Six Letters.

[Yva]

((This will be cross-posted on the main forums, FYI, but I'd like to get the body of the letters written before I do that. Most of the people she has written to are readers of this board, so . . . enjoy!))

*****

Six letters were mailed in preparation of her leaving. There was no date scrawled across the parchment because she wasn't sure when she'd slip away, only that it was soon enough to warrant a goodbye. It would be a quiet leaving - done without flash and flair - but then, there would be no tears shed for the loss of an Ice Witch. She had few friends, and that is how she preferred to keep it. Friendship required love, and love was not her way. Once upon a time she'd pledged her heart to a man. When it ended in disaster, she finally understood what Mallek had always said to her: a forsaken heart is simply another lump of meat in a dead body. It did not and would not beat for any reason, even a fanciful one.

No, no love then, only acquaintances to be kept around for amusement. Time fillers to disrupt the monotony of infinite life.

She slid her pen back into the inkwell, carefully folding each of her notes. She chose a red wax, using her ring to embed an ornate D as her seal. Her eyes skimmed the names on the envelopes: Davien, Wueten, Narokor, Shaila Viridiant, Bricu Bittertongue, and Jakob Balthasar. Davien was chosen for obvious reasons - Stonemantle was the closest thing she had to family. She was her protector, her sister, her confidante and if things ever went horribly wrong, she was her killer. There was no closer tie than the one between a murderer and his victim. Wueten was an old, dear friend who could have been her lover at so many different times in her un-life, but it just never quite happened. Fate didn't see fit to allow that bud to bloom, which was likely for the best. Neither one of them were stable enough to maintain any sort of real relationship. Narokor was . . . her teacher? Or at least the closest thing to a mentor she was willing to recognize. She feared him, and she feared very little in the world. That seemed prestigious enough to warrant a final nod if she was to fail. Shaila was the woman she had wronged, the living proof that she made horrid mistakes that resulted in horrid consequences, and that children should never suffer for the wants of a selfish woman. Shaila was regret then, and harsh regret at that. She was a lesson Yva would never forget.

The last two were harder for her to rationalize.

Bittertongue was just an acquaintance, but she liked him, even if he was the worst kind of liar. His smiles hid dark intentions. Something cold glimmered beneath his surface. It was the same kind of cold she'd fostered from the moment she crawled out of her mass grave. It was the cold that had given her the moniker of Ice Witch when she wielded winter like a weapon. He was not a magi, nor was he a student of the fel, but that didn't mean they weren't alike. In purpose, intent, and execution, they were very alike. If you crossed them, neither one would have a qualm courting your demise.

She'd never tell him any of that, of course, because he'd deny it or laugh it off or chalk her speech up to the musings of a 'wonky deader', but she saw the same deadly purpose in him that she recognized in herself. For Bittertongue, she had respect. She wrote him out of kinship.

Jakob was something all together different.

She couldn't say exactly why she was going to mail one to Balthasar. Perhaps it was his decency to her in the wake of what she did to Mirandella. Perhaps it was his staunch belief in a purpose and the pursuit of a greater good. Perhaps it was envy that he could be noble despite the forsaken lifestyle. He had so many good qualities – honesty, integrity, dedication. There were times when she would look at him, and she'd like to replace her bitterness with his innocence, but life had not allowed her that luxury. She couldn't be like him, no, because she wasn't that naïve, but she could enjoy his good qualities for what they were and consider herself fortunate to know him. She could write him and tell him that she was leaving.

She tapped her lacquered fingernails on the desktop, watching the sun rise over the Stormwind building tops. The land of ice and shadow was far away, so far it seemed a dream, and she wondered if the shadows blocked the sun or if light was allowed to shine upon such cursed land.

Six letters to six different individuals across Azeroth.

Six letters to tell them of her leaving.

[Tarq]

((Post inbound tonight. ))

[Yva]

Stonemantle -

You knew this letter was coming. I warned of it at the faire. I leave within the month, though I'm not quite sure the exact date. I'm nervous, but it's not a fearful nervousness, if that makes any sense. It's more excitement at the prospect of success. There may be wonders to behold in Northrend. Perhaps I'll find a pot of gold at the end of my shadowy rainbow.

I've thought much about failure, of course. There are so many things that can go wrong. I'm sure some are afraid I'll be taken by Arthas and pulled about like a puppet on its strings, but I'm not so fragile. Not now, anyway. After the Melciah fiasco I was much more malleable, yes, but I've changed. I like to think I have, anyway. There are still glimmers of the old; I still hum, and my anger is . . . well it's ugly, but I've turned away from the madness and embraced science instead. I study on a bad day, I pursue my other passions. By doing so, less good people die.

Improvement, yes?

I suppose I've given you a horrible task in asking you to kill me should things go badly. Not only does it mean you have to find a way to eliminate something unkillable (and if not kill it, then find a way to contain it until a time when it can be properly destroyed), but you have to do it to a friend. I've often wondered if I could murder you. I don't mean it in the sense of matching your magics versus mine. I mean more the choice of ending a friendship with irrevocable force. I think I could, but it would likely cause regression. I suppose if you ever die on me, there is the very real possibility of me returning to what I once was. I don't court that, but I understand it's a threat. I've always been my own worst enemy.

So then, think of this as a good thing. If I'm to fall it will be before you, and before madness sets in. Less innocent people will suffer that way. Silver lining to the rain cloud, see?

I should probably reiterate that I'm not seeking death there, only answers to the mysteries of what we are. I find my few happinesses are in discovery, in treading new paths, and this is something completely foreign to me. Even if I fail at understanding the vile magics used to reanimate us, surviving the adventure in tact will be an achievement.

You probably weren't very surprised I'd go north, considering it's a place of ice and shadow. These are two things I've mastered rather well in my years. I don't fear them because they are my closest friends - they are two things that have never betrayed me. So much better than men in that regard.

(Pardon my gallows humor!)

I trust you to send my regards to the people that matter. I've only written a few people (six exactly) to tell them of my leaving, so there may be questions. Do take care of yourself and of Noxilite, and I look forward to seeing you armed with stories and perhaps some wonderful new power.

Ever yours,

Y

(A worthy note? If you have to kill me have the decency to make it quick, would you? Also, I don't want to go to my eternal grave looking like a beleaguered hag. A woman has to have her pride. Burn below the neck and hide the rest with a gown or something? I do trust your sense. Ta!)

[Yva]

Wue -

It's funny to think that we've known each other for years. I remember when I was newly married, chatting with you in the Undercity like old friends. We were always challenging one another. You're very smart, you know. I'm not sure anyone has ever taken the time to tell you that. Your profession is so very violent that few are privileged to get to know the man hiding beneath the hood. I'm fortunate then, aren't I? I saw past the blunt objects and blades and got a look at the mind beneath the less-than-welcoming exterior.

A blessing, for sure.

I'm feeling nostalgic I suppose. I can't help but think of you in those blood red leathers, sitting beside murky green water and discussing the wonders of the world. The things you'd seen seemed so foreign to me then, like little unattainable daydreams, but they weren't so strange or foreign, were they? I've seen bigger and worse now – as have you, I'm sure – but at the time . . . well, at the time I thought you were quite mad. Running into danger at every turn, sacrificing body and soul just to explore the unexplored. It was inspiring. That's a level of courage I didn't have.

