A Necessary Vacation

[Delion]

Well, he mused to himself, at least the cottage looks warm.

They hadn't exactly come to Winterspring by choice. Or more that they had to be somewhere else, and had chosen the cold and remote climate as that else to be in. It was a complex situation they were in, that he had been dragged into. He'd still be angry at his apprentice if Sol'remy wasn't so... thickwitted. Imagine, being approached by some until-then-unknown organisation to be the next Arch Druid despite having NO qualifications in the least, only to find out that - shock! - they were using you for their own means. Delion had told and TOLD the man there was something strange about the whole affair, and just when he had thought Sol'remy had come to his senses and was going to pull out of the race, this "organisation", these "Friends For a Change" had objected. Strongly. With threats. With enough wheedling, Delion had gathered that after telling them 'no', his apprentice had recieved a blow to the head and an ultimatum that if he didn't become the next Arch Druid that there may or may not be death in their futures.

-Their-. As if he himself had any bloody thing to do with it! He was quite sure they both knew THAT was never going to happen. Sol'remy, Arch Druid? Oh please, the man was worse than a teenager and had even less education.

Most likely lacking any real sense, they had both decided to simply ignore the problem. This Antheriar fellow of the Friends hadn't spoken with Sol'remy for some time now, so perhaps everything had simply blown over? Best lay low just in case. Where no one knew where they were. Besides, he deserved a holiday. A long one perhaps.

Sol'remy had begun loping towards their home for the coming weekend or more, belongings in jaw and kitten on his shoulders. Delion had given him that kitten in an effort to have him learn responsibility and perhaps some delicacy. No improvement thus far. He had even named it something condescending and ridiculous, it wasn't even a NAME. Fuffles, or Foofy, or something or other. And look, he was even too lazy to rug up in warm clothes. "Oh babe, I don't need to put any effort into anything, I can just be a big ugly bear".

He rather thought he did a good impression of the man in his head. At least it was more comfortable to be with a bear than a topless... gay man. Who had the stupidest facial hair he had ever seen. With a withering sigh he lifted his bags, trudging through the wet snow towards the cosy rented property.

This was going to be a very long, very trying holiday.

[Solremy]

It was cold. Damnably, horribly cold. No matter how he bundled up snow seemed to get into everything, seeping under layers of clothing to chill him to the bone. Delion's feet crunched through the snow's icy skin, sinking up to his calves as he struggled against the wind. "There's been no contact from Antheriar. None from that stupid little fan club. I locked up at home. I did lock up at home, didn't I? Did I bank the fires? Light did we cancel the Tanners' shipment? I'll have to write when we get to Everlook. I shouldn't write for business, I'm on holiday." His scarf whipped behind him, and he tugged what was wrapped about his face up over his nose yet again. This was miserable going, but a certain apprentice couldn't just fly here. At least Sol'remy had to be as worried as he. Technically they were fleeing his pursurers, after all.

Behind him, the druid's feet padded comfortably through the snow. The entirety of his thoughts could be summed up fairly concisely, as they fully consisted of a content and repetitive, "I'm a bear I'm a bear I'm a bear." Why Delion didn't join him in shifting had been conversation fodder back in Felwood, after it had gotten frightening and before it had gotten too cold for conversation. Del could be as proper as he wanted, Remy was more concerned with staying warm.

Everlook. Until the furor died over Archdruid, until Antheriar and the Friends forgot all about their little candidate, it would make for a wonderful hideout. Just him, Delion, and the kitten currently buried in his fur on his shoulder for a week or more. A week without duties and chores, when they could just relax...this was going to be great.

Delion was stuffy. He probably wouldn't be okay with the age-old habit of relaxing naked. A shame, that, but no matter. Remy snuffled through a snowdrift, maw curled into what could only be an ursine grin. "He can't tell I'm naked if I'm shifted," was what he would have thought consciously, had be bothered. The idea was fleeting, and filed away for further consideration later. At the present his mind was wholly occupied. "I'm a bear I'm a bear I'm a bear..."

