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| Details |
| Author: | Alli |
| Summary: | Five writing prompt response scenes from history ranging from the Second War to the present, showing how Syarra Sunstrike has been shaped by world events. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Arc: Sunstrike Story
Trapped
The rain comes down in sheets. Syarra grits her teeth in frustration against the mud slowing her footwork, the water from her helmet obscuring her vision. She can’t afford to be slowed, not against the Amani. She knows their strength, their ferocity.
The one in front of her is no different, fast even in his primitive armor. His spear nearly takes her in the shoulder, but she drops to one knee, bringing her blade up in a vicious arc up into his torso and out.
Syarra jerks her head towards a warning shout from Kelranis, her captain. Then she spots what the sound of falling water has disguised – a monster bearing down on her. She braces in a defensive position, but her mind races. This creature is bulkier than even the trolls, like nothing she has ever seen. Green skin and fangs and a squash-nosed face.
“What – “ she starts to say, but then he’s on her, and training takes over. She’s outmatched in strength, that much is immediately clear. She keeps barely ahead of the swings of his axe, the mud squelching underfoot, and tries to strike when she can. He forces her back, and it’s all she can do to make sure that retreat is towards Kel and the others. There are others of the creatures closing in on all sides, an ambush.
Behind one tree steps out a massive misshapen form with two heads, grotesquely conjuring up a fireball in this place where only elves should wield magical power. Is something wrong with the Ban’dinoriel? And fire – it must be why the Magisters called for this unscheduled rain.
Syarra draws her smaller blade and throws it at the creature, breaking his spellcasting. Despite the direness of the situation, her pulse quickens slightly when she hears a shout of approval from her captain. Then she grits her teeth again, raising her defense, ready to fight to the death.
The monster in front of her falls, and she simply stares in surprise for a long moment, before the arrow haft sticking out of his neck registers.
“Farstriders?” Syarra asks, and she hears some of the others echo her confusion.
Then other orcs begin to fall, and their allies come into view. They are not even elves. Blue and gold armor still shines in the dull light of day, where it isn’t obscured by mud. They are… human.
“What are humans doing in Quel’thalas?” Syarra murmurs, her brow lowering, but then she discards the question. Now is not the time to question why. She holds, until her captain gives the order, and then they’re back in the fight. The humans stick together, but Syarra and her company quickly adapt to make use of their archers and infantry, outmatching the trolls and whatever else.
When the last squash-nosed creature lies dead in the mud, Syarra and the others form up behind Kelranis, eyeing the human contingent warily. Syarra notes wariness on the humans’ side as well, but also something – maybe curiosity? – in their unfamiliar blunt features.
The human leader is a man with dark hair, with hints of graying at the temples. He calls out a greeting, and Syarra smiles faintly, recognizing the Common word. Lordaeron’s tongue. She’d been studying a grammar book, to read what little Lordaeronian-authored military strategy had made its way into Silvermoon bookshops. Hearing it spoken was a novelty.
“Bal'a dash, malanore,” Kelranis responds, and then the two simply stare at one another. Then he mutters in Thalassian, “Of course he can’t speak a proper language.”
“Sir,” Syarra says, startling herself with her own audacity. “I know a little of the language. Maybe I can help?”
Kelranis looks at her, surprise and respect in his beautiful eyes, and he gestures for her to step forward.
“[Hello, what is your name?]” Syarra says in careful Common. “[I am Syarra Sunstrike. We are soldiers of Silvermoon.]”
“[Good day,]” he answers, a smile brightening his face at the address in his own language.
And then he says a lot of things, in a long fluid stream. Maybe part of it was names? She recognizes a few words along the way. Defense. War. Help. And Alleria Windrunner. Syarra stares at him, a smile fixed on her face, terror in her heart.
She glances up towards Kelranis, ready to admit this is beyond her. But then there’s the expectation in his eyes. The approval. And she thinks of how all of that will vanish when she fails him. And… for once in her life, she thinks of what her little sister would do in this situation.
