Fire, Flowers, and Tea

The blackest crow that ever flew, will surely turn to white
If ever I prove false to you, bright day be turned to night

Sibyl sat perched upon her counter, her fiddle resting at her collar, bow trailing over the strings as she winds her way through a bright, spirited tune. She was dolled up in a dress of bright red. Hair neatly done up and left flowing at her back rather than hastily wound into the usual shock of gold that hung along her back. Left to cascade along her bare shoulders, and curl up aside her rosy cheeks. As she finished her song her eyes wandered around the room, making sure everything was in order.

The table was set for two. One regular seat, another lifted higher up for herself. The scent of a fine meal was simmering nearby, tones of garlic, pesto, and freshly baked bread wafting through the room as the dish she had cooking neared completion. A tall bottle of Gilnean brandy- one of the few authentic, pre-fall bottles she had managed to get a hold of- sat at the center of the table, flanked by a set of serviceable wineglasses.

She gingerly places her instrument back into its case and hops down, taking a moment to survey her domain from the ground floor. She makes sure certain arrangements are still neatly tucked into place- and they are- and she spends a good few minutes staring into the mirror by the bedroom. Smoothing out wrinkles that aren't there, and arranging strands of her golden hair back and forth as she chews gently at her lip and casts quick, anxious glances towards the clock ticking away in the reflection.

. . .

Nearly five after. Did she give him the wrong t-

A knock comes from downstairs. There's a sudden rush that shoots through the little woman and she stands bolt upright, her cheeks flushing bright as she locks her eyes upon her double in the mirror, gives herself a sound nod, and dashes for the stairs. She nearly tumbles the last few steps, but she recovers quickly and bounds for the door, snatching a bouquet of vibrant wildflowers she'd set on a chair on the way. She rounds about to the door, hops up to unfasten the latch, and gives it a tug with the lower knob as it opens to meet a sharp gust of the blustery Boralus gale outside... and the tall, looming frame of Maxwell.

He was an intimidating sight, at first blush. A looming beast of a man, covered in ebon fur with eyes of amber red that shone like a kindling flame as they peered down towards Sibyl. His visage was marred slightly with signs of battle; a thin lash of a scar curved over his muzzle, and one of his pointed ears was nicked and bent by a few degrees. From the loose, flowing tunic he wore she could just barely make out some of the scattered divots that ran along his collar and shoulder, a wound from some shrapnel he'd taken on the seas. Compared to her he was dressed more casually, a baggy sailor's tunic with a vest left hanging open aside it, and a set of worn gray trousers beneath. A little like he had come right off of the dock which, really, he probably had.

"Maxxy!" she pipes up, grinning brightly from ear to ear as she thrusts the flowers up towards him. The ash-furred wolf takes them with a quizzical look and lets out a hearty laugh as the gnome practically flings herself at him after, throwing her arms 'round his legs and holding tight to him as he's left staggering just barely in the doorway. With a grin that bares a flash of fangs he reaches down and plants his hand atop her head, mussing her neatly groomed hair with a little tussle before easing in around her.

"Nice t'see you too, luv. What say y'let me in outta the cold?" He reaches down and effortlessly plucks her up, resting her against his chest as he steps in and locks up behind himself, sparing a moment to regard the bouquet tucked into his other arm. There's a brief, unnoticed flicker of realization that dampens his merry mood for a short few seconds. It's been a year- right. There's a short-lived pang of regret, but he plays it off quickly. "Didn' have to get all trussed up for me. Makin' me fee a touch underdressed."

"Pfft, go on 'en. You don' need more'n 'at charmin' smile an' you could get by anywhere." Sibyl reaches up and gives the wolf's cheek a little pinch, earning a snort of a laugh from the looming man. He lifts his snout a little as he ambles for the stairwell, his keen nose sniffling at the air.

"Cookin' too?"

"Yeah! Put somefin' on the stove, wos a recipe I picked up from an elf a ways back."

"Aw, shouldn' have dear. Y'know I'm always fine with the Octopus. Or the Cupola, if y'gotta get fancy on me."