[Delion]

Volume 3 of The South Seas Saga, as written by L’ree Lovelace, was even more enjoyable to read on holiday. With the wind and snow howling outside in the night, it made the crackling fire in the hearth feel all the warmer. This is what he had envisioned his holiday to be all along; wearing the largest woollen sweater he owned with the sleeves bunched up at the wrist, sitting in a large cosy armchair before a bright fireplace, a glass of mulled wine at his elbow, and a novel of scandalous romance in his hands. He adjusted the little glasses on his nose, and read from the page he had last left.


Vivian turned at the strong hand on her shoulder. Before her was none other than the man in charge of this port city, both royal and ruffian, known for his iron will and velvet tongue. The Deft-Daggered Pirate, the Prince Jayner Highcastle himself. Oh but he was tall and broad of chest, the expensive silks he wore pulled taut over his muscled frame. His hair was a vivid blonde, hanging in gentle curls about his chiseled jaw and tied at the base of his neck with a ribbon of crimson samite. His smile was that of a sated wolf, though she trembled at the thought of his brilliant white teeth grinning in hunger. As she gazed into his eyes she was lost to them, two deep sapphires chiselled from the hardest earth, glinting fiercely in the dawn light and hiding secrets of a tortured past. When he spoke, his voice sent shivers down her spine all the way to her -


FWUMP. Delion gave a start, lifting his book above his head and scowling down at his apprentice. Sol’remy replied with an ursine grin, heavy weight near squashing Delion’s legs against the chair. “What’cher reading, babe?”

“Nothing. Certainly nothing you’d be interested in.” While Sol’remy couldn’t read Common, it was best not to pique his interest to start with.

The bear grumped and lowered his head, shuffling into a position by the fire that just made things more uncomfortable for the tailor.

“Do you mind? You’re on my legs.”

“You should come down here, babe. Curl up by the fire. S’nice. Warm ‘n’ stuff.”

“I’ll do no such thing. I’m not going to lie about on the floor, that’s ridiculous and wholly undignified besides. I’ll get dust all through my hair, or crease my trousers. You are terribly heavy, you know that?”

A light, snuffly snoring was his only answer. Very well then. With a little wriggling, some awkward shifting about and raising his knees far higher than was proper, Delion eventually managed to get his feet free, promptly setting them on top of the druid and crossing his legs at the ankle. The little kitten -Foof, was it? Fuzz. Something- hopped into his lap, but that made it terribly awkward to read so it was delicately relocated to his apprentice’s shoulder.

A glass of mulled wine, a book that was just getting to the good part, being able to wiggle your toes infront of a blazing fire while the world was chill outside, and a bearskin rug. Such were the luxuries of vacation.

[Delion]

They returned from the goblin village of Everlook with groceries and oddments in hand; for once Sol’remy was a kal’dorei instead of a bear, and thus got to carry a basket of food. Some nice cheese, a portion of meat and bread and such. Delion sat down at the small table once they were back inside the warm little cottage, leafing through the parchments that were his mail. There was the usual requests and orders which he set aside to read much later, some taxation forms which he might fill out for fun this evening, and one letter from the Stonecutter’s Guild.

...Well, that was a little out of the ordinary. He opened the letter with a deft hand, perusing the tight script. Oh! Look at all that fine print. This would be exciting.

To the Proprietor of The Finest Thread, 54 Canal Way, Cathedral District, one Mr. Oreweave.
On behalf of Foreman Wick, we, the surveyors of this up-and-coming development, would like to organise a meeting with you to discuss all formal matters including sales impact, dust management, canal clarity, environmental impact, noise disturbance, and any concerns you may have over the future of your business. Please contact-

Oh piffle, he was on holiday, he’d read it all later. So long as his store wasn’t about to fall down, what did he care! With a light laugh he flicked the paper into the fireplace, stood up, and went to help his apprentice prepare their evening meal.

___

“So wuts ther probabiliteh uf damage ter outlyin’ buildin’s?” The sound of a man horking and spitting.
“None, the nether y’think I’m runnin’ ‘ere, a firewurks fact’ry? Mind ye, there’s alwis some chance o’ stone careenin’ inter paths what which I ain’t hypothesised, but thaet’s slim, onleh a thirteh percent chance er so.” The sound of a pencil scrape, a note was being added to a dusty clipboard.
“Righ’. ‘ow much seaforium yer usin’?”
“No’ enough. With this much, we’ll poke a ‘ole in et an’ the Canals’ll leak out an’ thet’s it. I don’ care what thet Wick seys, without th’righ’ amount o’boom we ain’t gonner put a dint in et.”