“The humans are here to help us,” Syarra says smoothly, hoping that’s at least approximately right. She continues to guess wildly. “They came with Alleria Windrunner. They have been fighting war elsewhere, but now they are here to defend our lands.”
“What are these new creatures?” Kelranis asks, gesturing towards the dead monsters as he accepts her dubious translation as truth.
Syarra takes a breath and turns back to the human leader. “[What are enemies? Please. To speak. More slow. Please.]”
There’s a change in his expression, sympathetic flicker, and Syarra’s face reddens at his obvious recognition of her poor mastery of his language. But then, he does speak more slowly.
“[These are orcs,]” he says, and then gestures to the two-headed creature. “[That is an ogre. They are from…]” he says several words she doesn’t know. “[We must leave the…]” another unknown word, and at Syarra’s confusion he tries another one. [“Woods. Dragons are coming.]”
That last part is punctuated by a shadow passing overhead and a distant gout of flame. Syarra hastens to communicate everything she can, and the two teams waste little time in getting out of the woods and to higher ground.
As the soldiers watch in horror from a safe distance, dragons rain fire down on the Eversong Woods. Far away, across the river, a shimmering dome of a barrier appears over Silvermoon City. Syarra notes it for evidence of the Magister’s protection, and lets out a relieved breath. Her faintly glowing blue gaze remains fixed on that point of the horizon, until she hears the human leader speak next to her.
“[You have… family there? People?]” he asks, gesturing to the shimmering dome.
Syarra nods. “[My mother and father. And my small sister.]”
The man’s face softens with a smile. “[It is good – protect – love.]” Syarra picks up only a few of the words in that sentence. “[I have two sons. And a small daughter, with hair like yours.]”
He gestures at her dark braid, and then holds his hand about waist height. Syarra considers trying to explain to this man that her own little sister is nearly a hundred now, but the effort of figuring out how to phrase that exactly makes her feel exhausted. Instead, she just nods.
“[Away now,]” Syarra says, staring again at the distant shimmer. “[Trapped by fire. But we protect. They are safe.]”
The human leader looks towards the dome, and sighs. “[Yes, they are safe.]”
Training Montage
Syarra moves through the familiar footwork, her form lighter without her usual armor, though the blunted sword is weighted to be as heavy as her true one. In front of her is not one of her usual sparring partners, not one of the other soldiers. It’s her baby sister, Aszera.
Aszera is smiling, and she holds the sword awkwardly, unused to its weight. Her hair is tied back in a tight braid, but it’s already starting to work itself loose, making a kind of dark halo around her face. Undisciplined. But she’s willing to try. As long as the latter remains true, Syarra will do her best to teach.
Step, and step, and her little sister mirrors every move. Exactly mirrors her every move. The mimicry is a little uncanny. Syarra tries a strike, and Aszera’s blade is there, blocking exactly in the form they’d practiced before the sparring match. Syarra tries a few more standard attack forms, careful not to move too quickly for a beginner to follow. Aszera’s blade is there to block hers at every turn, though the younger woman doesn’t counterattack.
On the last strike, Syarra presses her blade and feels Aszera’s defense start to give. Then she pulls back, retreating a few paces. A little more pressure would break Aszera’s block – she doesn’t have the strength to hold. Still, that’s not a particularly kind thing to do on a first sparring match with one’s little sister. Too harsh, and the girl might just give up.
“[You may attack],” Syarra says in Common, moving into a defensive position. “[You’re unlikely to hurt me, not with these weapons.]”
Aszera’s sword dips a little as she struggles to parse the words, then nods and answers in Thalassian. “I don’t think I’ve ever attacked anyone before? Or at least not with the intention of actually harming them.”
‘[Common],” Syarra insists, shifting her stance. “[Practice Common, for our allies.]”
“[Right, Common. I’m better at… to follow, following,]” Aszera says. “Not that, I mean… [But our allies are not here now, the war fucking ends. Ended.]”
