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Ripple Recovery	By : wanderingaddict Category: +S through Z > World of Warcraft Views: 5633 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own WoW or even these characters. I have made no money from this and have not profited from this in any way.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
Biske- Wow, you
left an actual review for once. Is this a server first? Also, this is
a few weeks late. Looks like I owe you some gold!

Dierdre- Thanks for
speaking up! I never know when a story’s doing well or not. It
helps to know I’m not just writing for myself!

Thanks to those who
rated, and- heh, wow- those people who added Ripple Recovery to their
recommended reading lists!

--___---__-__---___--

The two of them had
hardly made it back to the road when Malton caught sight of the
Ranger-Lord of Quel’Danil bearing down on them, with Amberglade
in tow, and a less than pleasant look on her face. It was somewhat in
the orc’s nature to fret, and if he was a member of one of the
lesser races (i.e. a human pinkie), he would be rather nervously
wringing his hands and close to simply running away. The Ranger-Lord,
Summerdrake, and the Merchant Prince Sunchaser were not on happy
terms in the best of times. They seemed to fight every chance they
got, worse than two furious cats in a kodo-hide sack. Malton had no
idea why. As far as he could tell they were practically twins; both
loved the great forests and ranging wilderness, both shared and
interest in politics and debate, both thought that they bore the
perfect vision of leadership for the Vale…

Okay, well,
actually, Malton could see very well why they didn’t get along.
Although the Ranger-Lord and Gilvarin Sunchaser were both extremely
progressive and shared remarkably liberal views (at least, for
elves), between Gilvarin’s wild temper and Summerdrake’s
steadfast refusal to budge when riled (even if it was in her own best
interest) the orc rarely heard even the shortest exchange pass
without an argument.

Fearing that he was
going to be dragged into yet another elf pissing contest, a small
part of his mind idly wondered what the four pointy-eared pixies
would do if he just ignored them all and kept walking straight back
to camp. He’d nearly worked up the courage to do just that when
his thoughts met reality and he realized that the two women were
nearly upon them.

Jalinde Summerdrake
strode so purposefully down the road that Malton had to blink twice
to make sure the stones beneath her feet hadn’t iced over from
the cold, imperious steps she took. Summerdrake had only been
Ranger-Lord for the last seven or nine years, but she had achieved
near-legendary status across the Hinterlands for her feats against
the troll forces both before and after the Second War, and the
elf-woman nothing but iron will to show for it. In all his years of
life, Malton didn’t think he’d ever met another woman who
could make silence seem half so menacing as her.

Amberglade stood
slightly behind the Ranger-Lord with a smug sneer on her face. When
Malton met her gaze she mouthed ‘You’re dead meat
fuckface,’ and dragged her finger across her throat.
Summerdrake, however, seemed unaware of her subordinate’s
taunt, although her sharp blue eyes raked across Hawk’s
disheveled appearance and then orc and the elf behind him.

Her lips, painted a
dark, violet hue, pursed and twisted into a tight frown when her eyes
landed on the broken bottle Gilvarin still held in his hand. She
straightened and inhaled deeply through her nose, somehow managing to
look down its straight length at Amberglade even though the young
redhead was a good four or five inches taller. "And since when
has the Sunchaser camp been a part of the Rock River patrol?"

Amberglade simply
stared at her commander, caught terribly off-guard by the woman’s
sudden interest in her instead. Fortunately for her, Hawk stepped in
to the rescue. "It’s not, Mistress, but we thought it
would be in the best interests of the Lodge to make sure of Master
Sunchaser wasn’t harmed by the orc-,"

Malton saw what was
coming, and already had one muscled arm around Gilvarin’s waist
when the elf sprang forward. "Bullshit! Bullshit, you did not-!"
the man snarled, struggling to break free of the orc’s grasp.

"Master
Sunchaser, please," Jalinde Summerdrake admonished coolly. "Calm
yourself. I’m sure Mater Hawk here can explain the situation."

Nervously swinging
his eyes between Gilvarin and the head of the Lodge, Hawk gulped and
continued. "As I was saying, Mistress, we were concerned for
Master Sunchaser’s safety," he managed to falter, before
Amberglade finished for him with "And the moment we rounded the
bend Master Sunchaser and the orc ambushed us!"

Gilvarin’s
face purpled at the sheer audacity of the two young elves and their
bald-faced lies. "You slimy little troll-cunts! I’m
gonna-!"

"Master
Sunchaser," The Ranger-Lord began, holding one hand out to
quell the furious blonde while the other two elves both started
talking at once.

"You see
Mistress? He’s crazy!" Amberglade exclaimed, as Hawk
started to add, "The orc’s presence has-!"

"Andovin."
The Ranger-Lord’s hard voice was enough to cut him off
mid-sentence, but her steel glare froze him in place. "That is
enough."

Summerdrake turned
back to the orc and his friend, casually resting a hand on one hip.
“Master Sunchaser,” she said, “You know I disprove
of your temper…” Her eyes flicked down to the makeshift
shiv in his hand, and again her dark lips made that little irritated
moue. “And its penchant for force.”

Gilvarin snorted
and sent a glance over his shoulder, back in the direction of the
forest confrontation. Summerdrake followed his gaze and stared into
the woods, her eyes narrowing suddenly. Malton, for his part, didn’t
even try to look at whatever ‘Varin had used as his
excuse. Too many years trying to shortchange an eagle-eyed elf had
taught him the futilely of that. Whatever she saw clearly made Hawk
nervous though, even more so when the Ranger-Lord turned back to him
and stared silently, one brow slightly arched.