Mason Goldgild was a stubborn-set woman, born into construction work. It was said she could bite right through a boulder - though clearly that wasn’t happening here. The barrels of explosives were piled high in boats flush up against the curtain wall of the city, with even more stacked above on a sturdy scaffolding. Thick-framed, bearded men in hard yellow hats bustled back and forth, sweating, heaving and grunting as ever more blasting powder was transported to the wall.

The woman lifted the brim of her hardhelm with the butt of her pencil, squinting from under it down the Canals and the stores that lined the way.

...Maybe another tonne of solid powder, just to be sure the job was done right.

[Antheriar]

To kal'dorei eyes, night appears as bright day. Even moonless nights are light enough to read. That the room in which one particular elf stood was too dark for him to see much was certainly notable. To what the excess darkness was due, he was uncertain. Perhaps it was just the cheery personality of the man who'd summoned him.

"Wintersbite..."

Antheriar shivered inwardly. This was the first time he'd had the honor of meeting his employer, and he was absolutely certain it was an honor he could live without. There was just something about the man's voice, about his manner, about the way he never bothered to let one see his face... "Yes, sir?" He managed to keep his voice steady anyway.

"You're an intelligent man, Wintersbite." There was a long pause. Antheriar opened his mouth to give thanks for the compliment, and was immediately cut off. "It's why I hired you. Because you had a reputation for never letting an employer down."

Antheriar shivered outwardly.

"And yet now," he sighed, "our investment has vanished. Right into thin air. Do you have any idea why he might have vanished, Wintersbite?"

"I...would presume it was under pressure from his trademaster, Oreweave."

He jumped when a gnomish device landed on the desk. The crash was startling enough. That it began to speak in his voice was even more disturbing. "Sol'remy, get your ass over here or we're both dead. Do you understand dead, Sol'remy? DEAD IS BAD."

Silence hung in the air for a moment. He should have known they were watching him, should have suspected they were recording his transmissions. Should have been more careful. Should have thought, should have -thought-...

"You're an intelligent man, Wintersbite. Don't pretend otherwise."

The elf nodded. If their investment was lost, the investors would quickly come asking for recompense. As the one responsible, Antheriar doubted he had the cash to pay them back. He also doubted that he wanted to find out what other repayment methods they'd accept.

The room's sole chair creaked as its occupant resettled himself. "Five days, Antheriar." Somehow it was worse when his first name was used. "Don't disappoint me again."

The lawyer bowed, and retreated to the hall to be blindfolded for his trip out again. Five days. Five days was enough to plan, one way or another.

[Delion]

((Oh god what's going to happen. I find myself sympathising with the jerk now.))

[itanyablade]

((I will light him on fire for you!))

[Delion]

The fire crackled beside the two, giving the room a gentle orange glow. They had each had perhaps a little too much wine, but why not? They could sleep in. The rug beneath them was thick and warm, outside the stars were glittering in the night, and there was nothing wrong in enjoying another man’s company. They had even taken the blanket down from the bed for this occasion - they both wanted to be comfortable.

“All right... Are you ready?”

“Babe, I was born ready. Can we hurry up?”

“Of course, yes, just a moment. I have to get everything set up how I like it.”

“......Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“It may not seem so, but I’ve done this a hundred times before. Come on, Sol’remy, I’m ready.”

“Finally! So... You want me to..?”

“Yes. Just, oh, move it like so.”

“Ohhhh. Okay, babe, I can take it from here. I got this.”

“We’ll see.”

...

“Wh-hey! What are you doing?!”

“Dominating you, apparently. You’re not putting up much of a fight. I expected a bit more from you.”

“Well... What should I do to get back on top, huh?”

“Take your big man there, and put it- yes!”

“Hah! Del, you’re gonna get such a pummelling.”

“I think you’re the one on the receiving end, technically.”

“Oh! Oh, oh, SCORE!!”

“No, I’m not done yet.”

“...what?”