Syarra winces, and Aszera takes the moment to attack. It’s obvious, telegraphed, and Syarra simply steps aside and lets the blade slice through air. Teaching taboo words had been another gambit to get her sister interested, one that worked surprisingly well. Whatever inhibitions Aszera had against swearing in Thalassian, they didn’t translate to Common. Cursing in Common was a game, apparently.
“[Well, this war ended,]” Syarra says, letting Aszera take the lead. Her sister moves with confidence, even though she’s not quite following the footwork Syarra taught her. There’s the occasional odd pause, or shift of weight. “[We’ll be ready for the next. When our allies call, we will answer.]”
“[Next war, in a hundred years,]” Aszera says, and does a little feint and weight shift, striking out more quickly with her blade. “[We have time.]”
Syarra deflects the blade with her own, and then something falls into place about how her sister is moving. Almost incredulously, she asks, “[Are you dancing with me? Did you just… swish your hips?]”
“[What?]” Aszera asks, her playful smile undercutting the innocence in her eyes. “[Maybe you do not see me clearly.]”
Aszera’s next few steps are the slow, quick, quick of ban’dalare, and she steps past Syarra too quickly and smoothly for her to react, touching Syarra’s side with her off hand as she passes. Syarra spins and steps back, raising her sword in defense.
“[If I had a dagger. Please say…]” Aszera’s Common collapses into Thalassian. “…please tell me you’re not going to let a hork kill you, just because they didn’t follow the forms you know.”
“Orc,” Syarra says in Thalassian, moving in for another gentle attack, again testing but not breaking Aszera’s defenses. “They’re called orcs. And of the two of us, I’m the one who’s actually been in combat before. I’m following the forms to help you learn, not because I lack creativity.”
“Sure, but I think I’ve already learned those steps,” Aszera says, returning the attack in a light mimicry of Syarra’s own strikes. “How long do we need to spar anyway? I’d like to get a little time to freshen up before we head to the Lynx and Laurel for drinks.”
Syarra pauses, lowering her sword in confusion. “Before we do what?”
“You know, to meet up with your friends,” Aszera says carelessly. “Kelranis told me.”
Syarra goes still, and her expression doesn’t change, but she feels that strike. Aszera’s clear lack of any intent or malice somehow doesn’t soften the blow. “Ah. I… hadn’t heard.”
And there it is in Aszera’s eyes, the moment of realization. Syarra tightens her hand on the hilt of the sword and waits for the unexpected sting to fade. She should have known better, truly. What could possibly go wrong, introducing all her soldier friends to her notoriously promiscuous little socialite sister? Introducing Kelranis to her…
“Well,” Aszera says, and her voice is just a touch too light to be genuine. “If you’re not going, I’m certainly not going. We can stick together, find a better party.”
Syarra shakes her head, taking a step back and breathing evenly. “I don’t think your parties are the kind you bring an elder sister to.”
“I mean, they could be,” Aszera takes a step towards her, holding her sword awkwardly. “Not every party ends in a… I can find us a good one.”
“Can you,” Syarra says flatly, watching her little sister, and then something of the hurt and the resentment tangles up in her throat and she finds herself saying, “You must realize the nobles don’t see you as an equal, not truly. I don’t like it, the way you let them treat you like some kind of amusement.”
Syarra draws in a breath. It was nothing she hadn’t thought before, but she’d never meant to say it out loud. It was only…
“What does it matter?” Aszera asks, and Syarra can see the hurt there, together with the confusion. “As long as I’m enjoying myself.”
Syarra has no answer, and so she attacks. Aszera is caught off-guard, and barely brings her sword around in time to block. It isn’t enough. Her little sister doesn’t have the strength. A twist and a push and she’s off her center of balance, fallen to the ground.
“You can’t just reflect me,” Syarra says, looking down at her. “We’re not dancing. In a fight, you’re facing an enemy, not a partner.”
“Except that we’re sparring, so it’s all fake,” Aszera says, reaching a hand towards Syarra, asking for her help. “You and I are on the same side, aren’t we? Against whoever else.”