Hawk fumbled, his
face looking a little tight. Amberglade saw him struggling, and
quickly stepped in. "I fired them- as warning shots- Mistress,
right after Andovin sent me for help! I was trying to drive them off,
but I realized I couldn’t do that without killing one of them
so I decided to-,"

"Enough,
Janeva. I’ve heard all I need to." Summerdrake folded her
arms beneath her breasts and turned her head back to look at Malton
and the still seething elf he guarded. Her violet lips gave another
irritated twitch. "For harassing noncombatants neither of you
will receive wages for the rest of the month."

The two Rangers
blinked, taken aback, before they exploded with indignant rage.
"Wha-! But Mistress, they attacked us!" Amberglade cried in
disbelief.

"For lying
to a superior officer, you will receive five lashes each,"
she continued, simply talking louder over their protests. At the
mention of the lashings, though, both Rangers fell silent, their eyes
wide. “They may be as public or as private as you wish, but you
will receive them.” Summerdrake paused to let her words
sink in, and Malton didn’t need to see her eyes flicker to his
friend to know who that part of her speech had been meant to
placate.

"Furthermore,"
Summerdrake continued, forestalling the Rangers objections just as
they were about to draw breath. "For failing to report to your
assigned posts, for endangering both your fellow rangers, the Lodge,
and the Vale itself, you are both demoted to Scouts."
Summerdrake’s violet lips finally twisted into an outright
scowl. "Indefinitely."

“You can’t
do that!” Hawk cried, as his fiery companion drew herself up.

“My mother-!”
Amberglade began, but Summerdrake rounded on her with such fury in
her eyes that the redhead’s mouth snapped shut of its own
accord.

“Your mother
sits on the Council. She does not command the Quel’Danil
Lodge. Your duty is to protect our lands from invasion,
lest we fall like the rest of the Homelands,” she snapped, her
voice rich and strong. “It is not an excuse to carry out
whatever little vindictive desires wander through your puny little
mind.”

The Ranger-Lord
paused, her dark-blue eyes closing for a second as she exhaled
sharply through her nose. When she opened them again the fire had
cooled somewhat, but her voice still held a clear note of underlying
anger. “This is not a game for children, Janeva. This is a
matter of life and death. The Rangers are, above all, mature in their
decisions and do not act like spoiled little brats. If you cannot
handle yourself with the dignity of a grown woman simply because one
peaceful merchant wishes to trade in our lands, then maybe the
Rangers are not the place for you.”

Amberglade paled at
that. To leave the Guard of one’s own volition was one thing.
Many Vale-elves did that, after finding new interests or completing
their service. To be told to leave though, that was a mark of
shame that one wore for the rest of their long, long life. “Y-
yes, mi… mistress,” she stammered, dropping her head.

“Andovin.”
The dark-haired man flinched at the sound of his name. Summerdrake
seemed to ignore it. “What would you have done if you had
actually hit him?” she asked, her voice almost soft.

“But I
didn’t-,” he began, but seemed to have second thoughts.
He straightened. “I wouldn’t have, Mistress, I never mi-”

“That is not
what I asked, Andovin,” she snapped, using his name like a
whip. “What would you have done?” Her small mouth pressed
into a thin, hard line. “What do you think would have
happened to you, after?” she asked again.

“He’s-,”
Hawk fumbled, “He’s only an orc, Mistress-”

The words coming
out of his mouth reached his ears, and Hawk stopped short, his mouth
snapping shut as his eyes fearfully rose to meet his commander’s.
What he saw in Summerdrake’s gaze was a mystery to Malton, but
whatever it was caused him bite his lip and look off through the
trees. The Ranger-Lord continued to study him though, folding her
arms beneath her breasts once more. “Is that really what you
think? What you’ve been taught?” she finally asked. Her
voice was full of disappointment.

“…
No,” the elf said quietly, his voice painfully small. Malton
winced at the pitiful sound, and silently wished that he could be
anywhere else.

“Janeva?”

The Ranger shook
her head, refusing to look up. Jalinde, her blue eyes cool and
distant, stared silently at the two elves for a moment longer. “I
am terribly ashamed. Of both of you.”

Her words seemed to
have more impact on the two elves than any of the punishments they
would be facing. Amberglade seemed to shrink into herself, while Hawk
just stared off into the woods, looking for all the world like he was
going to cry. Malton carefully looked away, unsure of what to do. He
didn’t need, or want, to see this.

After a long,
cruelly silent moment, Summerdrake turned to Gilvarin and Malton,
dismissing the two- former- Rangers. “I am going to give the
two of you a five minute head start back to the Lodge. Quel’Danil’s,
not Rock River,” she clarified, glancing at the two from the
corner of her eye. “If I beat either of you back to the
Quel’Danil Lodge, you will add an extra five laps around the
lake to your punishment. If I do beat you, you will add fifty sit-ups
for every minute I have to wait. Regardless of the punishment’s
extent, you will have three days to complete it, or else the
punishment will reset and you will have to start over from zero.”

Her mouth made
another little moue as she tugged at the fingers of her leather
gloves. “The matter of your lashings shall be discussed in
private.”

Neither elf said
anything. Summerdrake paused momentarily, glancing back up. “Am
I understood?”

Hawk met her gaze
with his jaw clenched tight, and nodded sharply. Amberglade just
glared at the road’s pavestones.

The Ranger-Lord
jerked her head towards the city. “Go.” Hawk and
Amberglade jerked and started walking back down the path to the main
road. Slowly, as though their joints were filled with lead.
Summerdrake watched them go.

“You’ll
probably want to run,” she called lightly. The two Rangers- the
two Scouts- stumbled, then ran as fast as and as far away from
the Ranger-Lord as they could.

