deercountry | [ ACTIVE / CLOSED ]

The delicate blue petals of the peacebloom plant bruise easily, Anduin knows.

Once upon a time, in what feels like a different life, Anduin had drunk plenty of peacebloom tea. He'd sat with Jaina, on days that were difficult, and let the soothing herbal scent ease back the tension.

Why, he wonders, did his plant choose to be peacebloom? Did it have meaning? Or did it simply pick a flower he was familiar with?

He's resting on the steps of his house, one street over from Disciple's Defense, and the plant is stood in front of him in a sturdy pot. Is it... good to have it in a pot? He's not sure, but somehow Anduin feels it would be safer than leaving it outside. Something like this, something that's a part of him in a way, it should be... protected. The plant is not in full bloom -- it looks a little weak, sickly, buds closed but striving to get there. There's potential, in it. At least, he thinks, it isn't wilting.

Maybe he can even work out if he could make peacebloom tea with it. Or would that be strange? Maybe it would be strange to make tea out of a plant that's --

Movement catches his attention, and Anduin flits his eyes up. He blinks at Ariadne, frowns for a half second before recognition dawns.

"The swamp," he says finally. "That was you, wasn't it?"

She hadn't meant to spy. In fact, Ariadne was trying as hard as she could to break herself of old habits. The Red Dragon and his path of destruction was a long way from Trench, she understood. And even if he himself arrived in this place, he would never be able to pose a threat to her again.

So she was no longer a spy. And there was no longer a resistance.

But she was soft spoken. Lithe and quick. With a talent for making herself invisible. And when she saw the bright petals of the flower, she couldn't resist slipping around the trunk of a tree to stare at it. It didn't even occur to her that it would be fine to just walk up.

He did look like he was deep in thought, though. Maybe that was why she hid. But when he saw her, she guilty stepped around the trunk, dipping into a polite curtsy, even though she was wearing her leathers, not a gown. "Yes, sir," she replied, raising her head just enough to glance up from beneath her lashes. Her cheeks flushed pale purple. "It was."

"I never really had the chance to thank you properly."

He shifts the pot carefully to be beside himself, pushes to his feet.

"I fear I have been remiss in that. It is good to see you made it here safely -- although, I fear you would rather be elsewhere."

To be here means not to be in her home, after all. Anduin knows he himself feels a degree of anxiety in being away from Azeroth. Yet he is still glad to see her safe, to confirm nothing has happened to here. He hesitates, glancing up at the stone building behind himself then back at her.

"Perhaps I can offer you some tea, at least? If not now, then when you have the time."

She might be on her way somewhere, although her manner had not suggested any particular hurry.

He really was quite the gentleman. And unlike Dean, he offered her tea--which she enjoyed--as opposed to whisky, which had been an exercise in serious pain and humiliation.

She raised her head, offering him a sunny smile. And slowly, she rose from her curtsy. "You don't need to thank me," she said. "Anyone else would have done the same." Or so she insisted on believing, even in spite of the evidence Deerington had provided that some people were actually quite selfish and naughty.

Or maybe because of it.

"But I would enjoy some tea," she added. "If you're not too busy. I really didn't mean to snoop or anything. It's just that flower of yours...I've never seen anything quite like it. It's beautiful."

Oh! He drops his eyes to it, tilting his head as he reaches to pick up the pot again.

"This? It's peacebloom, you can find it growing wild in the forests where I'm from. It's used to make healing potions and herbals teas, although..."

Anduin hesitates, then laughs -- a light, self-conscious sort of sound.

"I admit, I feel uncertain if I should treat this one the same. It seems strange to pull the flowers from something that's meant to represent some part of my progress."

He frowns down at it, then flits his eyes up and offers her a wry smile.

"Perhaps I am overthinking it. I have other tea, of course. Please --"

He tilts his head toward the house, turning up the steps and waiting by the door to be sure she follows.

Accepting his invitation, Ariadne followed him up the steps and, after only a slight moment of hesitation, into the house. She was careful to wipe her feet off before stepping inside. And very, very glad she'd decided to wear boots. When she was wandering her orchard, she preferred to be barefoot, but the rest of the grass and undergrowth in Trench was just scraggly and unpleasant.