Syarra reaches down to help her to her feet, and lets the sting fade. She nods, and repeats quietly, “Against whoever else.”
Obedience
The Bloodsong house is as grand as it always was, at first glance – the marble walls, the stained glass windows, the carved pillars by the doors. It’s only as Syarra gets closer that she can see the evidence of smoke damage, of hairline cracks in the stone, missing panes in the windows papered over with red. Appropriate, maybe, since it is a sin’dorei house these days.
Syarra pauses in front of the door, taking a moment to summon her composure and her resolve like armor, in lieu of the real thing. One doesn’t visit the nobility armed and armored, she knows that much, so she has arrived in a modest but passably fashionable red and gold silk gown with her dark hair falling loose down her back. She feels a little like an impostor, but when doesn’t she these days?
Every time she closes her eyes, she sees that man falling dead at her feet. Every time silence falls, she hears the naaru’s cries of pain, and feels the echo of it in her own head. And so she’s a blood knight – a paladin? But what they’re doing isn’t right. If it were, they wouldn’t have had to chain her like that, between guilt and obligation. Such chains won’t hold. She’ll hear whatever it is the magistrix has summoned her to say, then she will take her leave of them all. Whatever comes next, she can face it with a clear conscience.
So determined, she raises her hand and knocks at the door. Soon – a little too soon, had they seen her approach? – a living servant answers the door. Ten years ago, it might have been an arcane construct. In any case, he’s a brown-haired young man with the kind of easily forgettable air she would have ordinarily attributed to an arcane charm. No one has enough arcane power to waste on trivialities these days, with the Sunwell gone, so he likely comes by it naturally.
After a murmur of polite greetings, he ushers her forward through a hallway with candles where magical lights once stood, and then past a courtyard where a dry fountain is gathering dust. A touch of chill wind teases at the edges of Syarra’s skirt, the cold creeping into a land that was once in eternal springtime.
Soon enough, the servant bows her into the lady’s study, a room lined with bookcases filled with books and dormant arcane instruments. At the far end, the magistrix sits in perfect poise at an ornately carved desk, writing on a sheet of paper. The physical resemblance to her younger sister, Elivia, is clear – the vivid red hair, and the small-featured doll-like beauty. As she looks up, though, and catches Syarra in her measuring green-eyed gaze, it is clear that this sister is more accustomed to leading than laughing, more enamored with power than love. Syarra glances towards the servant, meaning to ask what to do next, but he’s disappeared as thoroughly as if he’d never existed.
“Miss Sunstrike, do come in,” Magistrix Coriene Bloodsong says with a warm smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She gestures Syarra closer. “I’m so pleased you had time to speak with me.”
Syarra takes a step into the room and stares at the woman like a startled deer, before she hastily drops into a respectful curtsy. “The pleasure is mine, Lady Coriene.”
“Lady Bloodsong, soon enough,” Coriene corrects, and then softens the words with a gesture towards a chair in front of the desk. “My father is going to abdicate next season, but I’ll thank you for not spreading the word just yet. I wanted to offer my congratulations on your admission to the blood knights, as well as my condolences for your parents and your younger sister.”
“Aszera is still alive, magistrix,” Syarra says, carefully settling into the chair, her back ramrod straight. Alive and not writing home, for some reason. “As far as we know.”
“Yes, as far as we know,” Coriene allows. “I heard you and my little sister Elivia were to be on the same squad, what a strange coincidence is that? It seems our families are fated to be connected in some manner, does it not?”
Coincidence, fate, manipulation, Syarra thinks, as she keeps her own expression perfectly polite and composed. It is certainly one of those three things. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m leaving.
“Coincidence or fate,” is what Syarra says aloud, an acceptance of the framing. “I admit I was surprised to find Lady Elivia had joined the order. I had not realized she had an interest in military arts. Has she been… well? Since her initiation?”