“See, Sol’remy, you may have breached my castle walls,” a very untailory smirk accompanied this, “but you didn’t take note of my archers. There, you managed to kill one but there’s still a couple in each tower. I’m afraid your hero is dead. Really, Sol’remy, you should have put a priest in the square behind him, and not have given me so much time to set up my fortifications. This isn’t -chess-.”

“What’s chess?”

A little sigh from the white-haired kal’dorei. “You wouldn’t like it. This is compromise. I thought you might enjoy this game, as its a little more hands-on.”

“Oh. Well. Uh, go again?”

“If you wish.”

The board was cleared of little painted wooden pieces, heroes and infantry alike getting dumped onto the rug. Foofers - or whatever the kitten was called - had commandeered a cavalryman and was giving him a devilish chewing, but otherwise there were no casualties.

“You can be red this time.”

It really was going to be a pity when they both eventually had to return to the store.

[Antheriar]

Five days passed much too quickly. And one man could only search so much in such a short time. He'd been everywhere he could think of; Alliance settlements, goblin settlements, even Outland. But no one claimed to have any knowledge of Sol'remy or Oreweave. Antheriar knew, of course, that he was being toyed with. His employer didn't really expect him to find them. If he wanted them found that desperately, he could send others with more strength and fewer scruples. No. This was all just part of Antheriar's repayment.

Dawn of the sixth day found him hiding, but remarkably calm. Not enough to search, no, but five days had indeed been enough to plan. And now that his fate was decided, revenge would be enacted. And for that, letters had to be written.

I don't know why I trust you with this, but something of your sincerity convinces me you will do what is best. Additionally, it's business, and I imagine the enclosed should be enough coin to seal a contract.

Deliver the attached message to the Arch-Druidess as soon as possible, in your usual way; preferably with as many observers as possible. (Forgive its sloppy nature--I had something of a deadline.) If you can, encourage her to act upon it immediately. There is no time to waste.

I wish you well on your current endeavor, believe it or not. Rest assured, we will not meet again.

Two letters. Two that mattered, anyway. There was a whole stack of dummy letters, camouflage for the ones that mattered. He stuck the last one in near the middle of the stack, several envelopes away from the other neatly addressed missive that would actually be going to a real person.

Considering what your actions have cost me, I bear you surprisingly little ill will. In fact, I can say that I hope this letter reaches you safe and in good health...

...I have ended this whole charade. Keep your ears open, for news of the selection of an archdruid...

Should you receive any suspicious packages, I recommend not opening them...

He glanced out the window. The mailbox was forty yards away. A short distance, not even a brisk walk. That's if it were a simple matter. But if it were a simple matter, the stack of letters would have been unnecessary. If it were a simple matter, he wouldn't have to factor in the gentleman across the way who seemed to have been following him lately. But it was all right. After all, he'd had five full days to plan.

Forty yards. Starting...now.

He was spotted the minute he slipped out of the window. If the man hadn't been following him before, he certainly was now. And he had a longer stride, too. But he could be delayed. Like precious golden apples, junk letters began to fall from the top of his stack as he quickened his pace. The more curses he muttered, the more eager his shadow was to stop and pick them up, curiously examining each, and wasting valuable time in the process. That half the letters were gone when Antheriar reached the mailbox didn't matter. What mattered was that he reached it, and that the first letter into the box was genuine.

Sadriah Fallingstar
Dancigrams Inc. Ltd.

Short of time, he stuffed the rest into the box in twos, threes, eights. He didn't have time to reassure himself that the other letter was among them. He had to trust that it was the heavier mass he heard smack the bottom of the box.

Mr. Delion Oreweave
The Finest Thread

There ended his plan. In the whole of his life, Antheriar Wintersbite had never been without a plan to guide him. As he fled into a narrow alley, it struck him; he didn't have to worry about planning anymore.

[Delion]

Mr. Oreweave

Considering what your actions have cost me, I bear you surprisingly little ill will. In fact, I can say that I hope this letter reaches you safe and in good health, whether it reaches you at home or in hiding.

If it should reach you in hiding, then let it inform you that I have ended this whole charade. Keep your ears open, for news of the selection of an archdruid other than your apprentice should be swiftly forthcoming.

While I cannot promise that my former employer will be pleased with the outcome, I also cannot imagine that he will have anything to gain by further pursuing you, given your rather faithful and dangerous set of friends. In other words, it is likely safe for you to return home.