In defense of my naivity, I was living in a different world. My marriage, my guild. It was all I wanted or needed, and I never aimed any higher. I suppose I carried the dreams of my living life over into my forsaken life, and tried to convince myself it was enough. But! Human lives are not so easy, are they? I forgot that. When my husband went away, as even human husbands are oft to do, I didn't react to a very human hurt in a very human way. I destroyed lives. It's been said people hunted me in Winterspring, that there were bounties on the White Witch's head - I had those children and all. But you made it right. You took them back, and you made it right, and you took care of me in Westfall. I hadn't ever been there before, you know. Even before the plague I'd stayed in Brill (I wasn't a worldly girl. I suppose barmaids never are). I remember lifting the d%@!*s to that little farmhouse and seeing golden fields as far as the eye could see. I should have been afraid of waking in a foreign place, but I wasn't. It was the first true peace I'd had in so very long.

Did I ever thank you for that? Probably not. I'm such a selfish twit. Consider this my gratitude then, for what you did. Peace was hard to come by when my world had been fractured in half, but you somehow managed to find some for me.

All these things are so long ago, it's like another lifetime. Just a few years, really, but I've changed much. I've studied, I've explored the frightening, and I feel better about myself for it. My value isn't wrapped up in a band of gold around my finger or a tabard. I find value in what I see and do. I feel like you must have felt back then in those red leathers. I understand why you risked what you risked. It's not that you sought death like I thought. It's that you sought knowledge, yes? Knowledge of discovery and the best way to kill the unkillable.

I'm taking from your model, my old friend.

I'm going to Northrend. Yes, I know, I probably shouldn't. Everyone's so afraid I'll succumb to Arthas and become his slave. I'm not so weak. I don't know when I gave everyone that impression, that I'm made out of glass, but all I've heard is “No, don't!” and “You'll fail.” I'm Yva bloody Darrows. I feel more convinced than ever to remind everyone of that. When I put my mind to a task, it WILL get done, for better or for worse. I'm no Dark King's toy, and this land is ice and shadow. Ice and shadow are MY toys. People ought to remember, but they don't. It's high time I reminded them.

I'll be away for some time, but in the dark event that I fail miserably (I'm not such an egotist that I won't consider it a possibility, even if it's a remote one) there are fail safes in place. I don't want the Winterspring madness to return, nor do I want to be owned and operated by the Bastard King, thus, Davien is charged with my death should it be necessary. I'm sure you'll find a way to help her in her burden. Lend her strength if needed, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Let's not think on that possibility overlong, though. I'm not courting it, I'm just willing to acknowledge it. I suppose somewhere along the line I learned a bit of humility. Fancy that.

Until I return from my explorations, I do wish you well. Thank you for always being there, and being supportive of everything I've done. You are, and always will be, an inspiration to me. I hope to trade stories about this adventure over a good meal and a bit of wine, one day. Perhaps in Stormwind. It would give the residents such a twitch.

Stay strong,

Darrows

[Tarq]

Are you really going to do this?

The voice was so clear, he thought at first it was Bloodcrow, and turned to look behind him. Nobody was there; the chapel was as empty of people as it was of answers. Which was to say, there was one answer, somewhere – he only had to find it. Prayer, unfortunately, was a famously inexact medium, and made it difficult for one to tell when one actually had the answer.

Still, now he had a question, and that was something.

Sir Jakob Balthasar turned back to the altar, one hand planted spread-knuckle on the floor, the other pressed to his lowered forehead, the cold of the marble floor soaking into his knees. Idly, he wondered how long it had been since those were really his knees. Certainly not since the invasion of the Outland – they'd needed to grow him an entire new skin after that – and possibly not since that first murderous encounter in Zul'Gurub. That had certainly cost him two fingers on his left hand, and when Father Bregdark grew them back was when he’d first began to wonder.Was he still praying if he clasped someone else's hands, knelt on someone else's knees?

Focus. Are you really going to do this?

His mind was wandering, of course, but at least it was still his mind. Jakob was fairly certain of that, if little else. Who else's mind would be so eager to travel away from what was truly important? He filled his mind (or whoever's) with faces. Mostly women's faces, oddly – that might mean something. Women's faces, blind, hurt, meek, cold, cruel, distant, warm, ghostly, and of course, dead. Yes. This had to be his own mind. If someone else was thinking of this many dead women, and he had ended up with their mind, he was going to have words with someone.

There you go again. You're never going to do this like that.

The voice – whoever's that was – was right. He focused on one face. She looked almost delicate, did Yva Darrows, small as she was, but the arch of her eyebrows and the faint twitch of her lips did not speak of frailty. Beyond a doubt, a woman capable of taking care of herself. So why did he glimpse so many other, softer faces in the line of her jaw, or the sweep of her hair, or the shadow of her brow that made her look, for just an instant, like she wore a blindfold…this had to be done. If he was to do this, he would have to know that face, know the mind behind it, and answer to the movements of her soul when all was said and done.

She's hardly the only one, if you do this.

It was true – if anything, it was Davien Stonemantle (another face, harder and softer all at once) whose treatment would be the most monstrous. There was treason, and there was betrayal, and it was hard to compass that one could answer the other. And there were others…and yet, it was Yva's face, in such a gallery, that he felt himself answering to. Why was that? Was love so cruel a weapon, and so bleak a sin? He was slipping again, into the same well-trod paths of the past half a year. Her Majesty was patient as only the dead could be, but Her forbearance was not eternal.

Sooner or later, you will have to do this.

“I know,” he whispered.

It’s time, Executor.

“I know,” he said again.

Silence, until it dawned on him that the voice had sounded in his ears, instead of whatever pitching deeps opened beneath his feet at prayer. That was Bloodcrow. Jakob turned his head and the man was there, impassive and faintly amused as always. To look at Craed Bloodcrow, in his trim inquisitorial grays, one would never have placed him as a reckless, murderous Deathstalker, skulking the grottos and sewers, rubbing elbows with the scarred and vicious scum of the Undercity. Battered leathers, blood-red trophies, a quick knife and a coarse tongue. Not this sleek, indispensable adjutant with a head full of names and numbers and laws.

But then, somewhere in those same years stood a callow squire in mismatched armor, foolish with love, wracked with doubt, and clutching his secret shames like a miser’s gold. And before that young man, behind the veil of death…

…did it matter? He rose to his feet. “Very well. How many?”

“Eight,” responded Bloodcrow without hesitation. “Three property disputes, one heresy, one rape, two brawls, and one religious crime.”

“A religious crime and a heresy. It’s going to be a remarkable day, Inquisitor.” The Templar swept a long red cloak over his armored shoulders. “And the day’s mail?”

“Here already.” Craed wasn’t smiling now. “There’s one you might wish to look at.”

Jakob shook his head. “Later. The Queen’s Justice awaits.” He reached for the sword leaning against the small altar, and as ever, his hands lingered over the hilt. They remembered each other. Remembered war, when sword and wielder alike ran slick with blood, when the enemies wore their faces plain and the cause was clear.

But then, that was foolishness. Whose hands were these, anyway? The Executor buckled the ancient greatsword onto his back and strode out to the audience room, his adjutant trailing him like a long shadow.

[Yva]

((The envelope is addressed to Narokor, but there is no formal greeting on the page itself.))