Coriene’s expression freezes for an eyeblink, and Syarra feels something cold trace down her spine. Does she know? Then it is again all warmth as Coriene rises to fetch a glass and two cups from a nearby shelf. “Ah, I had wondered. Yes, Elivia is doing as well as she ever has. And you, Miss Sunstrike, you must understand that all power has a price. One you have often paid in time and effort, over the past decades, is that not the case?” She pours two glasses, and holds one out to Syarra. “Mana-infused wine, darling, you look as though you could use something to take the edge off.”
Syarra reaches forward to take it, but pauses before drinking. This wasn’t the welcome she was expecting. “I’m being careful. I’ve heard about the wretched…”
There’s a flicker in Coriene’s eyes, a hairline crack in her own perfect facade, before she takes a sip from her own glass and says, “I’ll ask you to trust me. It isn’t too strong.”
Syarra hesitates, but then takes a sip. The power tastes sweet on her tongue, and she wonders what cost this one carries. It doesn’t matter. Lady Coriene has no way to compel her to service – no one does. She’ll hear her out, and then she’ll leave this all behind.
“I have high hopes for your future,” Coriene says, sitting back and taking another sip as she watches Syarra steadily. “A woman such as yourself, though of humble birth, could rise in these circumstances. Positions of leadership, a chance to join our Prince in Outland. As long as you’re as committed to the cause as I believe you to be.”
Syarra raises her head to meet Coriene’s gaze, holding the glass now without drinking, and for the first time her resolve falters. All of those years in the military, being reliable, hardworking, overlooked. All the promotions she wasn’t offered. How much does the magistrix know? Is she offering what she seems to be offering? A woman whose word carries weight, who might tip certain choices one way or another. If Coriene had pulled strings to get Elivia into the blood knights, she could pull other strings. Syarra, as a leader of a team. Syarra, back with her sister at last. Syarra, respected and not alone. Was it worth the cost?
“There is so much good that a woman like you could do within the blood knight order. I do hope my sister won’t prove to be a hindrance on that path,” Coriene continues, with a slight, calculated wince.
“A hindrance, magistrix?” Syarra asks in a calm voice, following the mage’s clearly intended script, though her thoughts are still whirling in her head.
“Yes – you must know her very well,” Coriene says, tapping her finger gently against the side of the cup. “She’s spent so much time at your house in the past century. Even now that your sister is gone.”
“We haven’t – ” Syarra starts, a touch defensively, and then pauses for a breath. Coriene has accused her of nothing. She continues in a more measured tone, “We’ve been watching out for one another, in case of ill effects from the mana draining.”
Coriene raises an eyebrow, a touch of a smile rising to her lips for a moment, but she doesn’t press on the abandoned sentence. Instead, she just inclines her head and continues, “That’s good. She lacks discipline, like Aszera once did. I am relieved to know she’ll be working with one who understands such flaws.”
“Of course,” Syarra says, studying the magistrix’s carefully composed face. Is that what this is about? Is Coriene worried about her little sister? As Syarra worries about her own, for each day that passes with no word. There is nothing she can do now for Aszera, but for Elivia… Syarra draws a breath. Even if they share this impulse, there are things that must be said, “But first, I wanted to talk to you about the Order, and the init–”
The bang of an opening door interrupts her words and Syarra flinches, reaching for a sword that she obviously isn’t wearing. There’s no need, really, no one could get so far into this house without being known. She keeps her eyes on the magistrix, though, and there’s a moment of softness in the red-haired woman’s gaze, a thinning of her lips in concern. Then her expression is wiped clean, a blank, disapproving wall.
“Cori, are you boring my friends?” says Elivia’s voice from the door, and the words are light, but the tone feels brittle.
“If you would like to demonstrate your newfound brutish strength, please do so on something other than my door,” Coriene says coolly. “And no, we were discussing business, which I realize is beyond you at the moment. Please return when you’re sober.”
But Elivia is already moving forward to slide her soft hand into Syarra’s, who flinches in surprise at the contact. “Come on, you and I have business. The business is… come with me.”
Syarra lets Elivia draw her to her feet, noting her dilated pupils and the pink flush of her cheeks. She glances over to Coriene, who rolls her eyes and gives a gesture of dismissal.
