Refuge

It was past noon when she woke to the piercing, corn-yellow, saccharine light of the supposedly glorious sun lancing through poorly drawn drapes. For several hours, it had traveled up her body while she slept, finally forcing her awake when it crawled up to batter her closed eyes with its insistent presence. She awoke, a thumping slowly manifesting in her head, her throat and mouth dry, feeling glued into a single mass. A messy line of clothes and boots measured last night’s path from the door to her bed. The barely furnished bedroom smelled of dust and wine. She had spilled some of it on herself the night before, and had nothing else to wear. Nothing clean.

Twenty minutes later, Liriel left the building, leaving behind the kindly but nevertheless judging eyes of the landlady. With nothing edible in her place, she had **** but to seek somewhere to eat in the city, though, really, she wanted only to be left alone. To lie in the dark, in silence, and wait for her hangover to pass. She felt uncertain about whether she could even eat anything without throwing up, but, at the same time as that uncertainty made itself felt in her upset stomach, it also contorted with hunger. She had ****, and so, she wandered down the reddish-brown stones some ten buildings until she arrived at the eatery.

It had a name, but she purposefully did not remember it. It was not a favored place, but it was the closest place, and its owner was precisely the right level of standoffish for her tastes. Served respectable croissants, and decent tea, and otherwise talked as little as possible.

The place had been the same for many years. Small windows always in need of a wash. Tables and chairs outside chained to hooks set in the external wall, marked and worn by the weather. One thing was new, however. On the wall, next to the door, a sturdy poster had been hung, filled with cursive writing and a few odd-looking symbols. Not Thalassian symbols. Crescent moons, and purple shields, and green and brown from branches and leaves. Kaldorei? She placed herself before it, tired, aching eyes trying to take in the words. What were night elves doing in Silvermoon?

She spared a single glance to the owner, and he seemed to understand his assignment, getting both her customary peach tea and croissant with chocolate flakes on top ready while she tried to study the poster. With the armistice seeming, largely, to hold, a few years having passed, a small delegation of Kaldorei had been dispatched to represent the parent race, as the poster put it, in the form of a newly established embassy in Silvermoon. Understandably, such a place needed workers, and servants. First, though, the seneschal of the embassy sought a local to be her partner, immediate subordinate, someone acting as second in command. A seneschal, major-domo, to those locals who would be brought on at a later date.

Liriel narrowed her eyes, reading the bottom passage of text a second time. The ideal candidate had to be flexible of body and mind, and, crucially, had to either be of the faith of Elune already, or be willing to adopt it as a prerequisite for employment.

An absurd requirement in Quel’thalas. Who would adopt a foreign religion just to get a job – an uncertain one, given the history of broken peace agreements between the Alliance and the Horde. Someone ****, perhaps. Even with these thoughts settling in her, there was still a moment’s mild vertigo as she took in the advertised pay. And the somewhat odd note that, should one be employed by the embassy, the same protection extended to its kaldorei residents would be extended to the employee, too.

Liriel’s eyes lingered on the pay. Two and a half times what she had earned working for the knight, but then, she had not been in a position to command anyone, then. He also had not demanded that she turn to some strange new faith in order to work for him. In the end, she stayed in place and reread the entire poster once more, then scoffed, looking around to see if anyone was nearby who needed more of a demonstration of how uninterested she was and, finding no one, went inside to fork over the few coins asked for her meal. The kaldorei desperately needed someone to tell them that they would get nowhere demanding that their employees take up the faith, and, had her hangover not been quite so thunderous, Liriel might have taken it upon herself to go and tell them. It was too early to begin drinking in earnest, and she had to pass the time somehow.

She passed the time, instead, with lazily people-watching, consuming half the croissant, all the tea, and then several more cups of it. The sun had long ago crested the sky, and begun its slow descent, and really, Liriel thought, she could get used to life like this. Rising to do not much at all, and then amusing herself in the evening and night. Finances disagreed that that was a good long term plan, but at least for a little while, another week, perhaps, she could sustain it.

As the sun kissed the domed roof of a nearby dwelling, opposite where she reclined, she raised her hand to block it and continue to watch those milling past. Her eyes settled on a rather upsetting sight, though – a forsaken. A jawless, undead creature, its tongue hanging down to slather spittle against its decrepit neck. Not hungrily, exactly, but it became clear that its attention was on her. She could not think of anything she might have done to attract its attention, but then, creeps of all sorts needed little encouragement save her mere existence.

Two more, and then another two, joined the first. All of them furtively looking in her direction, here and there. Clearly keeping an eye on her, offering no explanation for their sudden interest. They disrupted the flow of people, too, everyone hurrying past the small gathering. Unpleasant-looking and, when the wind changed so that Liriel could confirm it herself, unpleasant-smelling, they expertly drained the area of people.