I feel compelled to write you. I don't know why. I suppose it's out of some semblance of respect. After the Winterspring debacle, you found yourself saddled with a broken magi, and something you said or did fixed her. You took the pieces and glued them back together. I still can't recall many of those dark days, but I remember being afraid of you. You're colder than any ice I can conjure.

It goes without saying I don't like admitting to my fear. The last time I let a man exert any control over me I was married to him, and I found my heart and mind destroyed in the shattering of that union. To know that I went from a position of weakness with my husband to being a lowly pupil under your thumb was humbling. It wasn't an all together bad thing; in that humility, I found a strength I didn't know I had. I realized that I didn't have to be afraid of you or what you could do. I could learn by watching you, and I could become as good as you or – in some circumstances – better.

I don't know if I'm better, but I feel more adequate, and it is enough for now.

Enough babbling, you'd tell me, and so I'll get to the heart of the matter at hand. I'm going to Northrend within the month. I seek information that I cannot get here, and I think the land of ice and shadow may have the answers. I've read so many books about the arcane and the fel. I've done so bloody much, from summoning creatures from the horrible nether to freezing the waters of Elune's own temple, but none of it has made me happy. I want more. I want knowledge, and understanding, and not just about anything. No, I want to figure us out - the forsaken, because in all the wonders of Azeroth, there is nothing like us. We are unkillable enigmas. The power it must have taken to force the dead to rise and speak and move . . . it's inspiring in its perversion. Each of us is like a shambling, rotting god.

It's funny to say that. It makes it sound like I'm in awe of what we are, when in truth I'm disgusted by it. There are so few things in a person's life that are sacred: birth, marriage, perhaps childbirth and death. Frightening to think that someone found a way to strip us of the last dignity, isn't it? Maybe you don't think so, but I do. Someone robbed me of my restful slumber. There is no way to forgive Him of that crime, but perhaps to study the magic performed, to figure out a cure for this particular malady? Delicious. I want to know how to make us, and in that discovery, I want to figure out how to unmake us. To be able to return that last right, to at least give someone the choice to be done with it all. Wouldn't that be lovely? It's empowering. A human being can choose to end his life at the end of a rope if he or she chooses. If all goes as I plan, there will be a choice for the forsaken as well. We will no longer be masses of flesh that will inevitably recover regardless of how many times you shoot us, strangle us, drown us, or otherwise. Our ends will be our own to command, and we can recapture the thing that was taken from us.

Of course, it could all go horribly wrong. I'm well aware of the risks of the venture. Arthas could make me a puppet, a large yeti could tear me into fourteen thousand pieces and I'll be forced to exist as small twittering lumps of flesh on some snowy mountainside for the rest of time. There are many possibilities here, and all I can do is hope that my years of training will be enough to see me through. Perhaps I'll surprise everyone and defy the odds. Perhaps I'm too stubborn to just fall away into obscurity. Only time will tell either way, but until then, you should know that you have my thanks for what you've done for me. There is kindness in your cruelty that I've always found inspiring.

Be well, and dark lady watch over you. I never would let her watch over me.

- Darrows

[Yva]

Miss Viridiant -

I know I'm not the person you wish to hear from with any regularity. We've discussed that point a few times, but I thought perhaps to write you a brief note in case it is our last correspondence. I'm off to Northrend soon, and I feel that I owe you one last apology. I don't plan on failing during my journey, but as we know, there are no guarantees when adventuring, especially to a new place with an innumerable amount of horrors.

I've had a colorful history, I know, and when you take all of my deeds and sum them up, I look like quite a villain. I can't really excuse my behavior. I'd like to say that I was possessed by some creature that forced me to do its evil bidding, but that isn't the case. I was – and to a point am - damaged. Transitioning from my old life to my new one broke something in my mind, and extreme stress triggers the worst. My grasp on my emotions is tenuous at best. With time, I came to understand this and – I think – work through my weakness. Back then, though . . . well, suffice it to say the heartbreak over my failed marriage was too much to handle and so I found terrible ways to handle the strain.

I like to think that what happened in Winterspring was the fault of a very sick woman whom I've since laid to rest. I've worked hard to rectify things. Studying helps quiet the restlessness inside of me; learning new magics keeps my concentration on productive things. When I don't contemplate my past and concentrate on the present and the future, I maintain my control. I'm not afraid then, or melancholy. Looking back on the things I was denied – a proper husband and a family – that's what sends me into a spiral of despair, and quickly results in poor decision making. Thus, I avoid doing that. I think more along the lines of “It was not my lot in life (or un-life), and I must move on.”

I've done quite well maintaining that outlook over the past year.

Once more I do apologize to you for the traumas I inflicted during that dark time. Jaina and Tobias are good children. I realize I can't be a part of their lives because it would do more harm than good – a forsaken of my reputation is not he person you want near your children without making your own family into a bunch of pariahs – but I will do for them as best I can, even if it is from a distance.

Attached you will find a deed to my Winterspring house. It's yours to do with until Jaina's sixteenth birthday, at which time ownership is hers. There's a modest sum of funds in her name as well as Tobias's at the Stormwind bank. The gold should mature into a tidy amount by the time they are grown.

Neither of these gifts are because I believe I'm going to die in the north; they're because they're long overdue.

Be well, and I wish you the best with your family, Miss Viridiant. Light shine upon you and yours.

- Y. Darrows

[Yva]

Bittertongue -

I'd be foolish to think that you'll actually miss me when I go north, and I assure you that the feeling is mutual. We're not friends, we're not even on the “same side” if you look at the history of the world and the allegiances we've made. However! Bandying words with you has become one of my favorite pastimes. It's rare I get into a battle of wits with a well armed opponent, and you Sir, are a silver tongued wretch with lies prettier than the dawning sun. I admire that in a man. Had I met you before my “retirement from life”, I think we'd have made wonderful bedfellows.

(Do swallow your horror at the thought and take it for the compliment it's meant to be.)

As entertaining a notion as that is, that's not why I'm writing you. I have to admit to a more serious purpose – one that reeks of meddling, but that's never bothered me before, and it certainly won't bother me now. Rumor reached my ears that you were thinking of going to Northrend in the near future, and I'd like to take the time to advise you against it. This is not because I fear you trailing me, or any silly worry that you'll discover the true purpose of my own trip.

No, it's more that you have something precious to lose.

I know I do not know all that there is to know about you, but I know enough to surmise that you have things to say and do regarding the Plaguebringer, and you think you can find atonement in the land of death and shadow. Having lived in Lordaeron, a small piece of misery on earth, I can assure you that what you would find up north would not appease your restlessness, and any satisfaction would be temporary at best. Places that wallow in evil may offer redemption, but it is fiction – a lie – and to assume otherwise would be folly. The Undercity, Northrend – these are cursed lands. They may hold the answers you so desperately seek, but at what cost?

You seem to have a good life with your new wife. You seem to love her and respect her, and she is a good girl and deserves every bit of the heart you have offered her. I'm afraid, though, that she is stubborn - stubborn and proud and very much in love with you. She would follow you into the shadow and not think twice about it because that is her nature. I would like you to think of the risks involved in that eventuality. There are old stories in the libraries of Azshara of mythical beasts that would – upon losing their mates – wither away to nothingness until death took mercy upon them. Those are tragic stories indeed, but imagine if you will the pain of the beast that lost its mate, only to see it rise again under the hand of the King of Liars. Imagine the agony of separation, and add onto it the horror of watching your beloved climb from a moss-covered grave at the will of a being so great, so powerful, you'd never have the strength to strike said tormentor down. The only salvation at that juncture would be the numbness of death, but even that isn't a guarantee. Arthas could call your bones to him and you would be robbed of your dignity and your will.