They’re only a few steps outside the door when Elivia drops her hand and leans against the wall. “Sorry, sorry, but I heard, and I couldn’t just leave you in there. She’s an ogre, honestly.”
“It’s fine,” Syarra says, stepping closer in case the younger girl loses her balance. “We really were just talking about the blood knights.”
Elivia looks up at her with a wavery smile. “I’m glad I’ll be with somebody I know. And now I should probably… probably not go back to the party. I will be sober by the morning. For training. I’ll see you there?”
Syarra hesitates, looking down at her, the hope in her eyes, the weakness. And something shifts in her heart. There is so much good that we could do in the blood knight order. Is there, really? Is it worth the price? She nods.
Behind them, a door quietly shuts.
My Own Way
It is cold and dark in the downstairs room of Farstriders’ Square, where a being of warmth and Light was once imprisoned. The room carries signs of conflict – damage on some of the walls, smashed tools and arcane implements, things that must have been destroyed when the Prince came back through to reclaim the naaru. No one is keeping watch tonight, because there’s no longer anything here of value.
The still cloaked figure standing in one corner does not mind the cold or the dark. Syarra draws back her cloak and stands there like a ghost of her former self, her hair in the same usual braid, her skin pale as death, and her eyes burning a dull blue. She gazes up at the memory of M’uru, floating in the center of the room, held in place by the magisters’ power.
“We were connected once,” Syarra says quietly in Thalassian, in a voice of emptiness and echoes. “We are not now. I do not believe you can hear me, wherever you are. But sometimes the things I believe are not true.”
Syarra circles the room, placing soft-booted feet silently on the stone floor. “I was torn with guilt toward you, before. I longed for… forgiveness. I no longer remember how that felt. I read it in my journal. The account of my other self.”
“I cannot ask for forgiveness now,” Syarra says, pausing to stare upwards again, remembering a creature of Light, a voice like broken glass. Remembering that woman, the Other Syarra, who was complicit in its torture, who sacrificed herself for another. Light filling her like a vessel, there before the end. A tremor runs through her, imagining what pain that Light would inflict on her now. “It did not feel like taking, there at the end. It felt like…” Syarra raises a hand as if her fingers might fall on the right word, but it escapes her.
She shakes her head, turning away, and her voice flattens. “I will be following you to Quel’danas. It is a strategic decision, where those like Roper and I can best be seen, best be appreciated. I haven’t decided yet what tabard to wear.”
It is probably for the best if she never encounters the naaru again. That beautiful lantern of pain to a hungry, undead moth. Her posture, her expression, softens at the mere memory of it, from that one trip into Silvermoon. If she did find M’uru, then… No. She clenches her fists. She is in control. The moment passes, and her hands fall open again.
She begins to walk towards the exit.
“I cannot predict what Aszera will do, but Roper and I – “ it is something small on the ground that catches her gaze. Syarra frowns, turning towards it. A fragment of armor, a blood knight, someone must have –
She freezes in place, a cold statue, as memory snares her. The intensity of it is overwhelming, so that for a moment she sees nothing at all. This place, a dead body of her own making, and a carefully constructed choice that was never a choice. The guilt, suffocating, heavy, and Syarra gasps, even though she has no need to breathe.
…and then it all flows away, water through a sieve, and she’s left holding nothing. A blood knight’s armor was damaged in the fight here. That’s all.
She stands there for a long, silent stretch. There are other things she can hold onto now. A raised hand touches her shirt, where the cloth covers an icicle pendant. Candles and strategy. Ice and dancing.
“Back then, I wanted to walk away,” Syarra says, staring at the twisted metal. “Why didn’t I?”
The room holds no answers for her now. She draws another unnecessary breath and heads for the exit. At the doorway, she pauses, looking back one more time.
“I haven’t decided what tabard to wear,” Syarra repeats, staring into the darkness. “But it doesn’t matter. I am going to Quel’danas for myself.”