The Ranger-Lord’s
eyes didn’t leave their backs until they were out of sight, and
for a minute there was no sound, no movement, save for the wind
skirting the treetop leaves. Malton fidgeted and glanced at Gilvarin,
who had simply stood quietly with his arms crossed high on his chest
once Summerdrake had started taking the two Rangers to task. He had a
strange look on his face, something Malton thought was probably close
to wary appraisal. The orc took a deep breath, but cut himself off
when the Ranger-Lord seemed to remember herself, glancing down to
fuss at her gloves again as she turned her attention back to them.

“I read the
report submitted by Captain Hillfallow,” she murmured, taking a
slight step forward. Her eyes flicked up to his, glinting with good
humor. “You always manage to find some way to brighten my day,
Malton.”

The orc felt his
cheeks heat. “A pleasure, my lady,” he said, with a
gallant bow to cover his embarrassment. If he’d known that
someone who mattered was going to read the Captain’s
report…

“Jalinde,”
Gilvarin drawled slowly, cutting through Malton’s thoughts with
a tone that the orc knew all too well. He snapped his head up to
catch the elf’s eye, shooting him a pleading look that begged
the man to- at least this once- let the issue drop.

A muscle in the
elf’s cheek twitched angrily as he held the orc’s gaze,
but when the man turned back to Jalinde his voice was civil, if
tight. “He had problems at the border again.”

Her eyes sparked.
“They didn’t put him in a cage though, right?” she
snapped.

“’Varin-,”
Malton began quickly as the elf swelled up, but there was no need.
Summerdrake was already holding her hands up in appeasement.

“My
apologies,” she said, placating him. “That was rude.”
The elven woman inhaled sharply through her nose, straightening as
much as she could to meet Gilvarin’s much greater height. “I
do care about what’s happened today, Master Sunchaser. In fact,
this is a matter of extreme importance. It is inexcusable, the
laxness of the border guard, in information and conduct. The entire
community is at risk, and I have Master Droffers here to thank for
pointing that out.” Her painted lips did an angry moue before
she continued. “As well as for pointing out the loathsome fact
that some bad apples yet continue to thrive in our fair Vale,”
she added, almost to herself. Her eyes turned outward once more,
though, and she continued. “Be assured, Master Sunchaser, that
Scouts Hawk and Amberglade will be facing some rather harsh lessons.
Ones I will have to see to myself.”

Pausing, the
Ranger-Lord squared her shoulders, and though her eyes flicked to
Malton, it was Gilvarin’s gaze she held. “I fear my
Rangers’ actions have reflected quite poorly on my command. For
that, I do apologize.”

Though the slight
bob of her head was aimed at the both of them, her eyes were locked
on Gilvarin’s. For a moment, Malton had the feeling that,
though the two elves were aligned together against the rest of the
Vale, it didn’t mean that they were anything close to friends.

Gilvarin held her
gaze for what seemed just a second too long before he gave a tiny nod
in return. “Accepted.”

Summerdrake nodded.
“Now, if you two will excuse me, I have to get back to
Quel’Danil. I had come hoping to catch up with you both, but…”
she trailed off with a flick of her eyes down the road. Her jaw
quirked. “Another time, perhaps.”

She moved to go,
but stopped suddenly and turned back. “Master Sunchaser,”
she said, “Do come into town more often. I would hate for your
first impression of us to be the one that stays.” Gilvarin
hesitated, then gave her a slight nod of acquiescence. The elven
woman returned it. “Good night to you, Master Sunchaser,”
she said, shifting her gaze to the orc. “Master Droffers.”

“My lady,”
Malton said with a bow.

The Ranger-Lord
unfurled a bundle of what had looked like a tight coil of silver
thread from her belt, but was actually a bridle. She shook it,
delicately, and was answered immediately by a proud, commanding
neigh. The clatter of hooves followed shortly after as one of the
most beautiful pieces of horseflesh Malton had ever seen appeared,
galloping around the bend in the road amid a cloud of dust and
scattering pebbles. Jalinde mounted her stallion wordlessly, but
threw a small smile at Malton before she spurred the beast over the
cliff’s edge, heading straight through the forest for the Lodge
itself.

For a second Malton
was worried, but then a furious neigh echoed through the evening air.
It was followed by the sound of galloping hooves. Apparently the
Ranger-Lord- and her steed- were okay.

Malton glanced
sideways at Gilvarin, who caught the look and rolled his eyes before
shaking his head at Summerdrake’s trail. The orc grinned. “She
doesn’t hold back, does she?”

“Summerdrake?”
A small puff of laughter escaped the elf’s lips. “Yeah,
she’s one hell of a tough bitch isn’t she? Hard as nails
and twice as sharp. Only reason I’ve been able to push the dumb
bootlickers living here as far as I have is because she’s the
one cracking the whip on their butts.” The elf, antsy to get
back to camp, turned and started walking. Malton took one last look
out over the cliffs and moved to catch up with his friend.

They’d hardly
taken two steps out of the clearing, however, when Gilvarin
continued. “Although,” the elf remarked slyly, “If
I didn’t know any better… I’d say she was sweet on
you Mal.”

“What?”
the orc exclaimed, his face heating.

Gilvarin’s
voice practically dripped with impish delight. “Well she never
comes out to visit me, and I’m here all the time.”

“What are you
saying?” Malton could feel his blush reach his ears. Mag’tha,
the elf never missed a chance, did he?

“Come on. You
know it’s true.” Gilvarin shot him a skeptical look.
“Don’t tell me you’d say no. To a body like that?”
The elf made the vague gesture of a woman’s hourglass figure.