Dark musings, I know, and I apologize for my heavy handedness, but I hope you can see my point. Now is not the time for foolish risks. I would hate to think that you suffered for nothing in Northrend, and until a brigade of brave adventurers proves otherwise, that is all that land could offer anyone – even me.

I do hope you consider my words. They're not meant to be cruel though that's how they may seem. I would not see you or your wife tormented if it can be avoided. I have taken a shine to the both of you, and it'd be a pity to lose people I value, especially if I somehow make it back from this forsaken place in one piece. Risking Arthas's wrath only to come back to boring conversation with a bunch of dullards doesn't seem all that appealing.

Ta, and may the gods be with you in my absence. I assure you that a contingency plan is in place should my adventure go awry (talk to Stonemantle, she has the details). Perhaps I'll find what I seek there, and if I do? I'll give you a most wonderful gift when I return.

Yours today, and hopefully tomorrow as well.

- Y. Darrows

[Yva]

Jakob -

This is the sixth and final letter I will write tonight . . . no, today. Dear gods that's the sun. Time flies when you're having fun, but what about when you're not? My hand is cramping and there's ink all over me. I look like I choked a winter squid to death. Please accept my apologies for the smears and the poor penmanship; I started off with such gusto, but I'm growing tired. Even the wicked need their sleep.

I've written a few other people to inform them of my impending trip to Northrend, and I thought to extend the courtesy to you as well. We're friends of sorts, mostly because you never judged me (well, you probably did, but you were willing to hear my side of things after the unfortunate circumstances from two winters ago and that's good enough). You're kind. I wish I was kind. I wish I was a lot of things most days, but wishing is for fools and I try not to be a fool. Anymore, at least.

(I'm afraid I'm rambling. Bear with me please, there's a point somewhere, I just can't seem to find it yet.)

In all the letters I've written tonight I sound so sure of myself, that this adventure is the best thing I've ever pursued. It wasn't until now that I started to wonder if I might be trying too hard to convince myself. Part of me must be afraid. I'm likely suppressing it. I'm good at ignoring things that terrify me - ask me about Narokor one day and you'll find out for yourself. Avoidance is one of my better traits.

I don't know why I'd telling you all of this when I didn't even admit it to Stonemantle. I'm not very good at owning up to my shortcomings. I'm a strong woman, a powerful woman, and fear and weakness is so nauseating in other people. Yet here I am, babbling away, telling you that Northrend holds the answers to my questions, but I'm afraid of what I may learn. Odd that I'd risk my life over something I'm not one hundred percent convinced I really want to know in the first place. Perhaps I'm more of an idiot than I thought. Or maybe I'm just that brave? Probably both, but I'm too taxed to reason it all out. The arrangements have been made, I'll leave soon, and the doubt will be for nothing when I'm on the road.

I thought you should know that I was brought to Mirandella's grave a while back. Wueten pieced her back together and had her remains delivered to a paladin friend of his, Threnn al'Cair. She laid the priestess to rest beneath the cathedral in Stormwind. I leave flowers every weekend. I don't pray, but if I did, I would for her. There was so much someone should have done for that girl, and no one ever did (or could. I'm not sure she'd have let them). I should have been a friend to her, or a mentor, but I was simply another disappointment in her sad little life. Well, that's not completely true. I was her killer. I suppose there's nothing simple in that. What I wouldn't give to have that time given back to me. I'd have made the changes necessary. I'd have done so much.

Maybe this mad idea to go to Northrend is me seeking penance for crimes of the past? Or maybe it's my ego convincing me to do something others haven't done.

Who bloody knows.

** There's another sentence started, but a line is scratched through it. An inky thumbprint stains the paper **

I likely shouldn't mail this. I haven't quite decided if I will or not, but we'll see how I feel after some rest.

Be well, Jakob. Hopefully I will talk to you soon about things other than second thoughts and fear and all that other nonsense. I thought I had such important things to say, but it seems I don't.

Goodbye, then, and I hope to see you soon.

- Darrows

[Bricu]

azka said:

Bittertongue -

I'd be foolish to think that you'll actually miss me when I go north, and I assure you that the feeling is mutual. We're not friends, we're not even on the “same side” if you look at the history of the world and the allegiances we've made. However! Bandying words with you has become one of my favorite pastimes. It's rare I get into a battle of wits with a well armed opponent, and you Sir, are a silver tongued wretch with lies prettier than the dawning sun. I admire that in a man. Had I met you before my “retirement from life”, I think we'd have made wonderful bedfellows.

(Do swallow your horror at the thought and take it for the compliment it's meant to be.)

As entertaining a notion as that is, that's not why I'm writing you. I have to admit to a more serious purpose – one that reeks of meddling, but that's never bothered me before, and it certainly won't bother me now. Rumor reached my ears that you were thinking of going to Northrend in the near future, and I'd like to take the time to advise you against it. This is not because I fear you trailing me, or any silly worry that you'll discover the true purpose of my own trip.

No, it's more that you have something precious to lose.

I know I do not know all that there is to know about you, but I know enough to surmise that you have things to say and do regarding the Plaguebringer, and you think you can find atonement in the land of death and shadow. Having lived in Lordaeron, a small piece of misery on earth, I can assure you that what you would find up north would not appease your restlessness, and any satisfaction would be temporary at best. Places that wallow in evil may offer redemption, but it is fiction – a lie – and to assume otherwise would be folly. The Undercity, Northrend – these are cursed lands. They may hold the answers you so desperately seek, but at what cost?

You seem to have a good life with your new wife. You seem to love her and respect her, and she is a good girl and deserves every bit of the heart you have offered her. I'm afraid, though, that she is stubborn - stubborn and proud and very much in love with you. She would follow you into the shadow and not think twice about it because that is her nature. I would like you to think of the risks involved in that eventuality. There are old stories in the libraries of Azshara of mythical beasts that would – upon losing their mates – wither away to nothingness until death took mercy upon them. Those are tragic stories indeed, but imagine if you will the pain of the beast that lost its mate, only to see it rise again under the hand of the King of Liars. Imagine the agony of separation, and add onto it the horror of watching your beloved climb from a moss-covered grave at the will of a being so great, so powerful, you'd never have the strength to strike said tormentor down. The only salvation at that juncture would be the numbness of death, but even that isn't a guarantee. Arthas could call your bones to him and you would be robbed of your dignity and your will.

Dark musings, I know, and I apologize for my heavy handedness, but I hope you can see my point. Now is not the time for foolish risks. I would hate to think that you suffered for nothing in Northrend, and until a brigade of brave adventurers proves otherwise, that is all that land could offer anyone – even me.

I do hope you consider my words. They're not meant to be cruel though that's how they may seem. I would not see you or your wife tormented if it can be avoided. I have taken a shine to the both of you, and it'd be a pity to lose people I value, especially if I somehow make it back from this forsaken place in one piece. Risking Arthas's wrath only to come back to boring conversation with a bunch of dullards doesn't seem all that appealing.