“Probably time to go,” she mused to herself, still uncertain of why the group would so care for her. It would be a bad idea to go home, to show them where she lived, so she rose abruptly and went the opposite direction. Into the network of alleyways that made up the seedier district of the grand sin’dorei capital, where she imagined she might be able to disappear. It proved unnecessary, the five forsaken not even bothering to tail her. Soon enough, they were out of sight, and no hint of them betrayed that they might be following out of sight.

Until the powerful and unpleasant scent of rot wafted from an alleyway on her left.

She turned to look, and, in the very moment she did so, understood her mistake. A cold, clammy hand closed on her shoulder. A blade rose to her throat, and, pliant as she imagined anyone so threatened would be, she followed the direction of the hand’s pull. Into the dusky alley, where four dark faces, soon joined by the jawless fifth who had been decoy on the opposite side, stared at her with a mixture of disappointment and expectation.

“Hey,” Liriel said, her voice trembling just so. She fought to keep it steady, but the seemingly emotionless forsaken were not to be trifled with. Horde or not, she knew that pity was unlikely to be her ally, rather that they would have a reason for accosting her so. For capturing her, rather than killing her. Not that she had the faintest idea of why they would be interested, if the encounter was indeed more than simple robbery. Regardless, logic would serve better in dealing with the emotionless husks.

“You worked for the Blood Knight, Astrinoth, yes?”

One of them, purple hood pulled back to reveal empty eye sockets lit up by sickening yellow flames, his skin desiccated, gray and green, asked.

“Yeah,” Liriel said. Her gaze flickered from one, to the next, and the next. “I did. He’s dead.”

“And he died far away. Conveniently. Just before his debts were to be collected,” a second of the forsaken said.

Liriel’s gaze flickered to the jawless one, the one she had seen first, as if that one was somehow more trustworthy, or could be drawn on for aid. Lacking a mouth within which to form recognizable words, it – he – merely nodded.

“So? I was just a servant,” she said. Shifting just so. Not too much. The knife’s edge still lingered terrifyingly close to her throat, and in the darkness of the alley, back against a wall that had once been bleached white, now an ugly mustard from the detritus and leavings of decades, no one would find her any time soon. She would be just another unfortunate, but someone with no real connection. Like so many other sin’dorei, her family had disappeared in the avalanche of the undead that overtook Quel’thalas when Arthas came. With **** a real possibility, their faces rose to the surface of her thoughts, though she **** her attention to the five undead ruffians so as to not make a move or twitch her facial features in a way that might displease them.

“I didn’t even know he had any debts.”

“We have been to his residence. There are no signs of the extravagance his loans should have afforded him, and so, we reason that he instead passed some of it on to his employees. We intend to collect what we can,” the one with the flaming eyes said.

“Or, he… he took it with him? Why would he give anyone working for him gold? More than we agreed upon, anyway.”

“I could bite her fingers off,” one of the ones in the back hissed. It wore rags beneath armor seemingly not cleaned and barely cared for in many years, and its stench, the stench of all five, of mulch and rotting meat and insect droppings, seemed especially strong from that one. “One at a time. One knuckle at a time, until she talks.”

Liriel’s heart seemed to liquefy, melting into the pit of her stomach. A cold, thick soup that weighed her down, from which a paralyzing, tingling feeling spread throughout her every limb.

“Wait! Wait, I… how am I supposed to pay anything if I’m at the medic trying to get my fingers reattached? Think about it. Just, have a few drinks. On me! I’ll gather whatever I can, and we can meet again tomorrow. At the eatery? Same time?”

Very carefully, slowly, she moved one hand down her flank, to her belt, loosening the strap that held her belt pouch cinched up. A considerable part of her rather wobbly finances were within, enough for a few nights of drinking. Or enough for a handful of forsaken not to start taking body parts, she dearly hoped. “Not that I have much. I promise you, sir Astrinoth did not dole out much to his people, even if he was fair and just.”

Yellow-eyes reached into Liriel’s pouch, the movement causing her belt to tug at her, making her adjust her stance to counterbalance it pressure. Not only was the feeling of someone else digging around in her things unpleasant, the feeling of rotting flesh being used to do it made her want to throw up. Throw the thing out, and get a new one. She managed a feeble smile, instead, as if she really was not all that bothered by a forsaken thug taking her money.

“It would be unwise to try to avoid us,” he said.

“I wouldn’t,” Liriel said, a little too quickly. “Where would I go? Silvermoon is all I know. And you don’t tire, do you? Don’t need to eat, or drink? Running isn’t a sound plan.”