"A peacebloom," she said, turning to look at the flower. "I like the name. Was it..." How to put this delicately? "Was it the flower that you grew as part of the ritual that everyone's doing?"

Well, it sounded better than asking if it had grown out of his blood, anyway.

"I...a lot of people have been revealing plants from their homelands. It's sort of incredible."

"You have the right of it."

He waits until she's safely inside, then closes the door behind them -- pacing into the broad entranceway. While the house has kept the modern layout it had in Deerington, all its features and stylings have regressed. That, in truth, makes it feel a little more like something he's used to. The grey stone structure and broad windows are more familiar than the redbrick houses had been, and although the open plan living space is still not quite what he had in Stormwind the enormous hearth is something he understands. It's unlit, currently, the weather still being mild enough despite the rain. Anduin is used to dreary weather, to Stormwind earning its name when the seasons turned and the waves lashed up its docks.

"Make yourself comfortable," he says, and sets the plant pot down on a table before gesturing for her to sit. The chairs loosely arranged by the hearth have high backs, ornately carved carved arms and don't appear designed for slouching. "I'm afraid we weren't properly introduced before. My name is Anduin Wrynn."

"Ariadne of Valeria," she said, giving him another curtsy, this one a bit more cursory than the first. "But most people just call me 'Airy.'" Which somehow just...made sense. Alastrians were terribly opposed to names that had meaning. They lived in fear of nominative determinism. Avoid it as they'd tried, though, Airy's nickname suited her completely.

She was like a little bird. A bird that might spread her wings and fly at any second. Apart from the fact that she'd sacrificed her wings a long time ago.

"Anduin is a very pretty name," she said. "Where does it come from?"

Which was to ask...where did he come from?

There was something about him that reminded her of home. Although she couldn't properly place it. It probably had something to do with the way he'd been dressed, the day they met. It just didn't scream of any of those Earthers.

He shrugs off his coat, hanging it up and fussing with the sleeves of the white shirt he wears underneath. A pale blue vest is neatly buttoned over the top, and he tugs at the bottom of it absently as he crossed back into the kitchen.

"Well, technically my name is Anduin Llane Wrynn. I'm named for my grandfather, Llane Wrynn, and the man who was my father's mentor, Anduin Lothar."

He opens a cupboard and pulls out two cups, hesitates before glancing back over.

"Does herbal tea suit you? I don't have anything too strong, I'm afraid."

"I love herbal tea," she said, neatly perching herself on the edge of one of the high-backed chairs, crossing her ankles. "I'm actually thinking of trying to grow tea leaves in my orchard." A pause. "I have an orchard. It's from Deerington."

She couldn't decide if she was moving too fast or too slow, making plans and putting down roots. Literal and metaphorical. But the way she saw it, no matter how long she was going to be in Trench, people were going to need fresh fruit and herbs. And sometimes, maybe, just a beautiful place with some trees.

The wildlife was not to her satisfaction.

"What did Anduin Lothar mentor your grandsire in?" she asked. "Some sort of trade? Or are you a knight? Was your grandfather his squire?"

"Anduin Lothar was a soldier, they called him the lion of Azeroth. When Llane Wrynn was killed, Lothar took my father to safety."

He flashes her a smile, turns to set some water heating.

"I suppose in that sense he may have been like a parental figure too, protecting him. My father grew to be a great warrior himself. They called him Lo'Gosh, the Ghost Wolf."

Quite the impressive title. Anduin doubts he'll ever live up to that, that he'll ever be the great warrior his father was. Maybe he can still prove himself in other ways, though.

Her face dissolved into a look of sympathy. "I'm sorry. That your grandfather was killed." Because, naturally, it was the part of the story that she latched onto first.

Ariadne had never known any of her grandsires. All of them had been hunted down and killed, long before she was ever born. Old Alastrians were an incredible rarity, especially now. She'd once heard stories of a name called Frick who lived to be nearly fifty, but she had no way of knowing of those stories were even true. There were just so few of them left.

"But...Lo'Gosh?" She was careful to pronounce it perfectly. "That sounds like a very impressive title."

"Yes."

He leans against the counter, eyes dropped away to the ground."

"I doubt when he named me that he ever imagined his son would grow up to be a priest."