Ta, and may the gods be with you in my absence. I assure you that a contingency plan is in place should my adventure go awry (talk to Stonemantle, she has the details). Perhaps I'll find what I seek there, and if I do? I'll give you a most wonderful gift when I return.

Yours today, and hopefully tomorrow as well.

- Y. Darrows

Bricu read the letter twice and chuckled once. He ignored the hustle and bustle by the mailbox; instead, he rolled himself two cigarettes and started back to their room in Rose.

The White Witch knew so very much, but didn't understand half of it. Hell, it was obvious she forgot a lot her days in Brill--the soldiers she waited on, the young ones who flirted with her, the sergeant who didn't but always smiled when she was there--and what those days meant for every loyal son of Lordaeron.

Things were better than the White Witch knew. Bricu, no longer a solider, made a life with Threnn he dreamed about when he was in the trenches for Lordaeron. There was much more to lose now--he eased the flood of morbid thoughts with his first cigarette--so that's why his plans for the North needed to be better, clearer. They needed to be better than the one he made with Stonemantle the last time the White Witch had her brains frozen.

He read the letter two more times, all the while working on his second cigarette. When he was satisfied, he set it on fire with the stub of his second cigarette. By the time Threnn would get home, all that would be left of Darrows' letter would be ashes. Even those ashes would be too much Darrows in their house.

Bricu walked over to the window, carrying the plate he used as an ashtray. He didn't bother warning passers-by as he emptied the tray on to the streets. The ashes looked like snow as the fell. As it "snowed," Bricu prayed that Darrows' remembered enough of Lordaeron, even if it was just Brill, to not betray them all.

[Yva]

The last minute things to do, the little details that were always remembered fifty miles too late - Yva Darrows would have none of that. It was time, she knew, to slip out and up. The north called to her. She liked to pretend she was venturing there at that blond's behest, to be his eyes so he didn't have to send one of his less disposable cronies, but it was an excuse. There were things to see up there, things no one else would be able to survive, but she could. She knew she could.

A land of ice and shadow, the loves of her unlife whispering dark promises into her ears. She supposed there was something odd about wanting to see a place ruled by the Bastard King himself, but she didn't have to see him. People were united in their desire to steal his crown and claim the glory of his murder, but not Darrows. Her interest in Arthas was almost clinical: “How do you control all that lovely, lovely power?” She didn't want to have tea with him to find out, but she had to admit to her curiosities. Of course, a niggling part of her brain reminded her that he was responsible for her little venture into death and back, but she wasn't convinced she really cared that much any more. The past could not be undone, and his blood would not reverse her condition. Besides, she knew better than anyone how hard it was to kill a dead thing; burn them, drown them, stab them and throw magics at them, sooner or later they would get back up. They did the first time with no knowledge of self, they would again with the strengths of their forsaken life at their side. Attempting to kill an animate corpse simply irritates said corpse, and that was a stupid thing to do.

That was the crux of her journey, wasn't it? To fix that?

Perhaps, if she succeeded in learning what there was to learn about the forsaken condition, she'd be able to help those wishing to topple Arthas's throne. If she learned the secrets of undoing undeath, she'd be able to . . .

My love is ice and fire and wind,
The rush of the river
The lark that sings.

“No. Bloody hell, NO!” She screeched, shaking her head until the damnable song, the song that always skittered through her brain when she felt herself teetering on the edge of the abyss, faded away. These days, she had to be in a full rage to hear the melody, the song that meant people and creatures and everyone near her was in danger, so why now? Why now when she was going somewhere she wanted to go?

“Wonderful,” she muttered, cramming her white cloak into her bag. “Simply marvelous timing.”

At least there weren't decent people in the north that would have to suffer any unfortunate accidents if she slipped.

She sighed, glancing at the door of her chamber. Her eyes fell on a shawl Davien had made her years ago. It hung from a peg on the wall, and she reached for it, packing it away, too. There were times she wished she could bring Davien along on her adventures, but she was afraid to ask. There were the children to consider, and Noxilite, who depended on her quiet leadership. Besides, Davien could, with a simple look, deter her from some of her most spectacular feats, and she couldn't have that right now. A conscience wasn't the best thing to bring along when you were planning on killing Sylvanas's brood.

"Y've gone out of y'r bloody head, haven't 'ee?"

She could almost hear the pretty trills of the mage's voice, and she knew this venture was better served alone. She was better alone, always.

The problem is, you hate to be alone.

“Yes yes, I hate to . . . who am I talking to?”

It was shaping up to be a spectacular day to leave.

[Yva]

The bridge of the Undercity, near the Mage lodgings

Balthasar walks up the steps with a soldier's precise locomotion, plate-and-chain jingling.

Yva murmurs and whispers to herself, shaking her head.

Balthasar says: You're remarkably elusive, Lady Darrows.

Yva pauses. Yva says: . . . I . . . Oh. I am?
Yva gathers herself and smiles a wide smile. She bows.

Balthasar says: Perhaps without meaning it.
Balthasar's face could be carved from marble as he returns the bow with a polite inclination of his head.

Yva says: Never intentional. Hard to get is for girls, not women. I like to think I've graduated.

Balthasar says: It's likely, then, I need to find myself a new staff. The current one's been looking for you for...months.

Yva says: Stormwind, my dear. Stormwind. Living among the humans is so naughty.
Yva hums and then stops.

Balthasar says: Aye, that's how you evaded their notice, I'd wager. In truth, it wasn't one of mine who found you, but the grist of the rumor mill.

Yva says: Feh. Rumors are annoying. Pray tell, what DO they say?

Balthasar says: Your location, for starters. And the nature of the journey you're planning.
Balthasar pitches his voice lower, still without intonation.
Balthasar says: I received your letter.

Yva says: Oh. That.
Yva 's smile barely wavers.
Yva says: Yes, I was tired. Was being friendly and whatnot. We are friends. Yes?

Balthasar says: Aye.
Balthasar 's eyes flicker left, to a motionless Abomination staring blankly at the pair.

Yva flicks an icicle to the side.
Yva says: Bloody ice can be so tedious.
Yva sighs quietly.

Balthasar says: And yet here you are, proposing to travel straight to the heart of it.

Yva says: It is my element, isn't it?

Balthasar opens his mouth to say something else, then stops and nods shortly to Seeker Thompson.

Yva watches Seeker Thompson pass.

Balthasar watches the Deathstalker as well, murmuring a curse under his breath.
Balthasar says: Almost like going home, aye.

Yva says: To a point, yes. Winterspring is not welcome to me. My own fault. Unfortunate circumstances and whatnot.
Yva's smile falls.

Balthasar says: My lady, if you'd not mind continuing this conversation somewhere more private...

Yva says: Yes. Of course. Where?

Balthasar says: My chapel, in the War Quarter, if you will.

Yva says: Fine enough.

Balthasar murmurs quietly as he turns, obscured by the sound of jingling armor.
Balthasar whispers: It's not safe.

Yva watches him, eyeing an Undercity Guardian up and down.

They walk through the city

Balthasar says: At any rate, how did you find your stay in Stormwind?

Yva says: I didn't have to murder anyone.

Balthasar says: A pity.

