RP: A quiet evening alone

This is definitely out of place. I suppose I should give you a little context: Haydren Sunsorrow, Ysani's more-or-less stalker, is travelling under an assumed name (that of Ysani's lover, to be precise) and has been lying in wait for Lamis. He has a plan to use her as a tool to get what he wants, and in her current state of exhaustion, she's unable to decline. __________________________________________________

"Oh Mister Dawnstar!" Two voices sang in unison over Haydren's stone. He was groggy from lack of good sleep, but the alias didn't phase him in the slightest. He snatched the stone off the pillow beside him and cleared his throat.

"Meg, Jenny. So good to hear from you. What's the word?"

"Miss Dal'Theron checked in a few minutes ago," said Megan.

"She looked really, really tired," chimed in Jennifer.

"And bloody," they clucked disapprovingly. "We're going to have to get the stairs mopped early this week."

He pressed a hand to his forehead. The Owings twins were creepy, vapid, and gave him a monstrous headache, but together they ran a tight ship at the New Agamand Inn. No one came or went without them knowing, and they were more than happy to share information and gossip when you turned up the charm. For a few coins they'd even wake you up in the middle of the night to let you know when your flown sparrow had come back to roost.

"Thank you, ladies. I look forward to seeing her in the morning. I appreciate you calling right away."

"Our pleasure, sir! Good luck with your lady friend, it's wonderful to see a little romance blooming in times like these," they chirped. "Do invite us to the wedding, we love weddings."

Her careless track was easily spotted. He simply ducked down to the second landing with his knapsack hanging off one shoulder and followed the trail of blood droplets that hadn't even had a chance to dry yet. They led to the last door on the second floor, and he checked the knob. It was unlocked.

Lamis lay in a heap, propped up partway against the bed in a smear of blood. It looked as though she'd shrugged off her kit at the door, axe dropped haphazardly near the bed, and hadn't quite the strength to make it into bed before she collapsed. Locking the door behind him, he crept to her side and squatted down to examine her, setting his bag on the mattress. How does one check the vitals of a corpse? He placed a hand gently on her throat, and his question was soon answered with an incredibly slow, but unmistakable pulse. Her skin was cool to the touch, and he shivered as he removed her gory armor piece by piece. Careful, methodical probing revealed that most of the blood belonged to someone else--probably many someones.

Running water was nearly unheard of in the smaller Forsaken-run inns, he'd found, but New Agamand was a fairly large hub of activity, and they appeared to value the convenience. He suspected it may have had something to do with the massive quantities and potencies of the plague operations being run outside. Even the Forsaken had to be careful here. The water pressure was low, and he had time to lay Lamis' limp body on a towel while he waited for the basin to fill.

How long had she gone without a bath? Too long, he thought, and he began the slow business of washing the woman's hair and face, careful not to scrub open barely-closed wounds on her ears and neck. It was very slow going, and he had to empty the basin and refill it many times before he was satisfied. A slim knife drawn from his belt slit her ragged undershirt and pants, and he pulled new ones from his bag. No sense in trying to salvage the disgusting things.

Nearly a dozen bloody basins later, he finished scrubbing her black-soled feet and lifted her off the soaked towel, now darkly stained with watered-down gore and copious amounts of dirt. Her body was criss-crossed with lacerations nearly from head to toe, all in varied stages of repair. Many were obviously fresh, and these he wrapped carefully in treated gauze; then he dressed her in new underclothes, a simple white shirt and pants. Through all of this, Lamis never stirred, nor did she move when he lifted her up and put her under the sheets of her bed. He was shocked at her lightness. She might have been hollow, a sack of bones; he could have cradled her in one arm. Removing his boots he crawled into bed beside her, pulling her faintly-breathing body to him. Without the layers of coppery blood and dirty buildup, she smelled oddly pleasant, like crisp autumn leaves.

He caught a glimpse of the red dragon he'd been instinctively tracking through the unshuttered window. How odd for a drake to be circling so late in this part of the world.

Autopsy of a memory: When Haydren Met Lamis

I'm working on some plot-forwarding Lamis fiction this morning, and I got stuck just a paragraph in. Then I realized that I was listening to the Temptations. It's pretty much impossible to stay inside her fucked-up head when "My Girl" is on the radio. I've switched to something much darker and it seems to be helping.

A few days ago I wondered how exactly Lamis got tangled up with a guy like Haydren. This story was the result, and I liked how it helped to flesh out both characters. Lamis was an odd one long before her undeath threw what remained of her balance out of whack, and Haydren, for all his psychotic tendencies, can come off as a very charming fellow. I might even like him if he wasn't trying to hunt down one of my favorite characters and do terrible things to her.