She walks through the open door.
Pieces of My Soul
The death knight walks from shadow to shadow in the sun-dappled forest of Elwynn, her face blank and empty. There’s a weariness to her movement, a drawn quality to her pale flesh that speaks to long near-deprivation and pain. Elwynn Forest is enough, but only just. She is watching carefully for any predators that might require culling, as she moves between the trees.
What she finds on this day is not a predator, but prey. A small riderless grey horse chomps carelessly on the grass, looking up and swiveling its ears as it detects the death knight’s approach. Syarra sighs.
“You have nothing to fear from me,” she says, in a low, echoing voice. The horse eyes her and snorts. “Beloved horse mutilated by death knight is not the story I intend to tell today.”
Syarra starts to turn away, but then a flash of red catches her gaze. She steps closer to the horse, which shimmies back a step. The bag tied to its saddle… it is Aszera’s. What is her sister doing out here? How did she lose her horse?
The gurgling cry of a distant murloc breaks through the air, and Syarra sharpens into a single purpose – find her sister. She abandons the horse as she calls her own, a skeletal creature struggling its way up through the dirt and detritus that she swings up onto without hesitation. The living horse gives a terrified whinny and flees, but Syarra is already riding hard and fast towards what are now unmistakably the sounds of combat.
Aszera is squaring off against at least half a dozen murlocs as Syarra bursts out of the trees near the shore, dismissing her skeletal horse to be dragged back into the ground as she draws her runeblade.
“Yara!” Aze calls in an incongruously cheerful voice, waving one sword. “Looking for violence?”
Well. That recontextualizes everything. There is indeed no sign of pain in her little sister. No sign of fear. She’s… having fun, by all indications.
“Looking for you,” Syarra says, a little more sharply than she intends. “I found your horse wandering. What are you doing?”
“What does it look like? Because I wouldn’t know,” Aze grins, and then the murlocs are on her.
It looks like… exactly what Syarra has been hoping for. Except for the presence of a little sister who’s going to steal the kills from her, making them far quicker and less painful than she would prefer. And no way to stop her, not without revealing the depth of…
Syarra grits her teeth and moves into the melee – she might as well get something out of this. It’s easy to fall again into the pattern of fighting alongside Aszera. She might be different now, as Syarra is herself, but they know how to adapt to one another. They have always worked well together.
At least Aszera doesn’t feel their pain. She likely doesn’t even notice how many of Syarra’s slashes are non-fatal, meant to wound and not to kill. It isn’t long until there’s only one left. Syarra hobbles it and follows after, drinking in the pain the creature leaks so sweetly. She could cut the other leg, and then take her time…
“Hungry?” Aze asks, and the words cut through the path of her thoughts like cold water. “Or just looking for more trouble?”
Hungry, always hungry, she thinks immediately, but she pushes it back with a low sound of frustration. Not here, not with Aszera. She quickly reaches with shadow to yank back the fleeing murloc and end its life, and then turns to her sister.
“I would not, with you,” Syarra says.
Aszera flicks her wrists to get most of the murloc blood off her blades and shrugs. “You could, you know. It’s not like I don’t know about the hunger and torture and whatever. I wouldn’t turn away from you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Yes, you would is Syarra’s first thought. If she’s learned anything about the living, they say they want honesty, but what they really want is for the truth to be other than it is. Then again, she considers how happy Aszera looked in the middle of violence. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe. But still…
“Some things,” Syarra says, stepping over to the de-murlocked shore and staring over the water. “Some things are just for me and Roper.”
“Mm,” Aze steps up next to her, unafraid. Hunger stirs, and Syarra thinks of how she could grab her so easily, shove her down under the – no. It has been difficult since the Nightmare, but she’s getting better at discarding those kinds of intrusive thoughts. Instead, she focuses on her sister, and notes that she seems pleased rather than hurt by the exclusion.
“Right, sure, I wouldn’t want to barge in on your marital torture,” Aze says lightly, bumping her shoulder against Syarra. It was on purpose. Aze doesn’t lose her balance that easily. “Roper does feel strongly about his things, after all. His people.”