Yva says: Lovely summer and . ..
Yva steps over a bug.
Yva says: Relaxing, oddly enough.

Balthasar says: Hm. I've never been.

Yva says: It didn't feel like work.
Yva waves her hand.
Yva says: Much work in front of me.

Balthasar says: You're not alone. The fleet, the guard - even my own order is making its preparations.

Yva says: Oh I know. But I was afraid of being recruited.

Balthasar says: As well you should. In here.

They go into Balthasar's chapel.

Balthasar nods at Father Lankester.

Yva says: It was more a jest, you know. The recruited bit.
Yva peers at Balthasar searchingly.

Balthasar says: Precious little room for those. Well, then.

Yva tsks.

Balthasar shuts the door of the barracks-cum-chapel, the muscles of his face relaxing.

Yva says: Well, we're alone. Do tell me, how is it not safe. Whatever have I done NOW?

Balthasar says: The damned Deathstalkers are /everywhere/, Yva. It's not even what you've done. It's bloody Noxilite. Miss Stonemantle, that orcish daemonologist... I don't know what's going on, but everyone who's had aught to do with interfering with the Apothecarium's work is under surveillance.

Yva says: I see.

Balthasar says: There were two Deathstalkers tailing you from the balconies, and one of my own men. The only reason you're safe to talk in here is because /I/ am supposed to be watching you.

Yva says: They assigned me a babysitter?
Yva pauses. And then she laughs.

Balthasar smiles a little ruefully.

Yva says: Well.
Yva cracks her knuckles. There's more ice on her hands.

Balthasar says: Aye, I suppose it's a trifle absurd. Especially on your /vacation/.

Yva says: I haven't even . . .
Yva stops.
Yva says: Narokor isn't involved in this nonsense is he?

Balthasar says: Ardente? No, Lady's grace, no. He's well shut of that nonsense. I hope. He was...under suspicion himself, for a time, before he left.

Yva says: He's insidious enough to give me a keeper, you know. I do believe I'm at the point I'd send his person back to the bloody nether if he attempted to tutor me further.

Balthasar says: Whatever orders set me as your watchdog, Lady Darrows, they go very, very far up. Far enough that I cannot look all the way to see them. And even then, the only reason I know that I'm not the only one watching you is...Shukir.
Balthasar , as ever, looks faintly troubled pronouncing the Black Hand assassin's name as anything other than an epithet.

Yva says: Don't tell me the Bitch Queen is actually interested in what I'm about. She left me alone after the Winterspring debaucle because . . . what is HE doing in this conversation.
Yva folds her arms over her chest.

Balthasar says: He's the one who found you in Stormwind, Yva. These Wildfire Riders, Dame Kaylia's old antagonists - he's working with them. Or against them. I can't tell - I don't think even /he/ can tell.
Balthasar gives Yva a troubled look.
Balthasar says: He told me you'd been detailed by their captain to go north.

Yva says: I don't work for them.
Yva blurts it out.
Yva says: Wait. He found out I was speaking of going. He asked me to look about. That is all. I think he's after that former holy man of his. The plagued one.
Yva knows the name, she's just not saying it.

Balthasar says: Uthas.

Yva says: Yes. Him.

Balthasar says: I'd like to see the world shut of him too, mind you. But it's not me you should be concerned about. Shukir has wind of this. He could easily have turned you in as a collaborator. Even now, the Deathstalkers listen when he speaks.

Yva says: I do believe you're suggesting I'm in danger. I caught that much.

Balthasar says: Let me clarify. There are three reasons, Lady Darrows, that you are still up and walking about under your own will.
Balthasar extends a gauntleted forefinger.
Balthasar says: One - Shukir's loyalties are to himself and his amusements, not Her Majesty's government. As near as I can tell, he finds the concept of your journey to Northrend...interesting. A curiosity.

Yva purses her lips, tapping her foot as she waits for him to continue speaking.

Balthasar says: Two - he is interested enough to have told /me/ about it, and I know well the difference between Her Majesty and the groundlings scuttling in Her footsteps with reams of paper. I serve the former, not the latter. Three - they're /afraid/ of you, Yva. The Apothecarium and the Deathstalkers concerned with your. . .circumstances.
Balthasar smiles thinly.
Balthasar says: None of them will say it, of course, but I know a piss-breeches coward when I see one.

Yva says: Afraid of me.

Balthasar says: Begging your pardon.
Balthasar apologizes almost absently.

Yva says: I'm not even five foot. What could possibly - you're always pardoned, Jakob - what could a small woman like me, interested more in books than people, ever do to harm her ladyship's brood?
Yva smiles again.
Yva says: I'm of no concern to them.

Balthasar , by way of an answer, reaches out and almost tenderly brushes a shard of ice off of Yva's shoulder. He looks at her for a long moment before responding out loud.
Balthasar says: It's the unknown that they fear, Yva. And Winterspring, the north, poor Mirandella - it's only rumors to the Black Hand. What they do know is that we are on the very threshold of a war in the heart of winter.

Yva goes rigid at Mirandella's name. Ice starts to pool around her feet.
Yva says: I've made my bloody apolgoies for that. I won't have that hanging over me like some - ugh. I don't even know.

Balthasar says: And - aye, Yva, of course. I meant no offense.
Balthasar lowers his eyes.

Yva says: That poor girl was damned from the first day she walked this earth, and of all the people she had to find at their worst moment, it was ME.
Yva stops.
Yva breathes.
Yva says: Sorry, sorry. Not your fault.

Balthasar continues in a quieter voice.
Balthasar says: I meant only to say - you /have/ power, beyond either the control or the understanding of those black-cowled rat-filth. And that is by its nature terrifying to them.

Yva says: I'm not sure if I'm flattered or suspicious of such declarations. Perhaps both. Egotistical little thing aren't I. Far too full of myself. And I'm sorry. Again. For being a bitch.

Balthasar shrugs.
Balthasar says: One ought to never exist in a world, my lady, where they are forced to apologize for the qualities that make them interesting.

Yva says: May I be frank?

Balthasar says: By all means.

Yva says: Do you know why I'm truly going up there?

Balthasar considers this for a moment.
Balthasar says: No.

Yva says: Part of it is what i wrote you about. Research, the exhileration of discovery, all that nonsense magi exist for. Even Malkavet gets twitter pated by new magics, I'm sure.

Balthasar smirks at the mention of the Blackheart.

Yva says: The other? Is since my unfortunate . . . since my . . . death. Yes, death.
Yva grits her teeth.
Yva says: I've never quite been comfortable in my new skin, and this place is possibly a home. I might actually belong there. It's a pleasant concept.

Balthasar says: Home. In Northrend.
Balthasar's voice is again toneless, face blank.

Yva says: Perhaps. I'm better on my own, Jakob.
Yva smiles quietly.

Balthasar says: Why do you feel that is?

Yva says: My marriage was a farce, my friends find me a dangerous dog near ready for elimination except they have no bloody idea how to put this dog down and . . . now I'm bordering on feeling sorry for myself.
Yva chuckles.
Yva says: The point is, I am odd. And I don't see many people finding Northrend home-like. Your reaction was exactly what most would do or say as well. I can't hurt people up there.

Balthasar says: Does that truly trouble you so much?