That isn't quite living up to the name, after all, yet still. They had learned much from one another, even despite their differences. Perhaps, because of their differences. Both of them were stubborn, both of them believed themselves in the right. Despite all their disagreements, Anduin loved his father.

Loves his father still, and misses him. If Varian Wrynn were here now, surely he would know what to do. Surely he would be able to find the answers Anduin yet seeks.

And that was why the Alastrians feared nominative determinism. Ultimately, you couldn't control another person's fate. And most of the time, you cold barely control your own. There was no point in trying. And over time, that sort of trying had become taboo.

Not that her name had ever stopped Ariadne from disappointing her parents, especially her mother.

Her heart went out to Anduin. Because although he hadn't outright said it, she could sense a lingering feeling that was all-too-familiar. That shameful regret of not living up to someone's expectations for you.

She gave him a kind smile. "Priests are warriors of a different sort. Their battles are just harder to see."

Burying the past isn't a new concept to Anduin, but it's one he struggles with. Anduin Wrynn has so much he cannot let go of.

He misses his father.

He misses Wyll.

He misses so many people. They keep leaving him, or worse --

His fingers tighten in the vivid blue fabric of the sash he's holding, trying to force back the wave of emotion threatening. He knows what he should do, were he to really be putting his heart into this ritual. The thin chain of his mother's locket still bites into the skin around his neck, and his father's compass sits tucked into his pocket.

If he were to truly let go of the past, he'd let go of them.

Yet he can't. Not yet.

He hasn't anything else left to hold onto.

Isn't the point of the past that you learn from it? Surely you have to remember it to let go of it? Maybe he's just making excuses.

If a compass breaks his spirit, how will he respond when the war arrives on our doorstep?

Give up the past. Anduin's fingers clench in the fabric again, thinking. What is it he needs to let go of? Maybe... trying to be the king his father was. Maybe he has to accept he never will be.

The patch of dirt outside his house in Cassandra already has a hole dug, and Anduin is so absorbed with staring down into it he takes a moment to realise he isn't alone. His eyes lift from the dirt and he blinks, scrunching up the sash self-consciously.

"Catra," he manages, and he frowns -- drops his eyes again. "I --"

I'm not your friend, her voice says in his head, and he trails off.

"You found Melog," he says instead, glancing over at the cat then dropping to his knees by the hole. He winces at the brief flash of pain, folds up the sash carefully to set in the ground. "I'm glad. I looked all I could but..."

But, obviously, he found nothing.

Edited 2021-09-09 23:58 (UTC)

If Catra were to be completely honest about it, she hadn't wanted to run into Anduin again. More than a considerable part of her wanted for that to be it, for that to be the final time that they met, and for him to understand that he shouldn't expect anything from her. While she had stayed in his house, back in the other place, for a couple of days, it didn't mean she owed him anything. Didn't mean anything at all except for the fact that she had already lost her own home and didn't care enough to turn down the offer.

When she stumbles on him now, playing in the dirt like a child, she almost turns around. Almost, almost, almost. She doesn't, however, because she knows that'll cast the wrong impression. As if he'd done something wrong or as if she were bothered by his very presence. That's not the case. He's weird and clingy, but she's not bothered by him.

"What are you doing?" she asks, pressing the knuckles of one hand against her hip.

His words go unacknowledged.

Melog steps away from her side to approach, lowering their head in expectation of a pat. They look the same as they ever have, although possibly a bit larger in size today.

He sits back, staring down at the sash then sideways at Melog.

"I'm told this month is considered a month of sacrifice, in Trench. People here bury something that represents the past, as a promise to themselves to move on. Apparently if the ritual is performed correctly a flower will grow."

It probably all sounds silly to Catra. He has the suspicion everything he says and does sounds that way, to her. Reaching out he rests a hand on Melong's head, rubbing gently between the creature's ears. There's something soothing about the action, and it eases a knot in his chest.

"I thought I may as well give it a try. We've been brought to this place, led to it by the powers here. The more we understand it, the better chance we have of surviving."

Underneath Anduin's hand, Melog makes a soft, chirping 'mrruph' noise. They are nothing but friendly, bumping and attempting to nuzzle Anduin's hand as much as able from their current position. At least, between the two of them, Melog seems happy to see the boy and isn't afraid to make that known.

