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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | The day after Lathrik's decline is discovered, the first assembly of help arrives, bearing good news, and with a variety of useful and unexpected skills. 1800~ words. Part of the Red String Game plot. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Arc: The Red String Game
The former Moore House on the Old Town street in its quiet neighborhood of humble gentility, now the Kensington-Whit (of neither Elwynn or Stormwind) - Dinnsfield house, gives no external indication of its internal turmoil. The fact that the entire garden in the front, and the sides, and the back have all been meticulously weeded to an incredible degree merely makes it look well-kept and cared for, and not at all the doings of a man so desperate to get out of his own head that he's secretly hoping for a massive dandelion spread or (if he's really lucky) a willowherb infestation.
The windows are open for the mild spring air, and from within the house, every 6 minutes kept by a gnomish timer that pings a cheerful chirp to alert, there is an 8 second hymn sung. Magical pedestrians passing by the house at just the right time might be caught in the field of it, their mana suddenly more robust, for a little while at least.
Natalyah has set her paladin on tasks that can be done here and now, mostly seeing to packing up for the trip, but there's only so many socks that a man can fold before he's folded them all. She's dressed in her normal day to day clothes, a pair of dark jeans knotted off below her left leg, and a black tank top, her hair held back with a white handkerchief embroidered with a particularly apt [What The Fuck Am I Supposed To Do Now].
Lathrik, dressed in his only set of casual clothes, a loose white shirt tucked into brown pants, finishes folding the last of the socks, and stands completely still, staring at the completed pile. He looks at Natalyah, a quick glance, and then, helpfully, begins to unfold the socks so he can fold them again. This is it. This is his life now.
There is a brief, courteous knock at the door. There is no Correct way to knock on a door, but if there were, it might strike the listener, this would be it: the most Perfectly Polite Knock.
Which tells Natalyah one thing at least, it's not anyone she's expecting.
She pushes off with her canes towards the door, glancing at Lathrik's pile of clothes with a suspicious eye, but says nothing as she unlocks and opens the door. It's still the usual way she does, the remnant of a lifetime of growing up secure, where she doesn't keep hold of the door once she's opened it, letting it fall open where it does.
Standing on the porch is a woman of indeterminate age, dressed in a long skirt and trimly-tailored jacket of brown tweed, a high-necked white blouse, and neat button boots. Beneath a broad-brimmed hat her dark hair is pulled back in a smooth chignon, a heavy knot at the nape of her neck. She wears tortoiseshell glasses.
"Miss Kensington-Whit," she greets Natalyah. "From the Admiral." She offers out a crisply-folded paper sealed with the Fallon kraken.
It says something about how Natalyah classifies people and understands military ranks that her brow furrows in confusion. She's wary and uneasy, as she first asks, "Who?"
And then looks down at the letter with recognition and relief. Whew, there is not some random military guy asking for Lathrik. "Oh, Siamus — er, Lord Fallon." She balances on one cane, letting the other dangle in the loop around her wrist, as she takes the letter. She opens it one handed, pressing it against her chest to hold it steady, and then biting the envelope to pull the letter free.
The letter is written in a spiky, ornately calligraphic hand. It reads:
21 April
Miss Kensington-Whit -
I will expend every resource to ensure that does not happen.
I have naval connections with the operation at Highbank, of course, and a close friend working in the area who can lend whatever assistance you might need on the other side. I will arrange the necessary permissions.
As to druids: I am acquainted with a few, and will see whether any are presently available. The greater number of them are engaged at Hyjal at present, but I believe there are Gilneans still in the area who could lend aid.
In addition, the lady carrying this letter is not a druid, precisely, but something very like one, and she can do the thing Reniya spoke of. She will stay as long as is required, and can return as needed until other help is found. Her name is Miss Curran, and she is one of the handful of people I trust absolutely and in all matters.
Yr obdt svt,
S. Fallon
Miss Curran, meanwhile, has clasped her hands in front of her and stands regarding Natalyah mildly.
Natalyah reads quickly. She's an easy read of someone who doesn't hide her feelings or thoughts on purpose, and from the first paragraph she drops the envelope to float down to the floor (look, Lathrik! A task! A Free Task!) while she reads the rest, an intense alleviation of fear that has her crushing the letter to her chest, panting as if finally some panic has found a pressure valve.
Tears well up in her eyes like a rising storm, and then — between one blink and the next — she's a worgen, a full foot taller, grabbing onto the threshold of the door with a hard thunk to catch her balance as her cane is abruptly too short. The tears sink into silken black fur as she stares at Miss Curran. "You can help him?"
Miss Curran does not look either startled or discomfited by the shift. "If Mr. Hartrim's theory is correct, then yes," she says.