He would, actually.
Well, not right away, that is, but eventually. If Jalinde changed her
mind halfway through, he might be able to. But otherwise he’d
say no, like if she wasn’t too serious about it and there was a
good ten yards of distance between them. It wasn’t so much that
he was interested himself (in fact, quite the opposite). With
Summerdrake though, it was more that her indomitable will was so
strong that Malton wouldn’t be surprised if a corpse rose for
her because she but wished it. He paused a moment to ponder that
claim, and then amended it to exclude the Forsaken.

“I think the
wine’s gettin’ to you,” the orc hedged, sliding
away, once again, from that particular topic. He decided to change
the subject before the elf could make more uncomfortable comments.
“Hey, when she said that they’d be running ‘laps
around the lake,’ she didn’t mean…” he
trailed off, meaningfully glancing in the direction of the Quel’Danil
Lake.

Gilvarin scrunched
up his face. “Lake Quel’Danil? Yeah, she meant it.”

“But-,”
Malton fumbled for words. “It’s huge!”

“Well, she
was pretty pissed. I would be too, if I’d found one of my
brothers behaving so poorly.”

The comment nearly
passed him by before its significance hit him like a brick. Malton’s
wide, square jaw dropped. “You mean- Hawk’s her
brother?” he exclaimed. Somehow the orc had just expected
someone with Summerdrake blood to be… well, a lot more
outstanding. Certainly not as mundane and, well, frankly so petty as
the dark-haired elf he’d met today.

Gilvarin just made
another face at him. “Andovin Hawk? Yeah. Youngest one in the
family. Summerdrake was married, you know. For almost two hundred
years.”

“But…”
Malton fumbled, confronted with far too many inquisitive thoughts at
once. Hawk was her little brother? And Summerdrake a name by
marriage? Marriage for two hundred years at that! Sure, the fact that
the elves could live for centuries was common knowledge, but it was
rare that such a long lifetime could be put into perspective as
simply as that. “What do you mean ‘was’ married?”
he asked, finally latching on to the simplest of the questions
burning in his mind.

The elf waved his
hand dismissively. “Oh, I don’t know. It was something
that happened long ago. Before you or I were born, even.”

Which didn’t
really say that much, since Malton had no idea how old the elf was,
but Gilvarin continued as though the numbers were obvious. “My
oldest brother, Auric, was friends with him, I think.”

“You think?”

“Well I
haven’t had much chance to ask him myself, what with him being
on the other side of the Dark Portal for the last twenty years and
all.” Gilvarin shrugged, and Malton mentally slapped himself
for not remembering that. “Anyways, Summerdrake’s
husband disappeared probably…” The elf tapped his lip in
thought. “About a hundred years back. Left a note by their bed
saying that he’d be back soon and that’s it.”

An awkward silence
ensued, but to be fair, it was an surprisingly heavy place to pause a
conversation. Gilvarin uncomfortably tugged at his vest. “Strange
story huh?” His friend shrugged and flashed him half a grin.
“There’re a lot of them, here, in the Hinterlands.”

By the time they
reached Gilvarin’s camp the sky had turned completely purple,
save for a little bit of red still lingering far to the west. Malton
was surprised to see a full load of wood prepared in the firepit
before his friend’s tent.

“Fire
tonight?” he asked. That was unusual. Typically they were saved
for the end.

His friend grinned.
“We don’t have to do everything exactly the same,
Mal.”

The orc just made a
face at him. Gilvarin laughed, and went to go grab his flint, and
some more bottles of liquor, from the tent. Malton, meanwhile, took a
comfortable seat on the long, rough-barked log the two of them had
rolled into camp the year before. The log was huge. And perfect for
sitting. He heard the slap of the tent flap and turned to look at his
elven friend.

Malton groaned when
he saw the bottles Gilvarin had pulled out. “The Revenge?
Already?”

“It’s a
good night for it,” the elf said in a tone that made it clear
he’d accept no opposition. “Which one you want?”

The two bottles
were almost identical. Rounded, green, and full of the sulpherous
Nuzzrim’s Revenge, of which Gilvarin had to be the only
non-ogre consumer. It shipped in huge casks perfect for the massive,
drunken beasts but way too big for anyone else, so Gilvarin usually
just refilled his old booze bottles whenever he went back to town.
Normally Malton wasn’t one to mix drinks either, but anything
could make Revenge taste better. Even dirt.

He squinted. The
bottle on the left looked like it had once been brandy, and the other
like it had maybe once been wine. He pointed. “The one on the
right.”

Instead, Gilvarin
handed him the left. “Too bad. You get this one.”

The orc scowled,
and the moment Gilvarin turned to the fire he switched the two out of
spite. The bottles were similar enough. Once just had more of a neck.
He held it between his legs, because he just knew that if the elf
realized the switch he’d throw a fit. And then get his way
regardless.

The wood was dry.
In less than a minute the flames were leaping pretty high and lit the
entire clearing, which was good because the last sliver of light had
disappeared behind the western mountains. The White Lady was out,
but, try as he might, the orc couldn’t find any sign of Blue
Child. In its place there was only the light of the stars, stretching
out across the sky.

“I was
worried,” Gilvarin said as he plopped down on the log next to
his friend, “That she’d go easy on him, since he’s
so young and family and all, but five times around that lake?”
He shook his head as he pulled the cork out of his bottle. “That’s
just brutal. I ran around it once, and that almost killed me.”

”What? When
was this?” Malton asked, raising his own bottle to his lips.
The absolutely vile taste of Revenge hit his tongue. Sort of
like an old friend, he thought. One made of swamp ooze and dwarf
vomit.

