[[Events of this post follows this post.]]
Roen woke with a start.
A sense of dread pressed upon her chest--so much so that she had to gasp for air as she sat up. It was an odd feeling. She was no stranger to nightmares, but this latest dream--even though she could not recall the details--felt real, ominous, and urgent. The paladin had to lean over the side of the bed, hands gripping the edge of the cot as she collected her breath. Her eyes glanced to the hearth and the fire that had long died over the span of the night. Goosebumps began to creep up her arms as she drew the thick woolen blankets over her shoulders; the haze of slumber was quick to retreat in the face of the ever present chill that hung in the air.
Slipping her feet into a pair of fur-lined boots, Roen padded her way to the hearth, bending next to the pile of kindling to restart the fire. She took care not to make too much noise, her eyes going to the rest of the barracks where another mound of blankets rose and fell with quiet snores. She knew not the names of the mercenaries that she had shared the barracks with, and they never seemed to care to know hers. She kept to herself, did not speak much, and did as she was told. They left her alone for the most part, save a few glances or leering stares. But her armor and sword kept any harassment at bay; most mercenaries hadn’t come to the frost-cursed region of Coerthas expecting any indulgences or comforts.
As the paladin took up the flint and tinder she paused, a memory on the edges of her thoughts rising to the fore. She suddenly recalled one of the earliest lessons with her brother regarding sword fighting. She had met Gharen near Stonesthrow and he was teaching one of his other pupils a lesson on building a fire. A shy and somewhat fearful Miqo’te named Anzil Oenomaus was set to the task of starting a fire while Gharen and Roen sparred. But it was only a moment later that a spark had caught onto Anzil’s hair and he was screaming in panic.
Roen recalled with distant amusement the horrified expression that the young Miqo’te wore after she dumped a bucket of water on his head, as if that was a fate worse than his hair in flames. She and Gharen had tried their best not to laugh out loud, for Anzil’s mortification was clear.
As the small flicker of flames began to take hold of the kindling, the paladin found herself staring at the fire, her thoughts lingering on those memories. A part of her was surprised to find herself remembering those days long gone, before all the sorrow and the darkness. She had pushed all thoughts of family and friends aside since that day in Aleport, and it was easy to not think about anything since her arrival here in Coerthas.
So why did thoughts of Gharen return to her unbidden now?
Pulling the woolen blankets tighter around her frame, Roen made her way back to her cot. She paused when she spotted the kite shield leaning against the corner of her bed, along with the rest of her equipment.
Perhaps I have shut out the rest of the world long enough. It had been since Starlight that she had spoken to her brother, and the last words they had exchanged were ones of anger and conflict. But he did send her a Starlight gift--a small woven doll--perhaps in an attempt to reconcile things, along with a missive wishing her well.
Never having had the gift for the written word, Roen wanted to find him then to speak to him in person. She too held hope that the rift would be closed between them. But then she was arrested by Coatleque and thrown into Taeros’ dungeon before she got the chance to even write him. Since then, after the escape and all that had followed, she never again had the chance to reach out to her brother, or anyone else for that matter.
But now, just for a moment, she found her thoughts wandering to all those she had left behind. Her brother, Gideon, Kiht… and so many more.
The cot creaked as the paladin settled into a seat, her eyes going to the small satchel next to her pack. It held parchments and ink. Her fingers curled and uncurled under the blanket, still reluctant to reach for them. What would she say? She did not even know where to begin.
It was then that the doors to the barracks swung open, the cold morning air rushing in and threatening to extinguish the hearth flames that were just gaining some life.
“Time to go, ladies and gentleman.†Idristan Tournes stood in the doorway, fully armored with a large shield hanging from his back. He wore his usual expression--a mixture of disapproval and impatience, his commanding tone never loud but always sharp. A few grumbles came from the other cots, but no actual protests were voiced as the mercenaries began to rise and gather their equipment.
Roen did the same, ignoring the chill that greeted her skin as she set the blanket aside, reaching for her breeches and armor.