“Yes,” Syarra says, and squeezes her fist, smiling faintly as she feels the sting of the barbs on her wedding ring. She looks over at Aszera, who has the intent look of someone scanning a perimeter. She adds, “And our family.”
Aze quirks a smile, and steps back from the edge of the lake to turn to her sister. “Yeah. Our family. I see him more often than you these days – but I know, I know, I’m still establishing my reputation. Probably shouldn’t be out here, I just…”
“Hungry?” Syarra asks, with a ghost of amusement in her low voice. There is something there, with her little sister. Syarra’s seen enough to recognize a certain kind of need.
“Not like you, no,” Aze says, and she turns away with a sigh. “It’s just… what I’m made for, right? To be a weapon.”
“A weapon, yes,” Syarra says, considering her sister. Her living sister, who was an active participant in her own transformation. She lets a touch of wryness creep in as she adds, “You have always struck me as so quiet and predictable, like a weapon.”
Aze laughs at that. “I’m glad the Lich King didn’t cut all your humor out, Yara. But you know, there’s different sorts of weapons.”
“I suppose…” Syarra tilts her head, watching Aszera carefully. “A loose cannon is also a sort of weapon.”
“Exactly! And really useful, if anyone will tie it down and fucking point it correctly,” Aze says, turning back towards her, and then walking towards the forest. She tilts her head in a way that is an ambiguous invitation. Syarra falls into step beside her. “I thought they’d point me somewhere, the Alliance. You know, Siamus… or maybe Clara Aspenwood.”
“Or King Varian Wrynn?” Syarra suggests. “The one you swore an oath to?”
“Yeah, sure,” Aze says, waving a hand. “But I haven’t met him, so he’s not the one who comes to mind. Anyway, Siamus will get me in the war eventually, I’m sure. You, too, I bet – he knows what you and Roper and Mourn and everybody are worth, and what you need.”
“He is a valued ally,” Syarra says quietly, a faint touch of relief in her voice before it fades. One contact that Aze hasn’t poisoned for them. However he feels about death knights, he does see their worth.
“And a friend,” Aze says, turning toward her. “I miss him, sometimes. Yes, for the obvious reasons, but also I like talking to him. He and Em are both in Pandaria… I do have work here, with the orphans, the detective agency. But Natalyah and I might go over soon. Just, you know, in case you might, too. Or in case you don’t.”
“It is good that you have friends,” Syarra says quietly, swallowing the question of why this Em is mentioned in the same sentence as Fallon. That’s Aze’s business. Instead, she continues, “A place here, a purpose, and friends who will allow you the freedom to choose them. I am… Roper and I are… seeking something of the same.” She can still feel the chains in her own mind, dormant now. Still, a constant reminder of what she could lose, at the whim of another.
“I hope you find them,” Aze says, smiling. Syarra sees her reach into her pocket, brushing her fingers over the textured face of the watch Roper had given her. “I’d stay longer, but I’m supposed to be back in the office in an hour. Where is my fucking horse?”
“…the one you left wandering in the forest?” Syarra asks dryly. “I couldn’t tell you. That was a borrowed horse, wasn’t it?” She pauses. “The watch helps?”
“Mm, yes. And you should see the calendar Cressidha gave me for Winter Veil, it’s a thing of wonder,” Aze says with a grin. “I’m more punctual than I’ve ever been. But the horse, don’t worry about it. I’ll tell the stable where to find it, roughly speaking.”
Syarra stares at her for a moment longer. “You can ask me for help, you know. As you once used to.”
“What, you’re a horse tracker now?” Aze asks with a laugh.
“Not exactly,” Syarra says. She gestures, and the skeletal horse emerges from the dirt of the forest floor. “But I have a mount, and can move more quickly.” She pauses, a pointed silence, as she swings up into the undead horse’s saddle.
Aze reaches a hand to her. “Together, then?”
Syarra pulls her up on the saddle. “Yes, together.”