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She walked past the Farstrider compound every morning at exactly 7:34. You could set your watch by it. A sober little thing, she wore the same plain, spotlessly white shift and carried the same linen shoulderbag every single day, a bundle of books tucked neatly under one arm. She ignored catcalls, although some of the more suggestive ones would bring a blush to her cheeks and she'd walk just a little bit faster on her way past the archery range. Unlikely, perhaps, that such a reserved soul would catch his eye, but her rigid schedule amused him, and he began to choose good vantage points along her path to observe the blonde woman when she came by.

After a while he caught himself waiting for her, planning his mornings around those few minutes. He took breakfast alone to be sure he wasn't late; he went to the range early and practiced tirelessly, if distractedly, while he waited. It was a long time before he really began to understand what drew him to her--before he would even admit that she had any effect on him whatsoever. Sure, he got a kick out of her unfailing punctuality, her always sameness, but that was certainly not a reason for him to admire her. It dawned on him one evening as he waited for sleep, so often long in coming, that it was the delicacy of her features and her intensity of expression that pulled him to her. She reminded him of someone he knew. Someone special. It was only a matter of time, then, before he approached her, stepping into her path at precisely 7:35 with a short, stiff bow and a charming smile.

"Good morning," he said.

She stopped short and looked over her shoulder, then back at the curly-haired Farstrider. "Hello?"

High and sweet, her voice belied her age. His grin widened. "I'm Haydren."

"...Lamis."

Haydren offered a large, warm hand, and she took it hesitantly. He closed it around her fingers. They were scalded pink, and the trace of roughness on the pads of her palm and the tips of her fingers betrayed a working woman. "I've noticed you coming through. Where are you off to, pretty lady?" Her ears reddened.

"Class."

"Not primary school, though."

She humored the obvious question and shook her blonde head, ponytail wagging behind her. "First aid, mostly. Triage. Sometimes I assist with surgeries."

"A nurse, then." He looked both immensely pleased and endlessly amused, the spark of humor in his eyes encouraging and intimidating at the same time.

"Yes." She grinned in spite of herself, proud of her studies and compelled to reflect some of his gaiety. He was unprepared; he had never seen her smile in all the months he'd been watching her, and it wrought a breathtaking change in her pale, serious face. She was actually rather lovely, showing a row of good, even teeth and a soft crease under her eyes. A fleeting urge to kiss her was quickly repressed. Instead, he put his hand over his heart and swooned dramatically while she flushed and shot a furtive glance toward the range and its lazy audience of smirking bowyers.

"Radiant creature, I must have more of your company. Will you let me buy you a drink? Or perhaps breakfast. A trip to the stars? Anything, just name it and it's yours."

"I can't. I'm going to be late."

His face fell comically, and he clutched her hand to his chest this time, entreating her to feel the broken pieces of his heart. "Please, dear lady, don't leave me this way. After class, are you spoken for? Say no, or you'll tromp what remains of my shredded heart."

"I'm not busy."

A triumphant grin threatened to split his handsome face, and again Lamis found it impossible not to smile back, in spite of the fact that he was making her late. He put his other hand over hers, enveloping it, effectively caging her small fingers. "When shall I meet you?"

"Class is over at 3 o'clock on the dot. I'll be at the Walk of Elders at five after, if you like."

"Oh, I like; never has a truer word been spoken, Lady Lamis."

"Now please excuse me, I have to go." She pulled her hand out of his and walked around the corner at a brisk pace just shy of a run. He watched her until she was out of sight, then chuckled and wandered back to his post.

"Getting desperate, are we?"

"You could have picked one with tits. Or money."

"I heard she's a third cousin of someone who actually matters."

"Ooo, an almost-somebody."

"Shut up, Selron."

"He'll get sick of her in a month."

"Ha! No doubt. She'll be wishing she'd taken Murder Row instead."

Haydren notched an arrow, ignoring the smug commentary of his companions and beaming inwardly. He had a good feeling about this. She was the promise of sunshine, and he was tired of living under a cloud.

Blood in the gears

I'm working out a bit of Lamis's character, and it's hard, but I'm finding that it's being helped along by my own starey, unstable mood (to be honest, the two may be feeding off each other, growing into something bigger than they would be alone). I am not sure if this is a good thing, but it makes me both happy and sad to see my tough-shit DK in such a vulnerable position. She hasn't let down her guard this much since before she died, and even then I really couldn't say how long it might have been. She is not in the habit of lowering the drawbridge. Her moat is a mile-wide churning bottomless froth filled with slithering beasts more maw than body, and this is because Castle Lamis is made of glue and tissue paper.