"Hah, well. Octopus ain' ezzactly fancy, innit? An', well, thought about th'Cupola, but fings're a little tight right now. 'Ad some... expenses I 'ad to tend to."

"Nothin' serious, is it?" Max asks with a quirk of his brow, trudging up towards the kitchen as Sibyl remains nestled tight in his hold.

"Oh, no- No, it ain' nothin' to worry over." she assures quickly, her cheeks flushing a little as a grin spread over her. Max's brow knits with some intrigue, but. He just shakes his head, lets out a soft laugh, and makes his way on over to the table.

It was a nice dinner. He was pretty impressed with the brandy- she was sure she'd mentioned it before, but she'd never broken it out. Always had been waiting for a special occasion, she figured. By the time the gnocchi was cleared off their plates the bottle was dipping below half- Mostly Max's doing- and the two had wandered their way up and down a few different topics of conversation. For her, it was news around town. Old Esther was picking a fight with the docks nearby, saying they were attracting too many seagulls outside her house. Some people said one of the bartenders at the local watering hole was into witchcraft. Apparently some heroic types had been going down shaking down the Scrimshaw's pickpocketing brats.

His were very different. He told her about how he'd been sent out to the coast of some tropical isle. There were giants lumbering around, snake people slithering up along the shores, and the whole 'Azerite' business had produced so much of a commotion in the earth that a giant hunk of stone had tore itself up from the ground and begun to thrash about. They had to fight it, along with some Horde that were out there scavenging the place as well. To hear him tell it, it was a real thriller. Trolls slinging hexes left and right, giant rock monsters bellowing so loud that it shook the earth... She was always enthralled by this sort of stuff. It sounded amazing! While he sat and listened politely to her tales, she couldn't resist peppering his with questions. How many Hordefolk were there? Did they fight any of their ships on the way out?

"Yer such a brave one, Maxxy. 'At soun's like a right 'orror, dealin' wid all'a that."

"Heh. Y'seem awful interested, for it bein' so horrifyin'."

"Well, y'know, hearin' 'bout it an' seein' it firsthand, 'at's a pretty different sorta fing now, innit?"

"True enough, luv. But 'ey- you ever get in a scrape with a giant dust bunny, you make sure I'm the first one to know, eh?"

She chuckles to herself, her hands reaching under to twist and turn the napkin in her lap about. She'd been so caught up in the chatter that she'd really lost track of time. She glances aside, feet kicking about the air below. Thinking over words and rearranging them haphazardly in her head.

"But! Hah. Well, enough'a that, hey?" Maxwell pipes up, patting at the table as he moves to stand. "Thanks for the dinner, Sib. Now... Think you an' I oughta take this on up to bed an' keep this celebration goin', hm?" He reaches over and drums his fingers along the brandy, an amorous twinkle in those fiery eyes.

Sibyl feels her stomach flutter, and her face go red. Now was the time, yep. Now was the time to do it. She quickly reaches under, motioning him back down with a hurried flutter of her hand. "I-in, um! In jus' a sec! I got one more fing for ya."

"Another? Oh, Sibby. I'm gonna hafta put a lot in to top this, y'know. I got somethin' for you, back at the house, I..." he trails off, the glimmer of fangs fading as his smile wanes and his brow knits. He watches silently as the gnome produces a small box from under her chair and springs up onto the table, bounding towards him with the biggest, beaming look she could muster. The worgen, even with his nerves loosened by a few rounds of brandy, stirs a little as he lists back and arches his brows in surprise.

"...Sibby?"

"I, ah. Well. I wos jus' thinkin'." She starts, reaching up to curl a lock of gold about her finger. "Fings've been goin' real well lately. In spite'a the whole war fing, yeah? I mean. I got me own place, now. I got steady work, between 'ere an' Stormwind. An' we've-- you've-- You've been a real bright spark to 'ave around." She suppresses a nervous laugh as she looks down to the jewelry box in her palm.