Yva says: Somewhat. I don't mind death. It's our world. I do mind the death of those I give a damn about at my hand. I also mind the hurts of those I care about. Why Stonemantle still speaks to me? I haven't the faintest idea. I certainly hope it's not pity.

Balthasar says: I couldn't say.

Yva says: Do you care about anyone? Truly? I don't mean . . . well of course you must.
Yva peers at him.

Balthasar says: I do. Quite a great many, actually. It's simply not my job to do so.

Yva says: But you do regardless of your duties. And the point I'm making, is imagine if your very presence disturbed the tranquil waters of those individuals. And not in the interesting way, in the negative, headache-inducing way. To be blunt? I'm a time bomb that's ticking and everyone knows it.
Yva kicks the ice away from her feet.

Balthasar leans over, armor creaking, and picks up a swiftly melting shard from below their feet. He studies it as it dissolves.
Balthasar says: That's why I came to find you.

Yva says: Because I'm damaged goods? I was hoping for perhaps a more friendly reason.
Yva 's lips twitch.

Balthasar says: No. Because there's a great many who believe the same things you just said, about time bombs. In terms of both stability and power.

Yva mutters, "They're not wrong."

Balthasar says: Shukir was very vocal about this fear - that if you traveled to Northrend, and encountered the wrong minion of the Adversary - to use my adjutant's colorful phrase, 'twould be like handing a goblin a sapper charge.

Yva groans.
Yva says: I've made a contingency plan. I'm not simply going to walk up and offer myself to Arthas like a power-swollen sow.

Balthasar says: Have you, now?

Yva says: Well yes. To a point. Davien's to kill me.
Yva says this almost cheerfully.

Balthasar looks a little taken aback.
Balthasar says: Is /she/ going with you?

Yva says: Well no, but she'd come find me. I trust her. Her word is good. I couldn't take her with me. She'd just . . . well she probably doesn't approve of my studies. And I didn't really need her conscience looming over me. It's rather like a bat you know.
Yva grins.

Balthasar smiles thinly.
Balthasar says: Sounds familiar. You trust her to kill you if you return - not yourself?

Yva says: Yes.

Balthasar says: And do you trust she'll be /able/ to do it?

Yva says: I think so? She's crafty, that one. She'd gather an army of Noxilite and they'd march and put me in a box or whatnot. I don't know, it's morbid to think about.
Yva reaches out and squeezes his gauntlet quickly.

Balthasar quirks his eyebrows, apparently picturing Yva-in-a-box.

Yva says: Fourfingers once said sooner or later you'd chop a forsaken into enough pieces they couldn't recover from it. Four was wise in her own way. Madder than me on my worst day, but wise sometimes

Balthasar looks at Yva's hand on his gauntlet for a moment, then looks back up to her face.
Balthasar says: With all due respect, Yva, neither the aphorisms of a psychopath nor the word of a traitor will be enough to convince those that need convincing.

Yva 's eyes narrow.
Yva says: Stonemantle should never be underestimated. Do you think I'd trust my life in the hands of someone incapable of such a task?

Balthasar says: No. Do you think the Executorium would trust a weapon - make no mistake, Yva, that is what you are - in the hands of the Adversary with only a woman declared anathema to stop it? Shukir's interest in the matter only extends so far - not nearly the reach of his self-preservation. You will not be allowed to go North.

Yva says: Who better to stop an enigma than another enigma?
Yva smiles. She might be wheedling.

Balthasar raises a finger.
Balthasar says: Not without insurance.

Yva sulks.
Yva says: It was a good plan.

Balthasar says: Surely. You might even have escaped unnoticed. IF you'd not sent those letters. Sentiment will get you every time, Yva. But it may just be sentiment that gets you out as well.

Yva says: I couldn't just leave without . . .

Balthasar says: I know. Better than you might think, I know.

Yva says: It would have been rude. I try not to be rude unless I want to kill you.
Yva shrugs.

Balthasar says: I'll remember that. I told you that you have...watchdogs.

Yva says: That's so tedious you know.

Balthasar says: Of course I know. I'm one of them.

Yva says: Well you're not tedious. You're Jakob. It's different.

Balthasar smiles.
Balthasar says: Thank you. I'll remember that next time I'm comparing legal statutes.

Yva says: I suppose if i have to have someone looming over me, it's best being you?
Yva winks and laughs.

Balthasar says: Oh, assuredly. But, there are two others.

Yva says: Can't you get rid of them? Can't I just kill them?

Balthasar says: The Executorium, the Apothecarium, and the Deathstalkers each have a man watching you. Luckily, the inquisitorial man, in a brilliant show of poor planning, is my adjutant. Craed Bloodcrow. A man of inestimable loyalty to himself.

Yva says: Oh goody.

Balthasar says: At the moment, he is taking care of the third issue - the Apothecary's man.

Yva says: So I simply have you to worry about?
Yva doesn't seem too bothered by that.

Balthasar says: Assuming that toad Feward Lowry is, in fact, dead by sunset, and that Craed keeps his mouth shut, then aye. And there is a very simple solution to the problem of your...pet Executor.

Yva says: "Pet executor". That lacks poetry.

Balthasar says: I tried.

Yva says: I tease.

Balthasar says: I notice.

Yva says: You need to laugh more.

Balthasar grins. It's odd to see how very /young/ he is.
Balthasar says: Perhaps you can teach me. Take me with you.

Yva blinks at Balthasar.

Balthasar 's smile disappears.

Yva says: I . . . hadn't quite considered a traveling partner. Not truly.

Balthasar says: I didn't think you had. Hear me out, Yva. I cannot speak for the Inquisition or the Apothecarium, but the military doesn't simply want to make sure you will die if you fail in your journey. They'd rather like to see you succeed. In doing some damage, at the very least.

Yva says: I see.

Balthasar says: As such, the longer you stay alive up in that frozen hell, the better. I consider myself well-suited to that task.

Yva pulls back. A nail file appears out of nowhere and she absently begins to shape her nails while she listens.

Balthasar says: And if the worst /should/ happen when we encounter the Adversary's influence -

Yva says: Yes?
Yva watches his face.

Balthasar stops, a long pause. He looks away from Yva, catching the gaze of a passing Templar adjutant who turns away after a moment.
Balthasar says: I've been the death of those I love before.
Balthasar looks back, his face calm and composed.

Yva peers at him.

Balthasar says: Experience is a fine substitute for enthusiasm.

Yva sighs.
Yva says: That's not . . . fair. It's not fair.
Yva looks back at her nails and starts digging at them.

Balthasar says: To whom?

Yva says: Not to you. I'm not your bloody burden. I appreciate it of course, but it's not . . .I don't even know . . .
Yva is practically sawing a nail off.

Balthasar removes one of his gauntlets, a fairly involved process.
Balthasar says: You oughtn't look at it this way, Yva. I...

Yva says: You're a friend I've come to trust because you didn't bloody clock me when I told you of Mira.
Yva doesn't hear anything, she's staring at her hands.
Yva says: Perhaps you judged me but you didn't make me feel lesser because of my follies. Everyone else did and I don't want to become some . . .

Balthasar reaches out and gently arrests the progress of Yva's filing hand.

Yva stops talking and filing.

Balthasar says: Do you know what it's like in the Executorium, my lady?

Yva says: No.
Yva stares at his hand. She's worrying her bottom lip now.