The letters would have to wait.
Roen woke with a start.
A sense of dread pressed upon her chest--so much so that she had to gasp for air as she sat up. It was an odd feeling. She was no stranger to nightmares, but this latest dream--even though she could not recall the details--felt real, ominous, and urgent. The paladin had to lean over the side of the bed, hands gripping the edge of the cot as she collected her breath. Her eyes glanced to the hearth and the fire that had long died over the span of the night. Goosebumps began to creep up her arms as she drew the thick woolen blankets over her shoulders; the haze of slumber was quick to retreat in the face of the ever present chill that hung in the air.
Slipping her feet into a pair of fur-lined boots, Roen padded her way to the hearth, bending next to the pile of kindling to restart the fire. She took care not to make too much noise, her eyes going to the rest of the barracks where another mound of blankets rose and fell with quiet snores. She knew not the names of the mercenaries that she had shared the barracks with, and they never seemed to care to know hers. She kept to herself, did not speak much, and did as she was told. They left her alone for the most part, save a few glances or leering stares. But her armor and sword kept any harassment at bay; most mercenaries hadn’t come to the frost-cursed region of Coerthas expecting any indulgences or comforts.
As the paladin took up the flint and tinder she paused, a memory on the edges of her thoughts rising to the fore. She suddenly recalled one of the earliest lessons with her brother regarding sword fighting. She had met Gharen near Stonesthrow and he was teaching one of his other pupils a lesson on building a fire. A shy and somewhat fearful Miqo’te named Anzil Oenomaus was set to the task of starting a fire while Gharen and Roen sparred. But it was only a moment later that a spark had caught onto Anzil’s hair and he was screaming in panic.
Roen recalled with distant amusement the horrified expression that the young Miqo’te wore after she dumped a bucket of water on his head, as if that was a fate worse than his hair in flames. She and Gharen had tried their best not to laugh out loud, for Anzil’s mortification was clear.
As the small flicker of flames began to take hold of the kindling, the paladin found herself staring at the fire, her thoughts lingering on those memories. A part of her was surprised to find herself remembering those days long gone, before all the sorrow and the darkness. She had pushed all thoughts of family and friends aside since that day in Aleport, and it was easy to not think about anything since her arrival here in Coerthas.
So why did thoughts of Gharen return to her unbidden now?
Pulling the woolen blankets tighter around her frame, Roen made her way back to her cot. She paused when she spotted the kite shield leaning against the corner of her bed, along with the rest of her equipment.
Perhaps I have shut out the rest of the world long enough. It had been since Starlight that she had spoken to her brother, and the last words they had exchanged were ones of anger and conflict. But he did send her a Starlight gift--a small woven doll--perhaps in an attempt to reconcile things, along with a missive wishing her well.
Never having had the gift for the written word, Roen wanted to find him then to speak to him in person. She too held hope that the rift would be closed between them. But then she was arrested by Coatleque and thrown into Taeros’ dungeon before she got the chance to even write him. Since then, after the escape and all that had followed, she never again had the chance to reach out to her brother, or anyone else for that matter.
But now, just for a moment, she found her thoughts wandering to all those she had left behind. Her brother, Gideon, Kiht… and so many more.
The cot creaked as the paladin settled into a seat, her eyes going to the small satchel next to her pack. It held parchments and ink. Her fingers curled and uncurled under the blanket, still reluctant to reach for them. What would she say? She did not even know where to begin.
It was then that the doors to the barracks swung open, the cold morning air rushing in and threatening to extinguish the hearth flames that were just gaining some life.
“Time to go, ladies and gentleman.†Idristan Tournes stood in the doorway, fully armored with a large shield hanging from his back. He wore his usual expression--a mixture of disapproval and impatience, his commanding tone never loud but always sharp. A few grumbles came from the other cots, but no actual protests were voiced as the mercenaries began to rise and gather their equipment.
Roen did the same, ignoring the chill that greeted her skin as she set the blanket aside, reaching for her breeches and armor.
The letters would have to wait.