Friday, March 19, 2010

Answers and Ale

Strange music from stranger instruments wafted among the tents. Warm light from lanterns glowed within each tent, silhouetting the revelers on the canvas. Each tent contained a handful of people, many of whom were dancing or drinking in celebration.  There was good cause for celebration: they were one step closer to seeing Arthas dethroned.  Argent Crusaders mingled with adventuring mercenaries and lent the camp the feel of a carnival.  Drunken folk clad in every sort of wartime gear stumbled between tents only long enough to duck excitedly into the next one.  Every time another section of Arthas's guards were routed there was a celebration much like this one.

The open flaps of each tent were invitations even as the sounds of laughter and the smoke from pipes roiled out in equal proportions.  Fulguralis glanced longingly in each one, wanting to join the party, but he had other things on his mind.   Dodging a drunken Dwarf clad heavily in plate armor, he quickened his step towards his destination.

As he past a tent he knew, he stopped for a moment as thoughts of sharing a drink - just one, mind you - grew stronger.  The tent's lone occupant appeared to be rolling around contentedly on a plush rug with a rather large mug of ale nearby.  Fulguralis scowled quizzically. He was pretty sure he recognized the priestly-looking robes, but... No, it couldn't beShe wouldn't be doing that.  Would she?

"Mmmm, it'sh sho shoft!" A familiar voice cried out from the tangle of cloth on the floor.

The Warlock shook his head, walking away quickly.  No, that definitely wasn't who I thought it was.  Definitely not.  Fulguralis drew himself up before the camp's lone, closed up tent.  The person outlined in the light from this tent was apparently settling in for the night.  The Warlock felt his face heat and his pulse quicken as he realized what he was seeing.  The silhouette before him removed a several pieces of armor and set them aside to be oiled.  The light caught her just right for a moment, accentuating all of her feminine curves on the canvas.  His mind momentarily blank, Fulguralis just stared.

Clearing a throat suddenly dry, the Warlock ducked into the tent.  Fuubaar didn't even look up from where she sat on a stool in her white, knee-length nightgown brushing auburn hair that spilled onto her shoulders.  Fulguralis walked over to his wife and put his hands on her shoulders.  She flinched for a moment, as if expecting something else, but then slowly relaxed and continued with the brush.  Fulguralis glanced down at the chest near where her armor sat and was surprised to see her medallion laying in a tangle on the top of it.  She hadn't removed the thing in several weeks.

Quickly yet gently, Fulguralis stood his wife up, hands at her waist, and turned her to face him.  He took care not to even glance in the direction of the medallion lest she snatch it up and hide it as had been her habit of late.  Fulguralis drank deeply of her liquid green eyes as she stared back with a glazed look.  It had been another hard week and she looked exhausted.

"Honey, you should get to bed," Fulguralis urged.

"Huh? Wha-" Fuubaar yawned sleepily, eyes still unfocused.

"Bed, dear.  Sleep.  There," Fulguralis pointed, leading her over to her cot and laying her down.  "Good night."

"But there isn't much ti-," She began, but fell asleep mid-sentence.

For a few minutes, Fulguralis looked down at his wife, sleeping peacefully.  He wasn't normally such a pensive man, but her recent odd behavior had him worried.  In sleep, the haunted look vacated her features, replaced with the smooth beauty that the Warlock had taken for granted before.  He wished he could figure out what was wrong.

A barking laugh from a passerby brought him out of his reverie.  The sounds of ruckus that Fulguralis hadn't realized he'd blocked out came crashing back in.  Laughter and music and drunken singing colored the night air.  Having put his wife to bed, surely he could enjoy a drink or three now.   He gestured at the lantern and the flame died instantly.

On his way out of the tent, Fulguralis paused for a moment at the chest, gazing down at the medallion.  This bauble had something to do with his wife's mental malaise, but how.  He held it up in the darkness, twirling it and attempting to examine it.  It did not seem to be enchanted.  Glancing worriedly at his wife, he pocketed the necklace and quickly left the tent.

Following the laughter, Fulguralis set off in search of answers and ale.

2 comments:

  1. I just wanted to say that I absolutely love the IC Friday's. I stumbled upon you blog when I was looking around for some good Warlock blogs on a Friday and read the post. I thoroughly enjoy your writing especially IC Friday's. I always look forward to Friday's and this writing. Thanks!!

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