From this close, it's obvious that the creature has been washed very recently. They smell floral like soap, almost as if someone felt the need to aggressively clean them after their squid adventures.

"I heard about something like that," Catra states, folding her arms across her chest. She flicks her gaze from his face to his hands then to the sash folded up neatly against the ground. Admittedly, she's interested to know if something like that might work or if they were just getting fed some dumb nonsense. It easily felt like it could be either or.

She steps a little closer, moving to crouch down nearby but not too close to him.

"What are you burying for this then?"

An excellent question. Anduin slides his hand down from Melog's head, around the creature's shoulders to rub affectionately at its chest and leans into its side.

"It's -- part of my uniform, I suppose."

He can't think of a better way to describe it, without giving far too much away. No doubt Shaw would recommend he doesn't go around advertising his exact title, even if so far it means nothing to any of the locals and he's yet to see any Horde soldiers.

"I've spent a long time trying to live up to it, trying not to disappoint people."

Difficult when those around him all strive for different goals.

What kind of answer is that meant to be? He supposes? It feels like a dodge, a way to provide a watered down answer without telling an outright lie. While she couldn't really say that she knew Anduin in any sort of significant way, it didn't take much to assume that he's probably someone who wouldn't want to be untruthful unless he had to be.

She knows his type.

Catra scoffs.

"Your uniform?"

She flicks her finger towards the folded up piece of fabric resting nearby, gesturing to it as if there were something immediately obvious about it that would make his statement questionable.

"You don't look like the military type, Blondie. School uniform or something?" she continues to ask, poking at it just a little further. She knows that isn't how it works, that anyone can get swept up into a unit, that it isn't always a close, but Anduin. . . just feels too soft.

[ From: Here ]

"That should allow you to stay above the water, as I was."

He gestures again, a flash of light encompassing them both and a symbol shimmering in the air over them.

"And that should boost our fortitude. It will last about an hour but the levitation only lasts ten minutes, unless I keep recasting it. I can, but better not to waste it."

Anduin braces a hand on the table and forces himself back above the water, steadying himself then offering reaching out to Faolan to help pull him up.

"If you're ready?"

So much as one can be ready, all things considered.

Faolan casts a wary eye at Anduin as he hauls himself out of the water first, wondering if he will indeed ever be ready for what they are about to do. But he reaches to take Anduin's hand nevertheless.

Anduin's grip is strong and Faolan quietly does his best not to observe the pull of the other man's muscles as he aids in hauling Faolan out of the water himself. It stands to reason that he would be fit, with that great hulk of a weapon he insists on carrying around. The scarring is a bit of a mystery, though. Faolan files the observation of it away for further consideration at a later point in time, when they are not about to do something foolish that might lead to both their deaths.

Being up and above the water is perhaps one of the most dubious situations Faolan has ever been in. It feels a bit in his mind as though he is walking on thin ice and that any step forward might send him crashing through, only instead of ice it is the dark water of the ocean beneath his feet. He supposes at least that provides some comfort, in the event that this spell does fail. The ocean may be vast and unpredictable, but they are not freezing in it. Not yet, anyway.

"This is absurd," he mutters to himself, wondering how in the hell he is going to close the distance between where they float and these people Anduin is intent on trying to save.

[ From: here ]

There never seems to be a good time.

[ There's always so much to do, always trouble on the horizon. He carefully negotiations the steps down onto the shore, surveying the beach with a frown.

The storm is still on the horizon, but it doesn't appear to be getting closer. Not yet. He wonders how many people are still caught up in it, still struggling in the waves. ]

The bags are waterproof, it seems, so your things will be safe.

[ He drags his attention back from the horizon, shoots Flynn a smile before scanning the first few bags he can see and picking one. He kneels down in the sand with a slight wince, shucks up the sleeves of his robe to stop them dragging in it and begins searching through. ]

I think I remember what your coat looks like, Captain, is there anything else you might recognise?

[ Just in case the coat isn't here, but there's other items to look out for. ]

Edited 2021-09-10 00:37 (UTC)

[Flynn seems to stop and consider it. What else might there be in his bag that he might recognize? He shrugs slightly, helplessly, in response to the question.]