Gilvarin swallowed
his mouthful and waved offhandedly. “Oh, every year, during the
spring, the Rangers will host some athletics. Encouraging the guilds
to donate, kids to join. Civic pride, that kind of stuff.” He
stretched his long legs out towards the fire, one hand idly tugging
at the buttons of his vest. “A lot of it’s archery, but
there’s swimming, forestry competitions,” the elf
smirked, “a drinking contest-” Malton could guess who one
that part- “And a sort of marathon, once around the
lake.” He shrugged. “Sort of an all day thing.”

Huh. The orc stared
into the fire. He hadn’t known that the Lodge was that active
beyond guarding the borders. His mind was about to wander off in that
direction when Gilvarin cleared his throat.

“So, tell me
truthfully now.” The blonde’s gaze was hard and focused.
“What were those two knuckle-dragging trolls doing all the way
out here, looking for you?”

At first Malton
thought he could fob it off. “Oh, I don’t kno-,” he
began, but Gilvarin’s eyes instantly narrowed. The orc
swallowed, and looked at the ground. “They were hassling me at
the border today. Guess they didn’t want to let up.” He
shrugged one shoulder. “It’s really not a big deal. I’ve
been though worse.”

“You’ve
been through worse?” Gilvarin hissed. “Than
someone shooting arrows at you for fun?”

The orc held his
tongue. Anything he said to that would only make matters worse.

“I’m
sorry about all this, Mal.” Gilvarin said quietly, not looking
away from the flames. “Every time you come here they just treat
you like shit.”

Fucking- kodo shit!
The orc swore under his breath. “It doesn’t matter,
‘Varin.,” he growled, but the elf looked unconvinced. “It
really doesn’t matter!” Frustrated, mostly with himself,
the orc roughly rubbed on hand over his jaw as he searched for words.
“Look, fucktards like those I can handle fine. They’re
just bullies. They want a little thrill and it’s over and done
with. Hell, Jalinde took’em to task easily enough.” And
that was putting nicely. He tried putting on a little grin. “I
thought she was going to skin them alive. It’s you I was more
worried about.”

The elf gave him a
sharp look.

He fumbled. “Well
when you get angry like that-” Malton tried, but switched
course halfway. “I mean, you’ve got one hell of an acid
tongue at the best of times, but when it comes to an actual fight…”
The orc’s voice trailed off for a second. Then he nerved
himself. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you killed someone
someday.”

Gilvarin flared
angrily. “So?” he scoffed, “If some little
troll-cunt starts something, I’m going to damn well finish it.”

Malton rested his
elbows on his knees. “It’s still wrong, ‘Varin.”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the man continue to glare until
he huffed and took an angry chug of his drink. For a while, neither
of them spoke.

“I mean it
when I say that I love coming here,” the orc said finally.

The elf’s
voice was cold and flat. “Really? Here.”

“Yes,
really.” Malton paused to search for the right words. “This
is the high point of my year. I love this place.” He waved one
hand at the darkened woods. “The trees, the forests,” he
said, adding, with a rueful grin, “Even the people.”
Somehow that didn’t seem enough, so he continued with, “It’s
nice here, ‘Varin. I…”

He felt it then.
Again. That pull, deep within his soul, to just let dream spill out.
He knew it was what he wanted more than anything else in the
world, and he could just…

But again, like
before, thoughts of failure loomed in his mind’s eye and he
bring himself to speak. “I like it,” he finished, lamely.
Quiet set in, and the two of them sat on their log and stared at the
fire. The night might have ended there, stewing itself in its own
dark thoughts, but for a niggling thought suddenly popping back into
Malton’s head. He almost couldn’t hold his snicker in.

He glanced at his
friend, and decided that he wasn’t above needling the man when
he was down. “Although,” the orc said with a smirk, “I
am kind of wondering why you followed me when I said I had to pee.”

The elf shot him a
withering look that had to be one of the sweetest things Malton had
seen all week. Still, a smile cracked across the man’s face
when he rolled his eyes. “Pfft, don’t get so full of
yourself. Not everyone’s after that third leg of yours, Mal.”
The orc’s face flushed a deep, dark red, but Gilvarin just
shrugged and said, “Call it a hunch.”

“A hunch,”
the orc said flatly.

“Yeah, a
hunch,” Gilvarin repeated, his mouth curving.

Malton huffed, but
let the matter drop. Once the elf decided to keep a secret, an army
wouldn’t be able to pry a word from his tongue. Probably
nothing more than some sort of queer pixie trickery anyways.

A companionable
silence fell between them, though that’s not to say that the
air itself was still. The sky had finally darkened to a full, deep,
twilight black, and the night songbirds were starting to fill the air
with their calls. Between the birds, the chirruping insects, and the
hot crackle and snap of the fire, there was more than enough
background noise for the orc’s thoughts to comfortably drift
off.

Taking a deep swig
of his bottle, Malton couldn’t help but reiterate- to himself,
at least- what he’d said to his friend. The Hinterlands- and
HighVale- was a wondrous place after a lifetime of choking heat in
Stranglethorn and Durotar and the Barrens. Or the internment camps,
he thought with a scowl. His friend didn’t know what a relief
it was to be able to just sit and be by oneself with only one’s
own thoughts for company. Well, to be with one’s thoughts and
not have to worry about being raided by quillboar or attacked by
raptors or sitting on a venomous scorpid. Or even avoiding all those
and simply to die of heatstroke.