Lathrik appears at the thunk, his brow creasing slightly when he sees the worgen form. Then he catches sight of their guest, and the crease evens out again. "Ah," he says. "Miss Curran. Can I get ye anything?"
She is not even in the house yet, Lathrik. In the meantime, he stoops to pick up the discarded envelope.
Miss Curran smiles and inclines her head. "No, thank you, Mr. Dinnsfield." When she lifts her chin again, it's plain that her gaze has sharpened just a little behind her glasses, though her expression remains mild as she surveys Lathrik. "Admiral Fallon sends his regards."
Natalyah sniffles, rubs at her face roughly with her hand (and the letter, now squeezed defensively in a fist), before there's an iridescent shimmer and pop, human once more. She stuffs the letter into her pocket, and holds out her hand to Miss Curran for a handshake.
"I'm Natalyah Kensington-Whit, published lepidopterist, Lathrik's girlfriend, an in training scientist of the Light, and obviously one of the cursed worgens. I'm very glad to meet you," she says earnestly, only the habitual tone of her voice the indication of a once Lady™️.
Miss Curran shakes Natalyah's hand cordially. "A pleasure to meet you. Annai Curran, as I believe the Admiral's letter mentioned. I'm his assistant."
Natalyah nods, and pushes back on her canes to get out of the doorway. "He explained everything, then?"
"Correct," says Miss Curran, and steps into the house. "And I should offer, while I'm here — please feel free to ask for any other assistance you might need. I have a very broad skillset, and would be happy to help."
"How are ye at unfoldin' socks?" Lathrik asks dryly.
"Top-notch," says Miss Curran without either hesitation or an apparent glimmer of humor. "Quite efficient."
Natalyah huffs defensively. "You're not supposed to be unfolding them, Lathrik," she scolds, shooting him a glare, small streaks of tears still on her face but now forgotten, and unknown to the paladin who cannot see her face.
She looks at Miss Curran as she shuts the door behind their guest. "He's just getting tetchy because he's stuck here since he can't work like this, and he's already pulled up every weed in the garden so hard the other weeds probably tell horror stories about him. He might as well ask you how you are at un-weeding a garden," she says tartly.
"Also top-notch," says Miss Curran promptly.
Natalyah blinks at her, puzzled for a half-beat, and then throws her head back in a full-throated wicked laughter, delighted by the absurdity of the truth of druid's — or something like one — unweeding a garden.
Lathrik, who has just drifted over to sit on his brooding couch, immediately rises again. "Aye, let's do that," he says. "Nice weather for it." Though anyone who knows him knows the weather wouldn't stop him.
"The weather wouldn't stop him," Natalyah says.
"I'm quite accustomed to working with such gentlemen," Miss Curran says. That one might be a touch dry.
"Aye, Fallon, what's he up to, then?" Lathrik asks, already heading for the door.
"He's only just returned from a scouting mission in the south seas, and brought back a prize. He's otherwise been quite preoccupied with naval and government affairs, and with the redevelopment of the Old Town block." Miss Curran inclines her head.
Natalyah returns to the kitchen where several ingredients remain out (the oats, dried fruit, and baking sheets imply she's making granola bars), picking up a spatula and shaking it menacingly at Lathrik's retreating back.
"Don't mess with the butterfly flowers, and," she gives Miss Curran another appraising up-down look, "make sure you if you get into your head to start fighting again for mana, you tell me so I can heal it up immediately," she orders Lathrik, a noblewoman accustomed to giving them. "I'm right here, Lathrik." It kinda sounds like a threat when she says it like that, but here we are.
"Fighting?" Miss Curran inquires, looking between the two.
"Oi, I'm not about to fight a man's assistant," Lathrik objects, pausing in the doorway to examine Miss Curran. "Not that I expect you're not capable."
"Well, I would have to shift," Miss Curran says, and smooths her skirts primly. "Which I don't generally care to do in the city during daylight hours."
"There are paladin techniques Lathrik can do to trigger replenishments to his mana when he fights, so he tried them with Ren yesterday, but they require actual hits to land, not just a pulled punches sparring match," Natalyah explains, and shakes the spatula at Lathrik in lieu of him not being able to see the dark frown on her face. "And she's not a man's assistant as an identity, she's a whole person on her own," she says defensively, as she whacks the oats in the bowl.
Miss Curran smiles modestly. "Personal security is among my duties."
"Aye, well, I'm sure Fallon didn't send ye here to be attacked, is all I meant by it," Lathrik says.
"No, indeed," says Miss Curran, still smiling. "But as I say, I'm happy to assist as necessary. Where would you like your weeds?"