"Fings feel, ah. Solid. F'tha first time in a long time, innit. I... I think I wanna try an' keep it 'at way. An' I wanna do it wid you, Max." She cranes the case open, admiring the silver band within pridefully for a moment. It wasn't much, admittedly. Not compared to other jewelry she'd seen. It was of decent make, and even 'decent' had run through a hefty hunk of the savings she'd pooled up, but that didn't matter. She'd earned this ring. She'd spent months swabbing floors and dusting out chimneys for this. She looks up towards Max, her breath tightening up in her throat as she meets his gaze and... And.

And she doesn't see the same thing. She sees surprise, but nothing else.

"Oh, Sibby." His lips curl, belatedly, into a hesitant smile. "That's really sweet."

Oh.

"But I don' think we're-- I'm-- ready for... somethin' like that, yeah?"

"O-oh? I, ah. Ahah, yeah, I. I ah, thought I'd talked, before." She could remember it clearly, she'd been thinking through it constantly leading up to this night. He said he'd like to settle down someday. They'd talked about sharing a house before, even about weddings. She must not have read it right. She looks down at the ring, drawing it back to her chest as she feels that feeling of butterflies in her stomach stewing into something sickly. "Um. Why, 'ough?"

"I just don' think we're the sort that oughta be settlin' down, luv. I'm out on the seas every week, an' you're, ah. You're still sweepin' floors an' dustin' shelves."

"Eheh, well, ah. 'At's... the job I do, innit."

"Didn' mean anything by it luv. Jus'. Ain' quite the thing you make a real livin' off of, yeah? Give it a spell, once you're on your feet a little more an' the war's cooled off, maybe."

"I, um. I fink I'm plenny 'on my feet'." She objects weakly.

Maxwell offers a gentle shrug and a reassuring smile. It fades as he reaches out to rest a reassuring hand against her cheek, and finds her inching away. "Ah. M'sorry luv. We 'ave a lotta fun, you an' I. We don' have to complicate it any, really."

"Com... complicate?"

- - -

"Get out! Jus' get outta 'ere!"

The bottle of brandy shattered against the floor as she lobbed it after the grumbling worgen. She couldn't remember entirely what words had led up to it. Her mind was racing, her heart was pounding, she felt like she was going to be sick.

'I wasn't the one who wanted to make this 'steady'.'
'I do love you. But I'm not looking for something like this.'
'You're not going anywhere. You have no ambition.'
'But we have fun, right?'

She didn't remember when she started arguing, and. And maybe he didn't mean it. Maybe that's not even the way he said it. She can't remember. She can't remember anything right now. She hears the door slam downstairs, and plants her hands to her head, tugs at her hair, and folds down against the tabletop beneath her. She rests there for a long moment, dragging in sharp, shuddering breaths as she rolls over onto her back, only to find the jewelry box prodding up against her side. She grabs it. She nearly throws it. But she can't. She lies there a little longer scrubbing her hands against her face, trying to steady herself, before she wrenches both it and the bouquet of flowers up and jumps down to the ground.

- - -

Sibyl arrives at home, drenched from the downpour outside. Her plodding steps take her upstairs, small puddles left in her wake the whole way. She gets to the bedroom and staggers over to the closet, a faint haze of grog from the voyage back home leaving her gait swaying and her steps uneven. With a low grumble she pulls open the closet, shoves some dresses aside and drags out a small dusty chest, and pops it open to peer within.

Inside lies three things. At the bottom is an old, tattered tome. 'Perry's Guide to Pyromancy - A Book for Beginners'. Atop it rests a long-wilted bunch of flowers, their petals crinkled and brown. Next to it was a small box.

She reaches drops a few more things inside. A necklace of branches, a bag of herbs, and a pencil capped with a fuzzy pompom. And the chest is snapped shut again.

And when you're on some distant shore, think of your absent friend
And when the wind blows high and clear, a light to me pray send
And when the wind blows high and clear, pray send your love to me
That I might know by your hand light, how time has gone with thee