The arresting hand removed from her shoulder, blade likewise taken away from her throat and hand withdrawn from her now empty pouch, Liriel flattened herself against the wall and crept along it a few steps. Pushed off of it, backed a few more steps away, watching to see if any of the ill-smelling thugs had any last-minute, murderous ideas, and then turned and speed-walked away. Not back home, not immediately, just away. A grand circle of the city, heart ever pounding in her throat.

She came by a building that had once been the city home of a noble family wiped out in the fall of Quel’thalas, having stood externally maintained but empty for years. Caught glimpses of its transformation, silver crescent moon symbols, freshly shaped and polished, put up on its facade, reflecting light onto the bone-white and earthen red stones paving the street. Still a largely traditional building, roots breaking paving stone near its front, exiting windows and crawling up its exterior to support purple banners nevertheless had begun the process of marking it as alien. The home of kaldorei, now.

Liriel shook her head, having come to a momentary and unintended stop before the embassy, and started again. She zigzagged through streets and alleys, across plazas, through courtyards, to eventually return home to her rented rooms. In there, she had a single, long knife, suitable for cutting choice meat. One she had always imagined she might use on an intruder, though she had no idea how to fight with it. Equally, her wealth, now seriously diminished, might just about cover the next month’s rent if she decided against eating for the next two weeks. And the undead would come for it the next day, and she would have nothing left. Perhaps she could sell her bed?

In the end, the forsaken seemed the types not to be satisfied with taking only what she could easily give them. They would no doubt hound her until she was on the street, and then until she was dead. Unfeeling, merciless, and liable to collect every possible coin, whether it drove her into an early grave or not. With few friends and no allies – she was just a servant, who would fight for her? – there was little she could do but try to flee. Something that was a terrible idea, for all the reasons she had given the decaying undead with the flaming eyes, but nevertheless the only option left to her. With a little luck, the five would focus their efforts on her former colleagues, not caring overmuch if a single target slipped through their fingers.

Liriel wondered where she might go, walking to the window pointing out at the small square that her side of the residential block pointed out at. And, staring into the descending darkness, interrupted by the occasional arcane or living flame, she saw two yellow, flickering spots across the way. A humanoid shape leaning against the white facade of the building opposite, the few passersby giving it a wide berth, its attention raised precisely to her window.

That same fear from earlier, prompted by the knife, found a renewed strength, settling more firmly in her stomach, making her heart pound in her chest as she scrambled back. Had he seen her? Were they watching elsewhere? Why care so much just for her? Could she still flee? Myriad thoughts charged through her mind, bowling over any semblance of logic and coherence, leaving her precious little ability to think. Liriel retreated towards her bed, sinking down to sit on its edge when she felt it against her calves, trying to breathe. To calm herself. Swallowed, gasped for breath, and then swallowed again. Why was she producing so much saliva? Why was she out of breath?

Shaking her head, she raised her fingers to her temples, rubbing circular patterns. Then patted her cheeks, blinked, and stared down at the worn, pinewood planks that made up her floor, as if the dry, long-dead wood might offer her some sort of answer.

It was the wood that lead her thoughts down their fateful path towards the poster and its drawings. The embassy. The demand that employees convert to the faith of Elune, the rather sordid-sounding requirement that those interested in the position be of flexible mind and body. But, more importantly, in the quiet despair of early evening, alone in her rented rooms and with thugs who felt no fear, no pain, no hunger after her and what meager riches she possessed, Liriel’s thoughts went to the final offer on the poster. Not the generous pay, but that of protection. The night elves, she thought, might think that working for them would endanger their employees, but she considered it unlikely. Instead, they might attract people like her – those who could use armed and trained friends, and right quick.

Liriel raised and slowly circled her fingers against her own cheeks, soothing herself. Golden eyes staring ahead, seeing nothing, letting half-formed thoughts ride roughshod over and through her mind, trying to let her subconscious come up with a decision. She could not make it herself, not with reason. It had to be emotion. The right course, which she would then dedicate to. Take her chances with the thugs? Try to flee, whether they watched or not? Or seek some sort of twisted sanctuary in the kaldorei embassy?

She had some idea of what kind of flexibility would be demanded of her, and, in truth, found herself attracted to most of the tall, feral-looking sentinels. Not that she had seen many. A few war prisoners, paraded around over the years. Even then, they had looked almost imperious. Proud, even in defeat. It was difficult to imagine what those not so defeated would look like. Act like. Again, she shook her head, but this time it was to clear it of foggy, mental depictions of strong, purple-skinned bodies, hard eyes, and other, even harder things. The forsaken thugs stood little chance against such images, but she had to deal with what was before her.

Though no clear answer had risen from her subconscious, at least not in the form of a word, Liriel considered the other thoughts enough of an answer. Still clad in her simple, button-up white linen shirt, gray-brown trousers, and boots of a similar color that reached up past her ankles, she was ready for Silvermoon’s warm evening. Gathering the coin that remained to her from their three secret hiding places – beneath the armoire, behind the left cushion of the sofa, and in the depths of the cutlery drawer – she only picked up two things not usually brought with her. A knife, and her identification papers.

