Cryptophasic Correspondence

23 July

Dearest Scheine,

Soon I must go to Booty Bay to claim what’s mine. I don’t want to go alone, but who could I ask up here? What Servitor could I trust so close to the truth? My fiction about goblin insurance only works out if I don’t show up on B’s boat immediately before or after, and I do have to speak with him while I’m in Stranglethorn. He’d be mortally offended. He is not someone I can afford to offend. Leaving that aside, I owe it to him. He could have ignored what he’d heard, deemed it none of his business--it wasn’t, not strictly speaking. He could have let me stride into town, to the wreck of our family home. The Guardians certainly would have asked me their questions, and as a man who was expelled from their ranks for taking bribes, I don’t see how their questioning would have been at all impartial.

So who to ask? Not Skybrooke. I can hardly look at her just now. She and Cerellean came to offer their thanks last night, and just the sight of her hand clasped around the head of her cane made me feel as if a fist were squeezing my heart. She could blackmail me now, just like Relly did for so long. She’s even got a better threat than Relly ever had, for he could only (inadvertently) threaten me with Dunele’s death. Skybrooke could threaten me directly. And I would do as she bid. I know I would, for I’ve done so before, haven’t I? How could she lean so hard upon me, saying she feared to have me at her paramour’s back, and then turn around and thank me when he did, in fact, return alive? There was no real choice there, and when I said as much she acted like she didn’t hear what I was really saying. If Cerellean had not come home, my life would have been worthless. Thanking me for it when she knows she has the whip hand is a cruelty.

This is perhaps more unkind than she deserves. I am not fair.

I know. But in these letters is the only place I can put my emotions. It’s stupid of me to be sad about any of it, but there you are. I’ve never been a smart man, not like you are, at least. Inspired, yes. Resourceful, yes. Kind? I make it a point to be. But smart? No. I am aware of my limitations.

Perhaps I’ll just ask around, see who needs to go south. I could let coincidence dictate my travel partners. I’ll send word before I leave; I’d like to stop in for a visit. I miss your face.

I love you,

Renny

26 July


Dearest Sunshine,

Avoriana sat with me while I was shining my boots the other day. She is the woman I wrote of, the one with those detestable trollish markings on her skin. She is whipcord lean and there is something in her eyes--I can’t put my finger on it, but perhaps a certain readiness to move. I will not say we are friends, but I feel a little protective toward her (though I suspect she would neither need nor welcome that). Something in her reminds me of Dunele. I found myself wanting to smile simply because she slumped into a chair next to me, firing verbal jabs as I worked the polish in. We have developed a tentative rapport based mostly on insult and japery. I enjoy it.

I asked her if she had a need to go south and she got a little tense when I mentioned Stranglethorn, then told me I could only claim her companionship for the journey if we stayed out of the jungle itself... which confirms everything I suspected of her tattoos. I did reassure her, but I can’t help wondering if I shouldn’t have asked in the first place. The last thing I want to do is injure someone who’s been nothing but kind to me in my brief tenure here. I think I like her, but then, that hardly means anything--for years the closest I came to friendship can be summed up in a tidy (and sad, I now realize) list:

• The tyrant who was blackmailing me.
• The undead who was laundering my ill-gotten gains.
• The apprentice mage who tried to kill me.
• The fellow addict with whom I used.

It’s clear I’m an abominable judge of character--I mean, you’re perfectly awful and yet you’re my favorite person.

The teacup I’ve sent on is an apology for the preceding joke. You will notice it is painted with a very fat tabby in the bottom of it. Speaking of cats, write me soon and be sure to tell me if your cat has littered. I might want a kitten for myself. Something to love and nurture when I cannot love myself.

I love you,

Renny

31 July


Dearest Scheine,

Today I miss you terribly, for it was the first time in years I felt like I’d done something worth your approval though it was hardly anything at all. I have a tabard given to me by Commander Longsight’s hand. I am officially one of the Servitors of Lothar.