He took another
deep sip as he stared into the fire. No, he truly was happier here
than anyplace else in the world. Here, at least, he had a cool breeze
and good booze. A companion that was a better friend than any man
could ever ask for, and then the… the hope, the dream he had
tucked away for his future. In his mind’s eye, the sun came out
again to reveal acres of gorgeous terraced slopes, where blue-black
grapes glistened in the morning light. Just aching to be picked.
Pressed. Fermented…

One of the logs in
the firepit broke, and the whole fire tumbled inward. It sent a
shower of brilliant sparks up into the air that startled the orc from
his thoughts.

“Hey Mal,”
the elf said suddenly, breaking the silence. He met Malton’s
stare for a second before glancing away uncomfortably. “Just so
you know,” he continued, with a shrug of one shoulder, “life
can get tough sometimes-” he paused to take a heavy swig from
the bottle- “but there’re ss-some things you can always
count on.”

Judging by the
elf’s slight slur, the man was drunk already. That was a
surprise. Almost as much as the contemplative note to Gilvarin’s
voice. Malton had never heard the man get philosophically drunk. And
he wasn’t looking forward to this first time either. Drunken
bits wisdom were never as good as they sounded at the time
they got said.

Something must have
shown on his face, because Gilvarin got mad. “I’m
serious! Always!” he said sharply, swatting at him.

The orc held up his
hands quickly, trying not to laugh too hard. “I believe you! I
do!” he squawked when the elf hit him again. Seemingly
mollified, Gilvarin sank back down on his seat, but that didn’t
stop him from shooting the orc a black look. Malton’s amusement
died. The elf had been serious.

He felt like a cad.
He shouldn’t have brushed his friend’s concern aside so
easily. In fact, now that he thought about it, the man was always the
most upset when it was Malton he was trying to protect. It was never
about himself. “What’re they, ‘Varin? What can you
always count on?” he asked softly. When the elf met his gaze,
his silence was so deep and so long that the orc had to lean forward.

Gilvarin took one
of the orc’s hands between his own and looked him dead in the
eye. “Your fingers.”

Malton just
blinked. Then it clicked, and he launched himself at his laughing
friend with all the furious rage his race was known for. “I’m
going to smack you!” he bellowed.

“Hold on,
hold on!” the elf gasped, breathlessly trying to fend off
Malton’s hands. “I got another one!”

“No,
seriously, I’m going to beat your face in!” the orc
snarled, completely unswayed with the elf’s less than tempting
offer. He tried to grab at the man with his left hand while bunching
his right for a swing, but the elf saw it coming and caught his fist
long before it could connect.

“Wait, Mal,
wait!” Gilvarin managed to control his laughter long enough to
grab hold of Malton’s other hand too. He gave him an
unrepentant grin. “Even you’ll like this one, I promise!”

“Haah,”
the orc gruffed in resignation, dropping his arms and settling back
on the log. Inwardly, he rolled his eyes, but figured that since he’d
already played so nicely into his friend’s hands one time
tonight he might as well set himself up for another fall again.
“Alright, what is it?”

The elf’s
blue eyes glittered in the dark. “I bet you,” he started,
with a pause to swallow a burp, “I bet you I can find a place
to sit in this camp where I can sit, but you can’t, no matter
how hard you try.”

“Gah!”
Malton growled, dragging a hand over his broad face as he glared at
the fire. “And you haven’t been quaffing fire protection
pots?”

“No!”
the elf snapped.

“And this
isn’t related to your stupid levitation trick?”

“No! And that
isn’t stupid! It’s the hardest trick in the world to do
without real magic! But if you’re going to be that way you can
just forget it!”

With that the elf
stood and stalked to the end of the log, where he sat down in a hard
and furious manner, making a point the fact that he hadn’t even
bothered to shoot Malton a dagger-glare.

The orc couldn’t
help but feel his lips start to grin. “Hey ‘Varin,”
he called to the elf. He didn’t respond. “Vaaar-rin,”
the orc called again, drawing the man’s name out. “Come
on,” he cajoled, “Stop sulking, I’ll play along
with your stupid bet.”

The elf didn’t
even glance at him. “Twenty gold.”

“What!”
That was the highest start Malton had ever heard!

Gilvarin’s
eyes were fixed on the fire. “Thirty gold.”

“You can’t
just-!”

“Forty gold!”

“Alright,
alright!” the orc yelled, just to get Gilvarin to stop. Forty
gold, that was almost three months wages! Sure, his father was
probably one of the wealthiest orcs in all of Kalimdor, but
that didn’t mean his son was too! Malton ran a hand over his
jaw, too depressed to even try and keep fighting. “Fine,”
he growled, “I bet you forty gold you can’t sit someplace
I can’t!”

The elf turned back
to him with a predatory grin. “Okay,” he chirped. “Sit
here.”

Malton warily eyed
the spot Gilvarin had waved at. Sighing, he stood up and sat down on
the end of the log the elf had been sitting on. “Now here,”
the elf said, sliding over. The orc frowned and sighed again as he
slid one spot closer to the elf.

“Here,”
Gilvarin said again, just as brightly. Malton stared just stared at
the elf with hooded eyes. Mag-tha, why did the man have to stretch it
out like this? Couldn’t he just tell him and get it over
with, like a normal person? His head was already reeling with just
the effort of thinking straight.

But he gave in and
moved over anyways, again. Gilvarin stood up quickly and
gestured to his vacated seat on the end of the log. “Here,
too,” he said. “Still think I’m not going to win?”

Actually, no,
Malton knew quite well that Gilvarin was going to win. He didn’t
care though. All he could think about was the fact that soon he would
be... well, that is, if his luck went well he’d be the happiest
orc in the Old Kingdoms. He glanced up at his friend’s face.
Even silhouetted against the fire Malton could see the contours of a
wide, stupid grin on the elf’s drunken face.