So armed, Liriel locked her apartment, uncertain about whether she would see it again, and padded down the stairs. Successfully avoiding the landlady, who was perhaps eating, or sleeping already, she slipped out the building. Looked across the square to still see the two pinpricks of oddly clear yellow flame, and then hurried along.

The circuitous route through back alleys and small streets and courtyards had proved pointless, if at least one of the thugs had found her home anyway. This reasoning backing her, and the thought that they would be unlikely to grab and threaten her in the middle of the larger, paved streets, she stuck to wide spaces. Places patrolled by guards. A slightly longer route, but one that would still lead her to the building she had passed earlier. There was a flutter in her throat, a worry at the back of her mind, though: The question of whether the night elves would let anyone in at so late an hour. Whether they would interview anyone for the position of, what, second seneschal? Major-domo of the locals?

Liriel glanced over her shoulder more than once, and, each time she did so, she upped her speed a little more. Sometimes, she saw nothing. Sometimes, she told herself that she saw two yellow points of light. At times, her nostrils seemed to catch the scent of slow decay. Did she saw the silhouette of a creature without a jaw?

Turning onto the grand boulevard upon which the former noble mansion, now embassy, sat, she abandoned whatever propriety or refinement might be left, and broke into a run. Her ears told her that it had been the right decision, as she heard shuffling and low cursing in the rough language of the Lordaeronian undead behind her. They were closer than she had thought, and faster than she imagined, but not so fast as to catch up to her before she reached the double doors into the embassy.

“Please be open, please be open,” Liriel breathed as she sprinted down the white paving stones, shouldering the doors with a thump. They rocked back and forth, but did not move. With shuddering, panicked fingers, she took a hold of a handle, and tried to pull. Push. The lock clacked, and did not give. The doors were twice her height, and likely weighed considerably more than her, and so she considered bashing one of them down an impossibility. Even so, she threw herself shoulder-first at one of them for a second, and then a third time. Behind her, the shuffling had slowed, and though the forsaken did not laugh, she could sense their pleased sentiment at her predicament.

“Fuck. Fuck.” She pulled and pushed again. Pulled. To no avail. “Fuck.”

Turning, leaning her back against the door that might, she felt, now become the headstone of her early grave, Liriel attempted to flash a winning smile at the slowly encroaching undead. Her lips parted, though she was uncertain of what was going to come out of them. Something that would save her, that would convince the five to go elsewhere, no doubt. Something amazing.

Instead, the lock clicked, at the double doors opened inwards.

Entirely unprepared, Liriel struggled and failed to keep her balance, falling backwards. Not to the floor, but instead awkwardly mashing against the armored flank and strong thigh of some very tall person who had appeared in the doorway as it was opened. Sliding down this unknown being, she ended up on her butt, on the ground, looking up at the five forsaken. Flame-eyes seemed incensed, rather suddenly, instead of the glee she had sensed from him and his companions the moment before. Looking further up, Liriel saw a towering figure. A kaldorei woman. A sentinel, most likely, though, in truth, she knew terribly little of her cousin race. No doubt, they had warriors not called sentinels.

Liriel’s eyes flickered to the long, thick bulge in the sentinel’s trousers. The front of her thigh was armored, but the inner thigh, though **** to attack, was not. If it had been, it would have had to have a very odd, distended shape in order to accommodate the beast that seemed to lie in wait inside. Shaking her head, then, Liriel tore her eyes away. Saw the blue, luminous eyes of the warrior, sharp features, the facial markings of the night elves, though the pattern was impossible to make out from the ground. Blue hair the color of a star-speckled midnight summer sky framed the sentinel’s face.

While Liriel took in her would-be savior, there was a staring match between the forsaken five and the kaldorei. Lips curled back from the sentinel’s teeth, revealing elongated fangs, perfect for latching on. And for tearing flesh. For their part, the undead laid hands on weapons, though they backed away, too.

“Go back inside, knife-ears. We are here for the trash sat outside your door, not you.”

“I’m-- I’m here for the… as, seneschal!” blurted Liriel, shifting a few inches backwards, across the threshold just a few inches. But inside the building, nevertheless. Until the sentinel tossed her out, of course. “The interview. Poster!”

A second, equally impressive figure appeared in the doorway, behind the first sentinel. Teal hair, eyes more white than blue. She laid a hand on Liriel’s shoulder. A strong hand, one that could easily be a threat – a greater threat than the forsaken, even. In that moment, though, it seemed reassuring. Tugged her a few more inches past the threshold.