I had known, beforehand, that upon the end of the trial period people are asked to speak as to the character of the Applicant. By the Sunwell, I was nervous about it, wondering if anyone would say anything at nice at all. To my surprise and delight a few people did speak up:

• “He has proven himself to be pleasant company and a nice conversational partner. Very handsome.” (That last bit’s news to me. I think that was Frovelos.)
• “Wouldn’t want to face him in a fight.” (Avoriana, naturally.)
• “He is multi-talented and he has not poisoned my tea, either.” (The gnome called M. I get the impression she’s always that sparing with praise.)
• “He’s been very nice to my daughter.” (Jocastia, I think. We’ve still hardly spoken, which is probably my fault.)
• “He has displayed Compassion, both to his swordbrethren and to those outside the unit.” (That was Brommidor. His brogue is increasingly easy for me to parse, thanks to living in the Hinterlands.)
• “He has very healthy and active sweat glands!” (I was very anxious, observed by Baenura, who gave me my base tour. She has an interesting turn of phrase that has nothing to do, I’ve found, with being a draenei and everything to do with her peculiar brand of vivacity.)

I feel much safer now. Skybrooke will now have to work against a swordbrother and not merely some elf who showed up to make her life harder, though as time goes on I find this possibility less and less likely--though I will not underestimate either her skill or her worth to the Servitors. Surely, she is worth far more to them than I am.

I could hardly pay attention to the remainder of the promotions and announcements I was so happy. I feel like I’m on much more even footing with those around me, aside from the differences in rank.

It’s been a long time since I felt like I was a part of anything, rather than just moving from scheme to scheme or commission to commission out of desperation and an increasingly narrow set of options. All the same, I managed to slide out of there before anyone could invite me to share a congratulatory drink.

That’s all the news I have today, Scheine, or at least my mind is too full of my tabard to acknowledge anything else.

I love you,

Renny

8 August

Dearest Scheine,

By the Sunwell, I’m glad Avoriana and I left when we did. I’ll circle back to why. This will be a very long letter--and full of ranting. Grab a glass of ethermead first, Sunshine.

Flight makes everything seem possible, perspective-wise. For hours we flew southward, each alone in our own thoughts. My bat is faster, but less hearty than the Wildhammer gryphons Avoriana rides. This proved a little concerning when we had to descend in search of suitable forage. Her gryphon seemed to enjoy the lizards of the Burning Steppes, and Bitey--I really have to come up with another name--swooped on countless beetles while we hapless riders had to make do with less exotic fare: sandwiches. As we flew on the air thinned; we ascended the peaks of Dun Morogh and the cold made me shudder.

That night in Booty Bay Avoriana and I slept side by side in individual hammocks. Though I’m not complaining of our lodging; I’ve certainly slept in worse. Like with most things in Cartel towns, a bit of coin, judiciously-applied, netted us a hell of a breakfast... though that was mostly your brother going overboard as usual. I’d gone down to order and forgot to ask Avoriana what she preferred. She’s so thin she can’t afford to skip meals--I fret, honestly--so I just ordered one of everything. Better that, I thought, than watch her turn up her nose. You should have seen her face! I wanted to crawl under the table and die, I was so mortified.

All in all, a good trip. I’d write further, but it’d just be repeating what I told you when we visited. Avoriana likes you, I think. Or at any rate, she likes your cats.

In other, more pathetic news, Cerellean says it pains him to see how lonesome I am. Back in the City I could always count on two things: first, for work and Dunele to keep me distracted; and second, that no one around would notice or care. Eventually, I even convinced myself I didn’t care. It was a convenient lie--you know how I love those--but it is one that no longer suits. Avoriana and Skybrooke say simillar things. It isn’t that I don’t want friends, Scheine. But it’s damnably hard to let someone close when you have to not only translate your thoughts into another tongue, but must then scrub them of all incriminating references. It’s a good thing Mother taught us something of diplomacy. At the time, we thought it was stupid, for her--a merchant’s wife--to believe her children could cross that class divide. But it’s served me well, these past years. I’m still alive.