Alright, he
thought, sure. He could play along, just this once. It was only fair,
considering, he supposed. “Pfft, you’re not gonna win
anything, ‘Varin,” the orc said, mustering a growl. “And
your little joke’s gonna be flatter than a human ale.”

A bright peal of
laughter echoed from the blonde’s lips. “Better men than
you have said greater things, orc!” the elf taunted back.
Malton swung lazily at his friend’s knee, but Gilvarin
drunkenly dodged it with a quick step back. Almost into the fire,
much to the orc’s amusement. The elf yelped and hopped forward,
kicking his heat-singed calves. “That’s dangerous,”
the man muttered. “Alright, you ready for this Mal? Ready for
the answer to this great problem that you can’t solve?”

“Yes, yes!
I’m ready!” the orc snapped.

The elf chortled.
“Alright then! Just try sitting here!” Gilvarin
turned dropped his pert butt square into Malton’s lap. “What
do you think Mal? Neat huh?” He looked down at the orc over his
shoulder, his near-perfect butt grinding down on Malton in the worst-
or best- possible way. “You like it?”

He did like it. He
liked it a lot, actually.

“Um…”
This was a surprise. “Yeah,” the orc said, fumbling for
both words and breath. “That’s a, uh,” he wet his
lips, “neat trick, ‘Varin.”

Gilvarin crowed.
“Knew that even you’d like it! Cleverest one I’ve
heard in an age!”

Malton took a while
to respond. “Really?” he finally managed, blinking
rapidly as he struggled to clear his thoughts. He glanced up at
Gilvarin’s drunken grin, his head full of cobwebs and
confusion. “I don’t get it.”

The elf’s
long eyebrows narrowed incredulously. “What? Really? You don’t
get it?” The orc shook his head no, only to have the elf smack
his shoulder. Hard. “You can’t sit down in your own damn
lap Mal!” Gilvarin exclaimed. “By Alar you’re
dense!”

“As a rock,”
Malton breathed, his heart pounding.

Gilvarin laughed at
that and tipped back to take yet another swig from his bottle,
overbalancing and falling backwards into the orc’s broad chest.
Malton swayed, but managed to swing one arm out in time to catch
their combined weight. Awkwardly righting himself with his free arm
clasped around Gilvarin’s stomach, he clenched his gut and
heaved them both back up.

Surprisingly
though, once righted, the elf simply sank deeper into the orc’s
embrace, idly tilting the bottle back for another long sip. Or
perhaps not so surprising, Malton reminded himself. Sometimes he
forgot just how physically affectionate the elf could be. Normally he
wouldn’t think anything of it, but… maybe it’d
been too long since he’d last been with a man. He inhaled
deeply, and inadvertently got the warm scent of ‘Varin’s
skin. Yeah, it had definitely been way too long since he’d last
been with a man.

The bottle stopped
just as it was about to hit Gilvarin’s lips. The elf pulled it
back a little, and then thought the better of it, apparently. He
half-twisted in Malton’s arms, lazily holding pressing the
bottle against the orc’s lips. “Have some.”

His head swimming,
Malton tried to politely tried to demure and turn away, but the elf
was insistent. Wrapping a finger around one of the orc’s short
tusks, Gilvarin titled Malton’s head towards his. “I said
have some,” the elf ordered coolly, though a smile still played
about his lips.

Ideally, he’d
have hedged and tried to fob off, but there was no such luck tonight,
it seemed. Malton eyes were already losing focus from the few sips
he’d had earlier, and tonight, of all nights, was definitely
not a night to pass out.

But on the other
hand, this was probably the drunkest he’d ever seen Gilvarin
since, well, ever, and he had seen the elf get drunk a lot
over the past couple years. The man was damn good at holding his
booze, and loved to show it off. To the point that he often stopped
being able to hold it altogether.

This obvious
affection though was unusual. Gilvarin liked to touch, yeah, but that
was usually a quick tap of the fingers to the arm while talking. Or
an elbow to the ribs, the orc thought darkly. The usual fair was
maybe an arm around the shoulder. Arm bumps, or once in a while, a
hug, if the elf was particularly soused. Certainly not grinning like
a loon and sitting in his lap.

The blood that
pounded in his veins dropped to his crotch and surged back up again.
Perhaps it would be safe to have just one sip.

“Sure, sure,
whatever,” Malton said, rolling his eyes though a nervous
tremor still wound its way through through his gut. Forcing a grin,
he took the bottle from Gilvarin and upended it rather quickly,
thinking that there couldn’t be too much left- at least,
judging from the enthusiasm with which Gilvarin had been swinging it
back all night. Instead, Revenge sloshed heavily into his mouth
before he’d even tilted the bottle halfway and he had to pull
it down quickly or risk it splashing into his nose.

The bottle wasn’t
even close to half gone. He shot Gilvarin a suspicious look but the
elf’s head was simply lolling about on Malton’s shoulder.
After a moment of scrutiny, Gilvarin’s bleary eyes rolled up to
his, and the orc could see the blue orbs struggle to focus.

“What?”
the elf asked, his voice low and thick.

Gilvarin was
gone, though. Malton knew the signs well enough, having been on the
receiving end of Nuzzrum’s Revenge many, many times over the
years himself. Quickest, cheapest way to get oneself shit-faced
drunk, and still wake up the next morning with a clear conscience
about the night before. It was actually one of the brew’s
biggest draws. Of course, the clear conscience was usually
accompanied by one hell of a rough hangover and near total amnesia,
but that was a small price to pay right?