“The trees will grow tall from feeding upon the mulch that I will churn your bodies into, little corpse,” said the first sentinel. “I care not what your business is with this one. If she is unsuitable, she will be out again in due time. Until then: Begone. I will not ask again.”

Liriel scrabbled further backwards, attention still on the forsaken, and the sentinel in the doorway. A savior figure, though not a willing one. Certainly not one that cared, or she would not have suggested that Liriel might be tossed out to the metaphorical wolves again. Nevertheless, the warrior stood tall, staring down at the suddenly rather pathetic-looking, bent figures outside. When faced with someone their equal, or better, thugs always seemed to crumble. Not that Liriel had had much chance of experiencing such situations first-hand. She was slim, and below average height, and untrained in martial pursuits. Excellent with a ledger, or, in a pinch, with a rolling pin and an oven, but not with claw or blade.

Yellow-eyes backed a few steps away, along with his companions, though his weighty attention settled on Liriel. “We will be waiting,” he said.

The door closed with what Liriel hoped was finality. With what she wished was her last sight of the five unpleasant undead. She wet her lips, then, looking at the inside of the closed door. At the teal-haired sentinel locking it again, who then made her way to the second, interior double door, the rectangular, wide but short room that all three of them now occupied seeming like a sluice. Something to let the fight drain out of guests before they were allowed into the inner sanctum, perhaps. She looked around, her eyes adjusting to the dusky interior. Cleaned, but still run down after a decade and more unused, empty filigree holders for arcane orbs that might shed light, the room instead lit by the light of each elf’s eyes. White, pale blue, and golden.

Liriel took a deep breath, and then stood. Brushed herself off, though she was rather comely and clean, still, physically. Except for the stained shirt. Mentally, she felt her mind to be a still upset ocean, calming after the passing of a storm. Or, perhaps, wind-tossed flotsam, rushing to meet a foreign shore. She turned, tilting her head back to look up at the two sentinels, one standing to either side of the interior double door, looking only occasionally at the surprise guest, interviewee, and otherwise looking ahead at nothing much, eyes half-lidded.

“So, the… interview?” Liriel spoke slowly, so as to try to bridge the gap between Thalassian and Darnassian elven, and then realized that at least one of the two had just spoken Thalassian at the undead.

“The Seneschal will be down shortly. She is aware of your presence,” said the blue-haired sentinel, sparing another look at Liriel.

She nodded, letting her eyes lower. To the floor. Then rise again, to the sentinel’s inner thigh, where there should have been armor. Where, instead, that absurdly thick bulge sat. Truly, the rumors about the kaldorei spoke true.

Not knowing what to do with herself, Liriel tore her eyes from the night elf, settling them on the floor. Gathered her hands before her stomach, fingers entwined, after which she found the courage to look up, to focus on the double doors before her, at the height she imagined a night elf’s head would appear, and then she settled in to wait. Experience had taught her that, in Silvermoon, anyone of any import expressed their significance by making others wait. It was a surprise, then, not a minute later, when the sound of steady steps slowly rose from behind the interior doors, halting just inside. Customarily, she might have waited ten, twenty, thirty minutes.

The double doors opened inward, and another two night elves came into view. One was a sentinel, much like her sisters guarding the entrance room. Perhaps an inch higher, with wing-like, green markings that looked like they had been touched up recently, and dark green, moss-colored hair. Piercing blue eyes, the same kind of near-magical color that Liriel had seen in paintings depicting the cores of icebergs broken in two. Glacial, pure, deeply blue ice. A darkness at its bottom, barely glimpsed. She shook her head, looking to the other kaldorei.

Clad in a white robe draped from her shoulders, cinched at her waist, the dark blue hair of the otherwise pale woman framed a kindly face. Marked with what seemed an endless swirl of a tattoo, a maelstrom of blood red, she nevertheless came off motherly. Understanding. Almost soft, though she, like the rest of her kin, obviously spent time maintaining her physique. Still, the priestess of Elune – that is what she had to be, Liriel reasoned – was not quite the musclebound saber-cat that the sentinels were. Even so, the one who opened the door for her bowed her head, and took half a step back. The twin sentinels guarding the door looked to the priestess and, as one, stepped away from it, turning to face the new arrival, and bowed from the waist before retaking their positions.

Liriel swallowed and, noting slight annoyance, had to look up again. At every single one of the purple and pink-skinned, feral elves. She had no real notion of the priestess’ station, and no inclination to treat her as she might a noble sin’dorei, but it seemed prudent to bow her head, at least, and so she did. How did one address a priestess of Elune? She settled on the simplest, most straightforward option.

“Priestess.”

“What is your name, distant kin?”

Liriel looked at the priestess for a long moment, processing the oddly elongated and slow manner of speaking her language, turning the words in her mind until they fit into the mold of what she was used to.