Should this not be forwarded, and await your return to Stormwind, then let it serve as a warning instead. If you receive any suspicious packages, I recommend not opening them, lest you show Sol’remy just how very bad dead is.

Sincerely,
Antheriar Wintersbite


Delion reclined in the armchair, frowning down his nose at the parchment in hand. This was certainly a different tack to the threats they had received earlier. Was it a set up, to lure them back to Stormwind? It didn’t seem that way. Why include a warning at all, if you weren’t being sincere? Surely if it was a trap, it would have included a reason behind this new change of heart instead of being such an odd letter. Acknowledging the threat of the Riders should they be pursued further was simply stupid, if they were still in danger.

Their holiday had gone on for at least a few weeks now, and no doubt there was a pile of papers and accounts to go through when he got home. There would be new orders to make, and he should make some attempt at teaching Sol’remy the stocktaking before the taxes were to be worked out for the next year. And what was this he had heard from Ceil? They had construction going on for a harbour, right by his store?

On second thoughts, this letter from Mr. Wintersbite had come at just the right time. He really should be home, sorting out what to do with all this work going on near his store. There were council meetings to attend, and his being the only store in that area wasn’t going to help him overly much. He had to re do all his calculations for the year ahead, and think about what, exactly, the harbour meant for the future of The Finest Thread.

Well. This Antheriar fellow wasn’t all TOO horrible, it seemed. He had knocked Sol’remy out, but his apprentice truly had deserved it for one reason or another. He had given them a holiday, even if it was borne of threatening them. And he had been considerate in letting them know when they were safe from his wrath again.

The tailor folded the letter neatly. He tucked it back into the envelope and stood, to find Sol’remy and give him the news that they were returning home.

[sadie]

“Oh! A Letter!” Sadie enjoyed reading letters. Nothing like sitting down with a nice glass of lemony sun tea and unopened correspondence on a warm summer evening.

Antheriar? That's Sol'remy's advisor! Oh, I wonder how the elections are going. I can't believe Miss Chelody hasn't picked him yet. Sadie sighed, thinking about that evening when Sol'remy valiantly saved them all from the evil gnome. He is so brave and wise.

The letter was brief and to the point. “I don't know why I trust you with this, but something of your sincerity convinces me you will do what is best. Additionally, it's business, and I imagine the enclosed should be enough coin to seal a contract.”

Clipped to the letter was a bank note from the Stormwind Royal Bank, good for ten gold coins. Signed to her name. This is too much! Maybe he wants to start a Dancigrams franchise in Darnassus or Moonglade.

Sadie kept on reading. “Deliver the attached message to the Arch-Druidess as soon as possible, in your usual way; preferably with as many observers as possible. (Forgive its sloppy nature--I had something of a deadline.) If you can, encourage her to act upon it immediately. There is no time to waste.”

Oh boy, everybody likes sendind Dancigrams to Miss Chelody! Why can't I be as pretty as her, Elune? Sadie started reading her bags, this much money was more than enough for a “Most Urgent” Dancigram. She would start looking for the Druidess immediately. I am so professional.

Mister Antheriar must have been in a hurry. “I wish you well on your current endeavor, believe it or not. Rest assured, we will not meet again.” Sadie was saddened to learn she would not see Sol'remy's adviser soon. He is probably going to be too busy once Sol'remy is the Archdruid. But they are doing it for druids everywhere. They are so selfless. We should send them a congratulatory Dancigram once Sol'remy is officially the new Archdruid. I am sure they would love it.

Sadie was ready to leave the Dancigrams Inc. Ltd. Office when she realized she hadn't read nor copied to her notepad the actual message for the dancigram. How could I forget! I always lose my head when things get exciting. She went back to the coffee table where the letter was still laying, took out her notepad and started copying the message.

"Roses are red,
Icecap is blue,
Sol'remy's a pawn,
in a game of who's-who.

Choose someone else in the Archdruid race,
To keep evil motives out of your place."

Sadriah Fallingstar could not believe her eyes. The lawyer was betraying Sol'remy the wise! Why would he do that? Why was he trying to hurt him and his chances to help druids everywhere? He -knew- Sol'remy was the best man for the job.