The orc had to
snort. After hitting the bottle as hard as he had, it was no wonder
that ‘Varin was plastered even after so little. “I was
thinking that,” the orc said, pausing to fake a wide yawn, “bed
sure does sound good right about now.”

The blonde’s
long eyebrows bobbed quizzically. “Bed?” he asked, his
forehead creasing. “Oh, yeah, yeah, bed. Yeah, bed.” He
yawned too. “Bed sounds good.”

Malton hefted
Gilvarin and, his thick legs straining, stood up. Gilvarin laughed,
something unusually close to a goofy giggle, and struggled free (to
the orc’s relief). When his feet hit the ground, he took a few
tipsy steps before arcing his hands wide over his head. Then he
promptly tipped over, stumbling two or three feet before he regained
his balance.

Close to giggling
himself, Malton’s face flushed once more when the elf slung
both arms around his shoulders upon return. “Let’s go,”
the elf mumbled, as he simply hung his weight off the orc’s
back, but before Malton even managed to take one step the elf had
tightened his grip and nearly tripped them both over in his attempt
to stop.

“The booze,”
Gilvarin slurred, lazily tugging at the orc to turn around. Heaving a
heavy sigh, Malton bent at the waist to pick it up, awkwardly pulling
half the elf’s weight across his back in the process. It was
then that he saw a second, drained bottle behind the firepit log.
Mag’tha, he thought, no wonder the elf was so far gone. He’d
gone through a whole ‘nother bottle! When had he gotten the
other one though? Malton tried to think back, but his mind kept
blanking.

Probably because he
was still bent over, with a heavy-ass elf on his back. He tried
shaking his shoulders, but Gilvarin refused to let go. Even through
the swing back up after Malton gave in. He hung from the orc’s
shoulders full force, to the point that he simply let his feet drag
across the ground on the way to the tent.

After fumbling for
what seemed like forever with the canvas door, the orc was finally
able to get the damn thing open. Inside, lit by the bright light of
the stars and the moon behind him, lay the exact same room that he’d
visited for the past few years. A small wine stand on the left, a
stand of delicate glassware on the right. A wide, deep chest of
drawers against the opposite wall. Two beds, ‘Varin’s on
the left and his on the right. In the half year since he’d last
been there, nothing had changed. An almost overwhelming sense of déjà
vu struck him then, as just about every memory of all the times he’d
opened this door, piss-drunk and hauling ‘Varin along behind
him suddenly rose up at once.

It was broken by
the feel of long fingers slipping through the neck of his vest and
teasing his pecs. Huffing, the orc slowly turned his head to level a
cool glare at the elf draped over his shoulder.

Gilvarin grinned
stupidly. “Do you mind?” Malton growled, as the elf’s
fingers continued to tease.

“No.”
His reply was remarkably simple.

Malton’s face
turned forward, and he touched his tongue to a tusk in frustration.
He knew that the man was goading him. He could practically feel
‘Varin’s grin getting wider the longer he stewed. He
wouldn’t bend this time. He would not break. Malton
clenched his jaw and ground his teeth together.

The elf’s
hands cupped around his pecs and jerked back and forth, a movement
far too rough and strongly reminiscent of the way cruder men treated
women’s breasts.

He did not
appreciate the elf’s implication. With a growl he whipped
Gilvarin bodily around, overbalancing and landed with a muffled thump
on an almost uncomfortably soft elven mattress- a far cry from the
hammocks he was used to at home. For a moment his head reeled, and it
was all he could do to simply lie there on top of his drunk friend
and not roll off to the floor.

Thinking that his
head had finally righted itself, Malton pushed himself up, only to
immediately sway and collapse once more on top of his drunken friend,
who merely let out a loud huff at his weight, far too gone to even
protest. Warm, soft skin hit his nose when he fell, and the
orc was sorely tempted to drag his cheek all the way across
Gilvarin’s pale throat. He suddenly jerked himself back.

Mag-tha, the elf’s
neck was inviting. Practically begging him to bury his entire face
against the smooth column of flesh. Malton’s mouth parted, and
for a second his tongue almost stretched out past his tusks, a mere
hairsbreadth away from tasting the elf’s pale skin. But then he
caught himself and instead simply let out a long, heavy breath, the
hot air catching cooling, and raising tiny goosebumps along
Gilvarin’s skin.

Ho, not fair,
not fair, Malton cried to himself, painfully aware of the elf’s
hard body trapped beneath him. The orc’s nostrils flared. Drunk
as he was, the added, intoxicating feel of another man’s warm
body pinned beneath his own- the smell of that man’s flesh
hitting his nose, the rubbing of that man’s- of ‘Varin’s
skin against his own- was too much. His thoughts had been practically
swimming through his booze-addled brain before, but now it felt like
they were nothing but water; just as quick, fleeting, and impossible
to catch hold of.

Especially when he
was rubbing the bridge of his nose along the underside of Gilvarin’s
chin. The man mumbled something unintelligible and pulled his head
away, but Malton could hardly pay it any mind. At that moment, there
was nothing but his hands against Gilvarin’s chest, his breath
wafting over the blonde elf’s skin.

He could stop. He
should stop. He would, actually. He just had to… to press his
mouth to Gilvarin’s lips. Feel the elf’s tongue roll
beneath his, slippery and warm and wet and oh so good.

And then, before
the orc could stop himself, he did.

--___---__-__---___--

Yeah, you read that
right. Summerdrake rode her horse straight off a cliff. I just had to
stay somewhat true to the game, right?

*edit* So… I
just realized the real NPC’s name is Gilveradin, not Gilvarin.
Should I change it, and give ‘Varin a new nickname, or no?
- 4
- 5
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Ripple Recovery