“Liriel. What is yours?”

The priestess angled her head to the side just so, and, after a second, subtly painted lips creased in a smile. Amused. Was she amused at Liriel merely asking her name? Had she committed some sort of faux pas, unknowingly?

“Iralis, to you, Liriel. But it is customary address me, and my sisters of the temple, as priestess.”

Muted, reminding herself that, at least for that night, her safety depended on the goodwill of these people, Liriel took the feeling that the woman was arrogant and stuffed it somewhere far down into a forgotten corner of her mind. She nodded, and then glanced to the sentinel that had accompanied, but nevertheless shown deference to, the priestess.

“This is Tessalinndr, my Seneschal, and Sentinel Captain. You may call her Tessa,” the priestess said, gesturing with a, for a kaldorei, delicate hand to her right, slightly behind. “You can continue, Tessa. I only wanted to see who it was that drew foes to our door, this night.” The priestess offered another smile to Liriel, adding, before turning and leaving: “Good luck, distant kin. Perhaps we shall see more of one-another. Goddess bless.”

Liriel mumbled something incomprehensible in return, unable to discern what she was supposed to be saying herself, reasoning that none of the elves could, either. A vaguely deferential, agreeable tone. Eyes flickering to the floor, playing unworthy to look at the night elf. In truth, she was rather more interested in looking at the statuesque, glaive-marked seneschal, who so reminded her of the guard that had first let her in. In all possible ways, including the lack of armor at her inner thighs. At last, though, she swallowed and raised her eyes to the piercing blues of the sentinel, breathed in, on the cusp of speaking.

The sentinel raised her right hand to stop the sound, lowering all digits but the index finger, which she brought close to her lips. Seeming entirely serious, she held that position for a few long seconds, then lowered her hand, and gestured with her head towards the dark interior of the building.

“Come. We will find a more private place to speak.”

Without waiting for acknowledgment, the sentinel, seneschal, Tessa, turned and walked, obviously assuming that Liriel would follow along into the dark interior of an unknown building without question. That one night, at least, Tessa was correct, as the blood elf jerked into motion, having to half skip, hurrying to keep up with the great strides that the sentinel seemed to consider normal steps.

“Thanks for taking me in. The forsaken--”

“Deserved far worse than being left outside our door,” Tessa said, seamlessly interrupting Liriel. “We are not taking you in. You are here to apply to be my assistant, are you not? Seneschal of the locals, put another way. Someone who can, given time, deal with them more expertly than we.”

“To hear more about the pos—”

“Naturally,” Tessa said, once more interrupting Liriel.

“...position. And the details,” Liriel said, the shock at being pursued by the undead, at being taken in, at meeting the strange, towering kaldorei, at contemplating whether she was ready to do what it took to earn the position fading. It was easy to imagine all sorts of depravity, given the build and attributes of the sentinels, and what the poster had said. Especially given that she was being taken to a more private place. And the seneschal kept interrupting her, which she had time to find annoying, what with not being in mortal danger anymore. They turned another corner, coming down a dark hallway. Its faded white, now more more ivory walls bore the occasional sign of removed paintings, bleached rectangles interspersed with the superficially cleaned surfaces that nevertheless spoke of long neglect.

“Here,” Tessa said, stopping outside an aged, red door, its paint peeling in crunchy flakes that gathered at its foot.

Sized for a sin’dorei, the night elf had to bow down to fit through the passage after pushing the door open, and, when Liriel looked into the room from the outside, there was an almost comical mismatch between the towering, predator-like elf and the almost shoebox-sized room. Space for a bed, and a table which was, in truth, just a square of wood hung from the wall on two brass chains nailed in place, a stool before it. With no personality and little light from the high-up, flat window, it could pass for a prison cell as much as a home. An interesting place for an interview, at least. Even so, Liriel walked in and, at a look from Tessa, closed the door behind her.

Several seconds passed in silence until the night elf turned her attention back to Liriel. “Why are you here?”

“To interview for the—”

“No. Why did you come here?”

Liriel took a breath, trying to suppress her annoyance at the incessant interruption. Feeling as if she might have been successful in all ways but one. The emotion flared in her golden eyes. “It’s… a longer story, and it’s late.”

“Our kind are nocturnal, as you will have to become if you wish to work for us. I have all night to hear your tale,” Tessa said. She indicated the bed without looking.

Exhaling, Liriel squeezed past the kaldorei, hand grazing the sentinel’s thigh as she did so. Not on purpose, but she got the briefest sense of the powerful muscle there, dormant, but to be awakened upon command. She settled down onto the edge of the bed, then, and sighed once more. Despite the annoyances of the kaldorei, they were, at least, not trying to extort her. Or hurt or kill her.