You may have made a fool of everyone, Antheriar, but you won't fool me. I won't help you bring down Sol'remy. I will go look for him at Mister Oreweave's shop. He must be alerted of your heinous betrayal.

But first, she would have to go shopping for shoes. She was too angry to talk. Only the feel of a new pair of violet pumps, maybe emerald green, would soothe her. Then, she would go alert Sol'remy of the lawyer's betrayal. I will send the traitor his money back. I am a professional. Well, maybe I'll save a coin or two. I saw these amazing pair yesterday... Oh, I think I'll still have to deliver the message. I am a professional, after all. But... but... but that's going to hurt Sol'remy's chances. He won't forgive me!

She would have to decide over her loyalty to Sol'remy or her commitment to Dancigrams Inc. Ltd. The answer likely laid in that gorgeous pair of shoes.

[Delion]

Home! There was nothing half as welcoming to Delion as stepping under the wide arches of the Stormwind gate. The grandeur of the statues there and the growing buzz of the trade centre spoke of a wildly exotic culture just a few steps away. And he was coming back to it, to be a part of it all; the government with its lords and taxes, the people with their commerce and trade and oh! The fashions! The food, the shops, the atmosphere. It was so, so good to be back.

Delion shrugged a bag back to his shoulder and walked on, Sol’remy in tow - for once, not a bear. At least the man knew when to be a little civilised, he supposed. Well, maybe that was a little harsh. They had had a relatively nice holiday with little stress, and his apprentice hadn’t been nearly so on his nerves as he usually was. Perhaps that was partly due to getting used to the man, or starting to build up an immunity to his odd ways. Maybe he was just improving his own tolerance and social skills, maybe it was the lack of work to stretch them thin. Whatever it was, it had been pleasant.

The noise of construction for the new harbour could be heard as they left the trade district behind them, and started to fill Delion with a sense of unease. But as they drew close, he saw it wasn’t so bad as he was expecting - there were no gaping holes in his store, the archway to the Cathedral hadn’t been torn down... Perhaps he had been a little overly worried. He set his bags down on the porch of The Finest Thread and dug in his pockets for his keys.

“Hey babe, nice package.”

...Why was he always doing that? Ugh. Delion turned to his apprentice, key in the door, and set eyes upon a large bulk of mail tucked to one corner of the shopfront. He was right, there was a wooden container of considerable size, with some other oddments and letters nearby. Sol’remy was already rifling through most of it before something started nagging at him in the back of his mind. A small explosion from the construction site nearby suddenly heightened that feeling, and he looked at the box with new eyes.

“Sol’remy. Don’t touch that, please. Come inside, at least help me take the luggage in.”

“That can wait, Del. Some of this has probably been here for weeks. You wouldn’t want to leave someone waiting another moment, would you?”

“Your curiosity aside, I’d really rather you didn’t touch any of it just yet.” With a swift stride he was next to the man, snatching letters out of his hand and giving each a swift glance while Sol’remy made an annoyed whine. Ah, there it was, the crisply folded note that had been tacked to the box before an all-too-idiotic apprentice had snatched it off. None of his suppliers had ever needed to attach a note, the contents and details were always stamped on the box itself.

Delion took his apprentice by the arm, took only a moment to turn the key in the door and hurried inside.

“Whoah, Del, what- hey, what’s going on?” Sol’remy, dim as ever. Delion ignored the man and stood in the middle of the room, hesitantly lifting the fold of the note. The script was plain, precise, businesslike. Black ink, block letters, it was presented as if nothing more than a transaction between trades.

His heart tried skipping a beat, and then began hammering against his chest. He recoiled from the letter, the simple parchment dropping to the floorboards as his hands shot up to cover his mouth.

“...Del..? Babe, wh-”

“It’s Antheriar. Oh dear Light. Oh, gods above.”

The fright and alarm jumped from one man to the next as swift as a fire catches on dry grass. They shared a panicked look for just a moment before Delion dashed back out the door.

- - -

“SHANO!!”

Officer Pomeroy didn’t know a word of that kal’dorei tongue, but he knew when he was needed. His patrol took him past the Park, so he was no stranger to these folk. He was already at a run when the shriek came again.

“GUARD!!”


- - -

[itanyablade]

((Woot! Nice work in converting that over Del.))