra pauses.
"Illidari are an entirely different topic. If Aze does come down this way, we'll have to be careful where we direct her. Though then again, we may not have as much control as I would like."
"Yeah, you never do with people," Roper says, his voice dark and amused. "Some of that'll be Fallon's problem. He brings an Illidari of the Argent Crusade down into deep blue Alliance territory, that's his mess to deal with for how that ripples out. We don't have any fucking pull politically to do fuck all for her, and I've made sure she knows it. It only gets to be our problem if it's a real threat to Aze's life and we gotta move or lose her. We'll get her out if it comes to that, but no one's gonna like that scenario.
"No, if we were gonna use a living person out here to smooth things over, we don't wanna have it be someone we're playing 'which one is the monster' hot potato with, and that includes those worgen that might be out this way," Roper says, surveying the rest of the room. "Although they might be their own lead. I liked what I heard from Celaven about it. Gilneans can be fucking annoying isolationists, but some of them have got to be smart enough to realize it's time to ally up. And it'd be better to get them on our side now while they're weak and feared, or they could end up our competition down the line for the spot of the Alliance's monsters to fight the undead."
"I agree," Syarra says, sitting on the bed and looking up at Roper. "What's better, they have no history with us at all. They weren't in the Scarlet Crusade, they weren't at Light's Hope… they didn't even face Scourge during the Third War, not truly. They hid behind their wall while others died - cowardly, but useful in that they won't have that same emotional reaction to death knights. That hurt me with my sister, at least initially, I think. We'd seen death knights fight on the field in Quel'Thalas, watched them slaughter people we must have cared for. There'll be none of that, not with the worgen. They've never faced us as an enemy, so they'll be more likely to approach us as allies. They'll hate Forsaken, naturally, but we can commiserate there. You're thinking to try to turn the architect into an ally?"
"Yeah. Seems like a possible in. Something that'd be coming at her like she's just a regular 'person,' instead of a fucked up monster beast. A healer would be a mixed bag depending on what kind. There's no telling what a harvest witch might even do or think with something like a death knight. You know how the kaldorei are with their nature magic shit, and death magic being basically anathema. But an architect who knows someone we know, whose name is one we can drop to say, 'you want to look into us, that's the guy to ask,' and he'll come across as cautious but fair, and that'll give us our best shot. Once we got one worgen, it'll be easier to pull another," Roper says, lifting up his armor stand and staring at the helm as if its doing something interesting (it is not).
"Looks more and more like we'll be playing the edge of good undead, bad undead, but that wasn't us that made that call, to split it down between us and them," Roper tells his helm. "The Fucking Forsaken dug their own fucking grave, they can spin in it."
Syarra sighs, staring forward into nothing. "It will be a good start, if we can win her over. In some ways it would have been simpler, if we could have been truly neutral. If the Argent Crusade hadn't handed the Regent of Stormwind our leash. If the Forsaken hadn't betrayed us, like they betray everyone. Part of me still wishes I could go back to my home, in Silvermoon, one day. But I would rather live in a yurt or a hut in Redridge with you and survive than anything else. And they will see, over time, that we can be trusted. We will make them see."
Roper halts in his study of his armor as he looks over at Syarra, his eyes intense and voice a dark scrape. "Hey, don't forget — I've promised you that someday, you'll get back what you lost, house and all. This is just a detour. As long as we still exist, we got time. The smart play of betting to keep us in chips is here, but we're not done with the fucking game until there's nothing left to play."
Syarra meets his gaze then, and there's a faint uplifting in her expression, something not quite a smile. "Yes, we have time. All we need to do now is make sure we keep that time. If we can maintain some ties there, without jeopardizing what we're building here…"
Roper moves his armor stand to where it should be, setting it down. "Bloodsong's our surest bet. But, she's only got her fingers in the Kirin Tor's pies, not one of them herself enough to claim any 'neutrality.' Any association with her in the open, and we'd stain our reputation here. Papertrail there would lead straight to Silvermoon, and the fucking Horde." He shrugs, a lift and drop of his shoulders. "So we won't leave a papertrail, but I can keep the asset, a backdoor for when we can use it. She'll have as much incentive to try to use us back, trying to get information of the Alliance to sell back to her own people. That's the game." He grins lopsidedly, a clear sense of enjoyment at his prospect. "And the day I can't manage a fucking clandestine asset is the day you start wondering what snatched my body and took up residence in here."