Dunno, really. What else might be in these bags? I don't have much, really. I suppose... My necklace?

[It had been his mother's. One of the few things he has left to remember her by, though he's certainly not going to explain that whole situation to the King of Stormwind.

He bends to help Anduin dig through the bags, choosing instead to explain:]

It looks like a shell, it's --

[He blinks.] Is that a tattoo?

Edited (html fail) 2021-09-11 14:39 (UTC)

[ A tattoo? Anduin doesn't quite register the question s being for him, at first. He's busying himself flipping through a bag, moves onto the next one as he glances up.

Flynn is looking at him, however, and he follows his eyes down to his wrist.

Oh! ]

Ah -- yes, it is.

[ He'd gotten so at home with its presence he barely registered it, but he supposes it is... perhaps unexpected. ]

I was in a... place before this, with some of the people people here -- those they call sleepers. We all had a mark, like this, somewhere on our person.

[Flynn squints at it, resisting the urge to ask if he can have a better look.]

Antlers... And it came with you here?

[A frown passes over his features, a look of true concern, as though he is troubled by the fact that this mark has followed Anduin from this place he is hinting at having been previously, here to this new one. That they are somehow connected and powerful enough to leave marks on your body and change the very nature of your person.

His expression shifts, however, and he turns back to his bag rummaging himself as he continues:] Suppose it's not the same if it wasn't your choice. Still -- wouldn't have pegged you as an antlers man. More...

[And here's where he realizes he knows little to nothing about the King of Stormwind personally, other than what he's heard through the grapevine or through -- well, Shaw. He casts a somewhat sheepish eye aside to Anduin.]

Well. A lion would be rather too much on the nose.

[ What is it they call a group of ravens?

An unkindness, he thinks, or maybe a conspiracy. He certainly feels that's deserved right now.

The way they rush him feels calculated, planned. A jolt of pain briefly rushes through him and Anduin --

Anduin's reality blurs a moment, and he's in Stormwind but he's being lifted up by dark winged creatures. He's struggling but chains are binding him. Genn is there, and --

In a flurry of feathers, Anduin is deposited in a boat. He clings to the side, trying to steady the race of his heart and the rock of it on the dark water.

There's someone else in the boat with him. Someone he doesn't recognise. ]

What is this place?

[ He turns in the boat, eyes flitting rapidly around their surroundings. ]

Is this your doing?

I don't control birds.

[Michael, meanwhile, is visibly sulking. The bird thing felt pretty undignified, and now he can't even leave this boat unless he wants to try swimming upstream. There's clearly nowhere good to go around here.

Arms folded, long legs tucked awkwardly up on his side of the boat, he leans over and looks into the water. That current doesn't seem fast. Could they try paddling, or...? Before he can propose this to his new boatmate, he spots something in the river below them. Something human-shaped and unmoving.]

Oh - shit.

[ There's something odd about that reply Anduin cannot put his finger on. The emphasis, maybe? Perhaps this person can charm other animals? Or perhaps --

The curse draws Anduin's attention away from the man himself to the water, and several things slowly resolve for him.

One, this boat is still moving. Someone is drawing them somewhere.

Two, it's unusually silent. Unnaturally silent. Anduin glances back at the stone arch the boat went under, then back out around them rapidly.

Three, he can smell death.

It's something he wishes he didn't recognise, but he does. Unease washes over him, and Anduin shifts -- trying not to rock the boat too much. There are more figures distantly, he realises, more bodies. He moves to the side and plunges his hands into the water, grabbing for the figure in the murky water. ]

Help me --

[ The body feels cold from the water, limp, but there might be a chance. He has to try, has to try. ]

[Michael's seen enough to conclude that the people in the water are likely already dead, but he automatically moves to help nonetheless. The river's cold as he plunges his arms in, reaching for a form that looks easily within reach - but somehow, his fingers close around nothing anyhow.]

What... [He waves a hand through the water once or twice more, before sitting back.] Ah. They're probably fake.

[ ACTIVE / CLOSED ]

ARIADNE;

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CATRA;

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"yet to see any Horde soldiers."

FAOLAN;

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FLYNN FAIRWIND;

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MICHAEL;

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