Balthasar says: I am every day confronted with perhaps five, perhaps a dozen, criminals of varying nature and guilt. Crimes of passion, crimes of greed, crimes against the very fabric of our nature. And the truth is, there /are/ no crimes because there is no law. Our laws died when we did. I guess at Her Majesty's will and intention and do the best of justice that I can, knowing all the while that not only will any misstep, any poor decision, subject one of our people to the tender hands of the Inquisition but that I am building /precedent/. The law of the Forsaken is forged in my court, and twenty-odd others, every day. We are building the Kingdom of Lordaeron anew, I tell myself. But oft I wonder if it's not a second Stormwind, distinguished only by pallor and the occasional exposed bone.
Balthasar says: And that is merely day to day. Beyond that, I attend to the /delicate/ cases. Cases like you. Like your friend, and mine, Davien Stonemantle. On any day, at any time, I could be instructed to take her head at the earliest opportunity.
Balthasar 's face remains still and calm throughout this, a contrast to the hushed intensity of his voice.

Yva says: That'd be a very sad day.

Balthasar says: I hope to never see it.

Yva says: I couldn't allow that you know. Not important now I suppose, it's not the point.

Balthasar says: Aye. I know. /Another/ reason I cannot stand for this any longer. I have dealt with my enemies at the point of a sword, beneath the hooves of a bonesteed, at the end of the gallows rope. And I have /known/ them. I have seen them. Now my only enemy is a fatal decision, and my only fate is watching some poor soul's second chance end abruptly because the presiding judge presumed too much.
Balthasar says: Perhaps that means I'm not fit for this knighthood, that I cannot defend the ways of the Forsaken as well as I defend their lives. If that's the case, well...
Balthasar closes his ungauntleted hand over one of Yva's.
Balthasar says: At least I can still defend one of them. Against an enemy I /know/.

Yva says: I see. So I'm not a chore then.

Balthasar says: Well, I suppose that's up to you.

Yva says: You're not a liar. Never were as far as I could tell.

Balthasar says: No.

Yva says: Your duty, task, what have you is to be knightly. And this would . . . won't you be cold? I'm rather immune to it. You'd freeze.

Balthasar says: I'll dress warmly.

Yva seems to be weighing it in her head. Her eyes flicker left and right and she grabs onto his hand tightly.
Yva says: This is a terrible idea. I'm going to regret this. Because I'm afraid.
Yva takes a long breath.
Yva says: But fine.
Yva is already shaking her head 'no' and groaning.

Balthasar says: If you live to regret this, Yva, then I'll certainly have no regrets.

Yva says: If I live. That is the question isn't it.

Balthasar says: Wasn't it always?

Yva says: To a point. You're a man..
Yva says this like it explains everything.

Balthasar says: ...yes?

Yva says: You can't help it.

Balthasar says: Being a man?

Yva says: Well yes. My history, you see. Men.
Yva rolls her free hand around.

Balthasar says: Ah. Hm.

Yva says: They do tend to tire of me.

Balthasar looks down at their still-interlocked hands, nodding to himself.

Yva smiles.
Yva says: It'll be fine. You're Jakob.

Balthasar says: And I can't quite help that, either.

Yva says: No of course not. Nothing wrong with it. Thinking aloud, love.

Balthasar says: I assure you, Lady Darrows, I will be at my most gentlemanly. Necessary swordplay and slaughter aside.
Balthasar withdraws his hand.

Yva says: Oh that's no fun.
Yva grins wickedly at Balthasar.
Yva says: The smiling thing.
Yva draws a fake smile on her face.

Balthasar says: As for yourself, well - if you're worried about men getting tired of you, I suppose you'll have to do your best to keep me interested. Won't you?
Balthasar does not, in fact, smile as he says this. He remains perfectly straight-faced.

Yva says: Oh I assure you that's not going to be a problem.
Yva blinks at Balthasar.
Yva says: This is such a terrible idea.
Yva laughs again.
Yva says: Did you have things to do? I was intending to go soon.
Yva motions at the door.
Yva says: Around the city, for the Bit . . . for her Ladyship. Meaning when could you go.

Balthasar says: Well, keep in mind I have arranged to have a man murdered tonight. I should travel.

Yva says: I used to do that daily. Well I used to just kill them myself but . . . I suppose you . . . now? Today?
Yva looks startled.
Yva says: You waste no time, Sir.

Balthasar says: I meant to start riding to the coast tonight, aye. But I can stay there for quite some time. There's always work in the Plagues.

Yva says: No, that's fine. I truly was planning within the day.
Yva taps her lip.
Yva says: You are certain you don't have to report back everything I'm doing? And Shukir isn't going up there to follow you or whatnot, right? It will just be us?

Balthasar narrows his eyes.
Balthasar says: He'd damned well /better/ not be.

Yva says: Good. I'd hate him to underestimate me. I'm not stupid enough to underestimate him. He should stay away.

Balthasar says: I believe he's already made his own journey north, coming back less some...important resources.
Balthasar lets his left arm go limp and lifts it to demonstrate.

Yva 's eyes go wide.
Yva says: Truly?

Balthasar says: Believe me when I say that he's had worse.

Yva says: I don't know the man well, and I don't care to frankly. He reminds me too much of Melciah in some ways. He just talks more than Melciah.
Yva flinches saying the name.

Balthasar says: That doesn't speak well to /either /of their character at all.

Yva says: Feh. Leaving day is a happy day. Best to not discuss it further. I'd prefer to leave that part of the past here.
Yva cracks another icicle off of her hand.
Yva says: Then I suppose I'll finish up my last minute chores and meet you later?

Balthasar says: Aye. Had you already found passage across the sea?

Yva says: I didn't want to book before the actual going.
Yva 's smile turns rueful.
Yva says: I was afraid of being followed. Rather ironic.

Balthasar says: No, that's likely for the best. It would have set off some rather significant alarms.

Yva says: It would have. I didn't need to telegraph it. So - where shall we meet.

Balthasar says: The Sepulcher. I took the liberty of reserving my own passage, just in case. I'm certain you will fit.

Yva says: I'm small. Smaller than that thing on your back.
Yva glances at the blade.
Yva says: So I suppose not.

Balthasar glances over his shoulder, appearing to compare.
Balthasar says: It's entirely possible. Well, then. I suppose I'll settle the last of my affairs and meet you at sunset, at the Sepulcher.

Yva bows down graciously.
Yva says: Of course, m'lord. I do have a few last minute . . . I'm not telling anyone. I'd get rather yelled at I think. I don't have the patience right now. Ice would go flying, felhounds would be . . . oh you do know about that? I suppose you do. It's not important!
Yva beams.

Balthasar says: I'm sure I'll find out. All sorts of interesting things.

Yva says: Your challenge to me was not so terrible. When a felhunter runs off with your socks, you will be entertained. I do promise.
Yva clears her throat a bit.

Balthasar just sort of stares.

Yva says: I will see you in some time.

Balthasar says: Aye, then. Thank you.
Balthasar smiles.

Yva says: Be well until then. Warm clothes.
Yva taps his nose with the tip of her finger.

Balthasar says: Oh, assuredly. I may be along as insurance for failure, Yva, but I don't expect us to manage one. Until tonight, then.
Balthasar bows elaborately.

Yva says: Of course. Ta!

Yva grins and blinks off, leaving Jakob alone in the church.