Syarra smiles back then, a colder expression than true happiness. "I'll leave that to you, then. Clandestine is not my strength, and I will need my reputation to remain as flawless here as it can be. She may still be after Aze as well - we won't give her my sister, obviously, but it could be another lever to use. Bloodsong clearly wants something from us, though she hasn't outlined exactly what that might be. Perhaps she is doing the same, trying to keep a backdoor open. In any case, that gives us the opening."
"She's smart, and she's a player of the game. Like Fallon, she knows that the sooner you put in, the more loyalty you can grab to yourself, because you stepped forward to the table before anyone else did. It's higher risk, higher reward. We might be a rainy day card to play, but she's got the connection before any other magister got there, and that puts her in a very different seat than her peers. That's how it's played," Roper says, as if this using of people in political and social power is all just very normal.
"I might even be able to get a message to her through the other job." This is the only way Roper refers to his assignment at infiltrating the Forsaken for more information on behalf of the Ebon Blade in the wake of Koltira's capture: the other job. "My Gutterspeak is going from fucking laughable to passable if I grind my teeth, and we've got the enchantments down to where if anyone were to note the magic on me, it'd read like any other armor enchantment."
"That could work," Syarra says with a considering nod. "I don't know what relations are like now between the Forsaken and the Sin'dorei, but they were the ones who stood for Silvermoon with the Horde, promoted our people as allies. I don't know how much Bloodsong will associate with the Forsaken, but it's worth a try. Will you be heading that way again soon?"
"Not until we've got more information about the in, and I'm told that's looking start of winter, when it'll be easier to get away with hidden faces. They won't put me in until my Gutterspeak can fully pass. 'Tom' might be a newly raised Forsaken, but he can't fuck up not sounding like the others." Roper flicks his fingers in an annoyed gesture as he dismisses it. He'll get it down. "Bloodsong doesn't have to have anything to do with the Fucking Forsaken for it to be easier to get a message to her that doesn't have to go across Alliance/Horde lines. Forsaken to pass to a Tauren or an Orc to pass to a Sin'dorei is still an easier route than Elwynn to Silvermoon. If she is playing smart, she's probably avoiding the fuck out associating with the Fucking Forsaken, because right now the way their wind is blowing is plague-west by fuck-up-south."
"In terms of public relations, certainly," Syarra says with a nod. "In terms of military strategy, they've taken Gilneas, the Hillsbrad Foothills and Andorhal. Up until the campaign in Northrend, the Forsaken seemed content to linger in the lands they once lived in. This expansionism… in part, I imagine it must be due to their new ability to add more to their ranks. But it does make me wonder if there's also some change in their leadership, or a new sense of purpose after the death of the Lich King. The Ebon Blade did not find new purpose. If anything, it… lost its focus."
"Trying to get into the head of that fucking Banshee Queen's asking to dip your toes into obsessive madness looking to latch onto something," Roper says, equal parts scorn and dismissiveness. "The Ebon Blade's problem is one we knew would be coming, though. We saw it years ago, that there would need to be plans for after, or we'd become such a risk that the living would put us down like a rabid animal. Problem is that right now, there's nothing we can do as a whole that doesn't involve taking a side. The Fucking Forsaken with their expansionism and the Horde with their aggression means that instead of focused on something larger, we're stuck dicking around in uncoordinated squabbles and half-truces. That dragon aspect, Deathwing, is a big enough target against the world that the Ebon Blade could be pointed at. But, it's not personal enough for too fucking many of us for the Ebon Blade to pay attention to the build up and earn the spot on the battlefield the slow way, making the right allies and the right assets to get an invite to the party."
Roper flicks the gold coin back into his palm, and sends it spinning up in the air. "So, we'll have to do it our-fucking-selves."
"And we will," Syarra says, leaning back onto her arms on the bed, perhaps a weirdly casual posture for the conversation. "The Banshee Queen… was widely loved. That still lingers, but it won't forever, not unless she tries to maintain it. She doesn't seem to have any interest in doing so. We may be starting with less, but we're cultivating what we have. Even if the Ebon Blade doesn't mobilize, even if the Horde and Alliance tear each other apart, we'll find our place."