In the infirmary

The Stormwind military infirmary was an imposing and squat structure; its impressive stone edifices set back several dozen yards from the Cathedral District. Housing several large wards, flanked by private rooms for higher-ranking officers, it was staffed day and night by various healers and priests offering both temporal and spiritual comfort. In previous years the stone halls had been the sole domain of human priests and priestesses; but more recently Draenei shaman and lower-ranking Kaldorei druidic acolytes had come to offer their services in aid of the Alliance.

Ashamal Shalah’aman’s military rank would have afforded him one of the larger private rooms even if his mate had not liberally bribed the administrative staff. The suite was south-facing, a small balcony leading to a pleasant view of the outskirts, and the wide windows ensured that the maximum amount of sunlight illuminated the room. It was a shame that the occupant could not appreciate any of these assets.

Ashamal Shalah’aman had been bed-bound for two days, and it did not agree with him. Thanks to his mate, who was alternating between loud, undulating cries of despair and slavishly lavishing attention, he was impeccably dressed. Unfortunately, Leafsong’s grief loosened her usually steady hand, and Ashamal’s cheeks bore several small nicks where she had shaved him. Despite this, he still appeared more groomed than she. She hadn’t washed her hair for several days and her clothing was rumpled and stained; her attention divided solely between caring for her mate and her children. At nearly five months pregnant, she was exhausted, and spent every spare infrequent moment huddled beside her mate on the bed.

The older children couldn’t understand why their father lay prostrated and silent. Analith sulked when Ashamal was not able to read him a requested book, Mirae pouted when he could not identify and name a held object. Both could sense a change in their father’s demeanour, and it made them unsettled and restless. The younger babies couldn’t perceive the change, but were as demanding for their parents’ attention as always, vying for affection.

Leafsong did not spend her night-times idle, however. While her husband slumbered restlessly, she lit a candle and retrieved one of the texts she had bought surreptitiously from the Mage district. So afraid was she of her husband’s wrath that, despite his affliction, she still hid the leather-bound tome from his unseeing gaze. Her finger moved over the unfamiliar text, her mouth shaping the strange incantations, every line a struggle for her to decipher.

Despite the ordeal that formed every page, she pressed on, determined. Someone had to take revenge against Illosien Shalah’aman for this gross affront to her family; and with her husband infirm, it fell to her. If it occurred to her that challenging a millennia-old, Titanic-fuelled arcanist with a handful of novice incantations from a novice-level spellbook may have been mildly suicidal, Leafsong ignored this with characteristic stubbornness.

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1 Response so far »

  1. 1

    Jeremiah said,

    Awesome post babes ❤


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