Over the course of five minutes, Liriel related the story of how she had come to bang on the embassy’s door that night. The **** of her former employer, her few weeks of relative hedonism, and when the undead showed up to haunt her. Entirely unfairly. Who had ever heard of trying to collect debts from someone’s servants? They were mad, and she would have thought them comical if not for the knife that had been held to her throat.

“And I thought of the poster, at the eatery. The… salary. But the protection, more so. I suddenly find myself in need of it, and I think I’d be rather a good fit. For the position. Seneschal of the locals, as it seems it’s to be called.”

“What do you know of our faith?”

“Almost nothing, I’m afraid,” Liriel said.

“How, then, can you know whether you are willing to convert or not? If you care little for faith in general, what assurance do we have that you will care for ours?”

“That’s… reasonable. I’m here to learn. I’m willing to learn. Want to.”

“In exchange for protection.”

“Is that so bad? You’re the ones who offered it in the first place, am I suspect for taking what’s offered?”

“No,” Tessa said. “Not necessarily.”

“So, what now?”

“We proceed with the interview. I must be assured that you possess the fortitude required by all sin’dorei in this house, as well as the skills to oversee the duties of the position of seneschal of the locals,” Tessa said. “That you are capable, persistent, and interested in learning our customs. Our ways. Our faith.”

“How can I assure you?”

“Stand,” Tessa said. “Hands at your side. Do not move, do not speak, unless told to. You understand?”

Almost, Liriel responded verbally. She breathed in, instead, trapping her bottom lip between her teeth, and then nodded. Rose to her feet, let her hands dangle at her side, focusing her attention on the tall kaldorei. It was this moment she had dreaded, and yet been excited for without knowing it. The swirling warmth and cold in her belly made her realize that it was not only anxiety that made her ever so slightly jittery, but curiosity. Desire to know more. This would be the moment at which it would be revealed what, exactly, flexibility of mind and body meant.

Tessa’s fingers were ever so slightly rough against her skin when they made contact. Traced, in a slow, soft movement, along the upper ridge of her pointed, right ear, reaching the tip and hooking behind it, bending it forward. The sentinel leaned to the side, inspecting behind Liriel’s bent ear. The same was repeated with the other side, after which the blood elf felt Tessa’s palm against her forehead, brushing up to move her blonde locks out of the way. Not to take a hold of them, not even to caress, merely to inspect the skin beneath for blemishes.

The kaldorei’s right index finger then moved down, tracing a line along the bridge of her nose, to the tip. Resting there, for a moment. Tessa’s piercing, deep blue eyes examining, appraising, the night elf’s face focused, but otherwise near expressionless. She was evaluating in much the way, Liriel imagined, she might look at a sack of root vegetables. Except, of course, the root vegetables were not about to be candidates for becoming seneschal in the embassy, and so, the scrutiny leveled at them would be considerably less. She exhaled through her nose, trying and failing to hide that her chest rose visibly, just about, with every breath. Without wanting to, she reacted to the sentinel’s touch.

A moment later, Tessa’s finger moved back up to trace along one of Liriel’s brows. Rested there, then slipped downward just a little, the night elf showing supreme control of her movements as she gingerly let her fingertip pass over the blood elf’s eyelid, closed by reflex, until it bumped against her nose once more. That same pattern was repeated on the other side.

“Keep your eyes closed,” Tessa said, her voice stern. Not angry, or annoyed, but expecting to be obeyed.

The kaldorei’s finger slipped downward, meeting the corner of Liriel’s lips. Atop the lower lip, it moved centrally, passing over little bumps and depressions. She needed water. She needed a balm for her lips. They were terribly dry, unsuitable for this sort of examination. Then again, she had not expected something so meticulous, rather expecting that the flexibility of body would amount to sucking someone off in exchange for the position. Then again, that could still happen. The finger pressed in between her lips. Nudged up, and down, until she pulled them back from her teeth.

“Good,” Tessa said. “Open.”

Another breath. A deep inhale, trying to calm herself. The only thing Liriel succeeded in doing was spreading the faint tingles to more areas. Her cheeks, her forearms, her thighs. She opened her mouth entirely. Slowly, at first, pristine, white teeth parting, but continuing until her face screwed up, so wide did she gape. Not particularly impressive for a night elf, perhaps, but certainly enough. For what? For inspection?

Weight against her tongue. A single finger, pushing downwards just so, then moving to the inside of one cheek, the other. The back of the nail meeting the roof of her mouth.

“Close.”

She did so. Slowly, for fear that Tessa’s finger remained in place. A moment later, though, she felt it press against her shirt, turning, depositing the light coating of spittle on her own clothes as were it the most natural thing in the world. Two of the kaldorei’s digits found their place beneath Liriel’s chin, then, tilting her head upwards, exposing her throat.