Before we left I saw an edict requiring all Servitors to submit themselves upon request to something called a ‘mental scan’ to confirm their identity. What tyranny, sister. My gorge rose and I remembered only too recently when I misunderstood the ritual of Questions and worried Longsight was the sort to allow... exactly this. Apparently there was an incident of possession, but while I see the logic behind Shadowpaw’s edict the conclusion smacks a case of ‘if your only weapon is a hammer.’ And our commanding officer will permit this without a murmur, it seems--or sees it as lesser priority to presenting a united front.

This sows mistrust. The Legion--for that is what they fear, my officers--thrives on it. 

Discreetly I voiced my concerns and received three different responses. Avoriana assured me it wouldn’t hurt (!) and offered mild admonishment. Skybrooke seemed to agree, but attributed to me only selfish motive in avoiding mental intrusion. Cerellean shares my revulsion, but nevertheless seemed shocked when I painted things in stark terms.

I was so, so close to telling Cerellean why exactly it was a violation I could not stomach, how troublesome citizens are made less so by the liberal intervention of the priesthood--how they are sometimes mind-wiped in public as a lesson to friends, family: this could be you. You, too, could be ruined while everyone looks on and does nothing. In those days I was carrying the secret of Dunele. I could not afford the luxury of dissent.

I’d started thinking it was better here. I’m going to avoid Shadowpaw, but if I am put to it I must refuse. I don’t have much, but I have kept myself relatively intact all these years and I plan on continuing to do so. I didn’t evade the Scryer’s truthsayers and the Magistry’s pet priests all these years just to fall prey to a grubby-minded, short-sighted mercenary officer.

I’ll rant no more on it. It makes me ill, the very concept, the reminder of my past complicity in the pacification of those around me.

I love you,

Renny

10 August

Dearest Scheine,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but the very idea gives me hope. So I will write you a letter, and drop it in a postbox when I find one, and perhaps someday it will find its way to you. I’m told humans put messages into bottles and throw them into the sea sometimes. This, I suppose, is much like that.

It’s enraging, to be ground into the snow, to be powerless and flailing while there’s chaos around you, that hackles-raising scent of the demonic in one’s nose. When the cold wetness seeped beneath my gorget, though, that’s when my rage crystallized into panic. The scent of the demons became the sweet miasma of death and I felt I was on the glacier once more, laying there with my bones pulped and my innards leaking from my body, the ice red from me and black from Them. I couldn’t breathe--I felt the panic rising, rising up and I did the only thing I could to remind myself I wasn’t in Icecrown: I screamed, and kept screaming, every drawn breath an argument against the memory threatening to poison me into stillness and surrender.

I recall very little of the long, cold march that followed, just the tramp of boots in snow and the sound of my own hoarse voice, reciting the things they taught me during my convalescence in Dalaran. It sounds childish, a grown man reciting his name and age, the parts of his body, but it helps. When I can count on nothing else about my reality, I can at least hold on to that.

I’m sure my swordbrethren think I’m mad. When we halted to rest and eat in a place called North Watch Pass--it is from here I write you now--I received many long looks, particularly from a woman called Quin Adama. If I am mad, it’s no more so than the rest of these Servitors.

Later, after most of us had snatched a few hours of sleep, I found Avoriana had set up her bedroll adjacent to mine. She had lain herself down between me and the sole entrance to the watch tower. Neither an embrace from Skybrooke nor a hand on my shoulder from Cerellean could have touched me so much as that little gesture. You’re the only other person who’s ever done such a thing.

I must find a way of thanking her, this slim little monster who drinks lemonade and plays cards with me, who braids my hair unasked and would put herself between me and any threat coming through the door.

If I can count on nothing else, Avoriana is my friend. I am doubly glad I brought her to meet you. Legion be damned, I will make sure it happens again someday.

I’ve no idea what Asteris has you doing right now, but I fear not for you. You are strong and pitiless. You are capable and clever. You are my sister, my other self, and I could not be more confident that we will live to see one another again. I love you with every breathe in my body, Sunshine. Be strong, stay well. Pray for your brother, for I shall surely need it.

I love you,

Renny