(This is a rarity for PC: an actual work of short fiction. A month or two before I thought about
writing this post, I pondered character motivation and backstory for my toons. Az would be a really tough nut to crack, given all sorts of contradicting issues regarding The Rogue Life with Darnassian society, but I thought there was something I could write about for Cardwyn. When the time came to actually start writing, I thought it would be a short piece in the same vein as
my sole other work of fiction on the blog, but Card had her own thoughts on the matter. A month and a half and waaaay too many words later, this is the result.
Okay, part of the result. Rather than do a dump of the entire story, I decided to break it up into six parts so that any reader wouldn't be confronted with a wall of text. I also decided I was going to finish the entire story before posting, because I wanted to make sure I was going to see this through to the end. I inserted breaks because, well, it'd likely overwhelm the blog otherwise.
Some final notes: This is a work of fiction; any resemblance to any people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any characters created by Blizzard for WoW Classic remain their property. Kitwynn appears courtesy of
Tome of the Ancient. This work of fiction uses WoW Classic as the reference point, no other version of WoW. This was written by Redbeard of Parallel Context, 2020.)
One
Final Lesson
Mom looked out the window into the
fields, her jaw set. Her hands kept up their steady pace kneading the dough,
with only a slight tremor betraying their emotion.
Fold, turn. Fold, turn. Grab a scant
handful of flour and dust the dough before folding once more.
I always wondered how she could keep
up this work for what seemed like hours on end, as baking day wore me out by
noon.
"We could use the gold,
Mom," I began.
Her eyes flicked back to me for a
moment, silencing me, before returning to the wheat growing beyond the fence.
I turned back to the oven, inserted
the long wooden paddle, and nudged a rapidly browning loaf away from the coals.
Tired or not, Mom would make me turn over the manure in the yard this afternoon
if I burned one. "It's not like I was joining the army."
"Ah yes, the army," she
spat. "Go and see the world, meet people, and get turned into a ghoul. Or
worse."
My knuckles turned white as I
clenched the handle. She didn't need to bring up Uncle Aeron this early in the
argument.
"Where is the army,
anyway?" she continued. "You'd think that they'd be back home now,
especially since the Plague is now some someone else's problem."
I noted that her "someone
else's problem" conveniently left out just whose problem the Plague was.
"But Mom," I said,
"I'm talking about our home. With the army not here, we need all the help
we can get. Did you see those people the other day? Even Dad was shaken last
night. And Kira says—"
"I know what your sister says.
I'm talking about our home too." She tore her gaze away from the window to
set the finished loaf to one side, covering it with a damp cloth, before
grabbing another wad of dough from the large bowl.
She dusted the dough with flour and
began kneading. "Did Evelyn put you up to this?" she continued.
"No, Mom. I came up with it on
my own." Well, that was only partially true, and we both knew it. Mistress
Evelyn talked about Lordaeron and the gleaming towers of Dalaran whenever she
would visit, and that the beauty of Dalaran put the Mage Tower in Stormwind to
shame. Her faded Tirisfal accent made her stories more believable as well has
her lessons more bearable: a touch of the exotic in a world of crops, food,
family, and neighbors. The occasional trip to Goldshire was a poor substitute.
Mom grunted as she continued to
knead.
"You can ask her, Mom. She'll
be here this evening."
If anything, Mistress Evelyn would
prefer I do something else entirely. "Very few outsiders ever joined the
Kirin Tor, you know," Evelyn frequently said when I was younger, "but
if you applied yourself to your studies, Cardwyn, I would sponsor you." I
was skeptical as to how arithmetic and grammar would help me join the most
powerful Mages in all of Azeroth, but I kept those misgivings to myself.
"Hmmpf." Mom attacked the
dough with a vigor that said we'll see about that.
Despite her outward resistance, I
felt that Mom was at least considering the idea. She and Dad, among many others
in Elwynn, were veterans of the Second War, when we nearly lost everything to
the Horde. The Third War was, to a large extent, someone else's war, despite us
all being part of the Alliance of Lordaeron. Dad would be a tougher nut to
crack, as he'd had his fill of fighting after the Second War and had a long and
healthy distaste of what "those Light damned nobles" were cooking up
in Stormwind. But if I could get Mom on my side...
"Hey!" Mom's shout shook
me out of my reverie. "Get that bread out before it burns!"
I shoved in the paddle and pulled
loaves out to the edge of the oven. My eyes narrowed as I focused on the bread
and the oven's heat, whispering a sing-song that Evelyn had taught me. I then
grabbed the loaves, which despite the shimmering heatwaves felt nice and cool,
and tossed them into a basket. The scent of freshly baked bread filled my
nostrils as I lugged my catch over to another table and set each loaf out.
Steam curled off of the loaves as I flipped each over, inspecting them for
blackened sections. Not too bad for someone who wasn't paying attention,
I thought, nodding with satisfaction.
"We'll talk about this
later," Mom said, dismissing me with a glance. "And go check the
manure pit."