“Hold there,” Tessa said. And then, a few seconds later: “Turn your head left. Right. Center.”

Once more, Liriel did as she was told. Felt a kind of relief, truth be told, though she knew not where it came from. She had never enjoyed being bossed around, but something about the totally presumptive, natural way in which the sentinel told her what to do bypassed the walls that she had built, and made her comfortable.

“Open, again,” Tessa said.

She did as she was told. Head tilted up, lips parted, she felt two large fingers come to rest atop her tongue, and then a few fateful words. Words she knew, immediately, she would have to reject outright, instantly, or fall into something, some position, state of mind, she had not imagined possible when banging on the embassy doors. Knowing it to be the truth, she still did nothing other than what she was told.

“Relax your throat.”

Those two fingers lifted from her tongue, and she breathed a trembling breath around them as they were pushed further into her maw. One, two knuckles, then the third and final passing into her mouth, the sentinel’s hand smushing up against her face, making her lips strain around the large hand, saliva smearing against the palm as Tessa dug in as far as she easily could. Liriel tried to slowly exhale around the fingers, her brow lowering, nose scrunching, her throat protesting, but not in an explosive fashion. A choked sound emerged from her, and she, without thinking, raised her tongue to meet those two fingers, uncertain of what she was trying to do. Remove them? No. Welcome them? No. Definitely not the latter.

Another moment passed, and then Tessa withdrew her fingers. Once more, she used Liriel’s shirt to thoroughly wipe the spittle off her skin, and, without being able to verbalize or even think why, when she should have been upset, Liriel could not formulate any objection to the practice. It did not feel right, or wrong, she simply had no reaction. It was the natural thing to do, somehow, in a way that needed no explanation.

For what felt like an eternity, they stood there, Liriel keeping her eyes closed and her lips parted, the saliva smeared around her mouth evaporating slowly, cooling her. There was no need to move, to do anything other than remain in place, ready for what the kaldorei next graced her with. In the back of her mind, she recalled that this was still an interview, and that, perhaps, the entire point of it was not just to stand there with her mouth agape, but it was not until twin fingers beneath her chin urged her to close it that she did so.

“You show remarkable mental fortitude, Liriel. Compartmentalization, perhaps. Not all that long ago, those decrepit, rotting corpses chased you through the streets of your home city. You escaped into the house of people who, then, were strangers,” Tessa said, raising a finger to trace, terribly gently, over Liriel’s lower lip. “A house filled with those who are still strangers to you. Taken into the depths of this house, to a small room, for an interview. Subjected to something which even most well-prepared seem to balk at, despite having just feared for your life.”

The night elf’s finger withdrew from Liriel’s lip, but soon enough, she felt a hand cup her cheek, holding her face. Still gently, carefully, in a way she had never expected the large kaldorei capable of.

“We are done for the night. You may rest here. Food and drink, and washcloth and basin will be brought to you, this once. Given time, the seneschal of the locals ought to have underlings who will do this for her, just as she will provide service for the most important of the embassy,” Tessa said. She continued to move one finger, caressing Liriel’s face even as she held one cheek. “Tomorrow, we will continue the interview in a more rigorous fashion. To ensure your mental suitability, and to ensure that you understand and are willing and able to perform what tasks the position requires. Physically, too.”

Not entirely willingly, the breath Liriel had just taken came out with an audible, pining, slightly straining sound at those last two words. Tessa was right, of course. She had fallen into a state of reverie in the presence of the kaldorei, and not one she had thought possible, with the stress of the forsaken and the interview. It had felt natural, rather than a demonstration of what the night elf had praised her for.

“In another life, you might have made a capable warrior. Commander,” Tessa said. “Of course, should you be hired as seneschal, you will still be a leader.”

“Thank… you?”

“Ma’am.”

“What?”

“If nothing else, you may refer to me as ma’am,” Tessa said. “For now.”

“Oh. Of course. Apologies, ma’am.”

“Sit. Make yourself comfortable.”

Liriel did so, sinking down on the edge of the bed. Clean, fresh, but the still decrepit nature of the long-dormant house all around her applied a kind of pressure. Depressing her mind. Made it feel as if she was underground, many thorough rounds of cleaning still needed to remove the musty scent lingering behind everything. She opened her eyes, looking up, and then to the side. Without a sound, somehow, Tessa had moved from before her to the door, where she half-turned and looked back.

“In case it need be made clear, you may request to leave at any time.”

“Of course,” Liriel said, nodding. Adding, then, a second late: “Ma’am.”

“You will learn,” Tessa said. She bent down and passed through the doorway, closed the door, and locked it from the outside.

For the moment, at least, Liriel felt calmer that way. Another barrier between her and the outside world. Between her and the twin yellow flames.