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Returning to the days when she first began her spiral, I pick up signs of the coming break. The inability to sleep, dark circles under her eyes. Dealing with guild sins (or going long out of her way not to deal with them) drains her, puts cracks in her defenses, revealing old wounds she locked away rather than bare them to the sun to heal. Suddenly old trouble is right under her skin, and she feels his presence in her dark hours, smirking at her decline. Of course he is happy to see it; she deserves this for daring to think she can make it in this world without him, without any part of him. She deserves it because she cried, she deserves it because she begged. She deserves it because she cringed whenever he put his hands on her. Ysani would have known to tell a story, or dance a twirl across the room, or laugh infectiously in his dark and handsome face. Lamis does not know to do any of things, and so she must suffer.

She suffers for what she doesn't know.

He calls her baby, tenderly, this is the voice of making up, of apology, of benevolence. He humors her, helps her. He wants her to be what pleases him. When she is not, he is silent, a shadow with fists and hard, angry feet. He knocks her down to hear her cry. He makes her bleed. Her cries are never answered until the storm is past, and soon she learns to be as silent as he when the storms begin. Her acceptance only frustrates him, she ought to smile to stave off the blows, not take them endlessly. One day she is gone, and he allows it. She is impossible, she is wrong, she will never be what he wants. She isn't worth chasing.

It is a new beginning for Lamis, and she finds her inner discipline echoed in the soothing pulse of the Light. Here is her refuge, here is her rebirth. She builds her walls here in the halls of the holy, taking strength in the force of her devotion. The Light takes her love and gives it back even more beautiful than it left her; the Light never kicks or humiliates her for stumbling at prayers, for choosing the wrong word or gesture, for speaking when she ought to sing.

This is her loss, the mindless gravity in her core that steals her sanity. The loss of Light, the break in communication. She longs for it but it is severed from her. Her love will never again be returned to her, gilded and inspiring. Her life is a bitter ache, a joke without a punchline, full of pain and enemies who thoughtlessly prod and tear at what remains of her tattered heart. She closes the door.

Retro RP: Meet Lamis

I killed Lamis when the second plague hit Azeroth. Well, technically she got plagued and the goblins killed her, but it was all my idea. The PoL Master was falling deeply into drink, for many assumed and actual reasons, most of which were known only to herself. She got a second run when the Lich King reanimated her. This was her introduction.

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The fires were banked for the night, but there was one last thing to take care of before the worn patriarch sent his children off to bed. Daily attacks by the Scourge had chipped fiercely at their routine and stolen the woman from his side, but one thing would not change, he thought grimly to himself. A birthday is a birthday, and he'd be loathe to let it slide. He singled out the eldest with a smile.

A dark figure paused outside the window, unnoticed. Beneath her hood, eyes that burned with cold fire assessed the family. Dark lips twitched up at the corners, a hollow imitation of the father. She could see a small gift change hands, joy flitting across the faces of the young. She mimicked them all, briefly, feeling the muscles of her face contort and twist. The man produced small pieces of candy from his pocket. She recognized the hunger stamped on the faces of the little ones, so eager for a little taste... she was cold once more, expressionless in the dark, waiting with stony patience as they ate and laughed. Soon they scattered, trudging off to the warmth of their beds, and the man slumped into an overstuffed chair in front of the fire.

She moved quickly. The old man never saw her, and his death was silent but for the sound of his head rolling across the floor. All of them went silently under the edge of her blade, until only one remained. She entered his room. The eldest of the flock slept oblivious to her, the tiny wraith of dripping sword. She could see the lines of his jaw had begun to firm out, dotted with a pale shadow of stubble. He was a young man, trading pretty for handsome. Resting her blade over her shoulder, she stared impassively down at him. Her lips twitched again, an affectionate smile forming on the cold muscle she wore like a mask. A swift movement and she was straddling his chest, his arms pinned to his sides under her hideous strength. She cooed, an alien sound in the twilight, cold, gauntleted hand clamped over the boy's mouth. His eyes rolled with fear, and she could see it, taste it, curdling on the air. It was delicious.

"Darling, why so afraid?" He froze at the sound of that voice. High and sweet, it cajoled even as it gripped his gut with icy fingers of horror. She could feel his mind begin to go. That, too, was a heady fragrance in the dark. She leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "Fear not, my darling. For you, the darkness will be the end, and it. will. be. bliss." The last thing he saw was loving concern stamped eerily on her features. Lamis withdrew her blade and leaned in once more, the hollow, rotten ache at her core soothed by the gurgling sounds he made as he lay dying. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."