Shadows in the Rain

"And that was the moment I decided some lessons were better taught with fists rather than words."

That was today's prompt along with the assignment to write a first-person narrative.  While I won't say this is the most in-depth, first-person narrative I could do, the prompt made me consider some different ideas than the ones I wanted to start off with.  So, this became a Rose story.

Rose is one of my characters in the World of Warcraft.  She's a rogue, and like many rogues, she has her talents.  John and I had been speaking of a way to get Kazio and Rose to meet up with one another (Kazio being one of John's rogue characters), and we'd decided they were probably both in Darkshire.  But that was as far as we'd gotten with it.

At least, that is, until today.

I realize now that I'm done that I forgot to mention some details that, if I were going to edit this further, I'd probably edit in--like how Kazio should be rain-soaked, for instance, or the sound the rain made on the roof, walls, and windows of the inn.  But those are little things that only add to the narrative.  Still, I think they could have added some nuance to the story, and they're something I'll keep in mind for my future writing--and editing.

That said, I hope you enjoy day one of my writing challenge and "Shadows in the Rain".



Shadows in the Rain

They wouldn't listen.  They never did.  Their whole world had turned into one, long nightmare, and no matter what I could have said or done, in their minds I would always be a stranger--an outsider who had come among them seeking knowledge.  Or worse.

There were plenty of stories about necromancers and worgen--shadow-shapers and ghosts of men that terrorized the night.  There were wolves and spiders, pieces of men stitched together to create a horror, and tales of jealousy and greed that ate away at the fabric of moral society.  And I had heard more than my fair share of them while I did my stint for the Watchers and the Concord.

It had been one of those nights where people came in from rain and the cold seeking out the fireplace and a warm glass of mulled wine or maybe some tea.  They gathered together to ward against the creeping shadows and eerie noises that plagued their deepest fears.  And on that night in particular, word had reached town that there were riders up from Karazhan--dark portents for dark times.

The last time there had been dark riders, the worgen had appeared, and the people of Darkshire spoke in hushed groups of what new terror might be on its way.  I heard the various ideas and found myself laughing at more than a few, which is what drew attention to me in the first place--attention I would rather have not had.

When they'd asked me what I was laughing at, I'd tried to invoke a bit of the crazy that seemed to flow in and out of the Scarlet Raven, but the locals weren't buying it.  They'd seen me around often enough, and more than a few had spoken with me of a night.  "Nothing.  Just something I was thinking about." wasn't good enough for Malcolm Harker, and it soon became clear that it wasn't going to be good enough for his friends either.

Malcolm was one of those people that everyone seemed to make excuses for; his parents had left him for dead out in the forest when fleeing from a pack of worgen.  He grew up having watched his parents die.  He'd spent too much time in graveyards and not enough time learning a proper profession.  It was only natural that he'd taken to the life of a soldier after all of that, and perhaps his temper was a bit on the hot side; but no one could really blame him after everything that had happened.

And so no one had.

He'd caused problems more times than I could count--his fists more ready to make amends than his mouth, and I will freely admit that I'd been itching for a fight with him ever since I'd seen him backhand a local woman for sticking up for the worgen down at Raven Hill.

"They're nothing but a bunch of hypocrites!" he snarled.  "Trying to save a bunch of murderers and killers.  Where were they when my parents were hunted down and torn to pieces in front of my very eyes?  Where were they?!"

And that was why, on this night perhaps, I found myself wanting to teach him a lesson--he and the rest of the fear-mongers who gathered to sow seeds of dischord into the air.  Their fears would grow, and in time, anyone seen riding in the dark of night would become a target.  And while I could empathize with their fears, I also knew that those fears could be played upon and manipulated.  And no one, least of all me, wanted another Scarlet Crusade wandering the roads of Duskwood, terrorizing and killing innocents simply because they had the misfortune to be out late one night.

So I stood up from my place near the hearth, drawing upon every ounce of height I could muster and still coming up short.  "Fine," I replied to him and his cronies who stood at the railing of the banister overlooking the rest of the inn from just inside its entrance.  "I was laughing at the ideas you and several others here came up with regarding those riders from Karazhan.  And I was laughing because it's just as likely that they're messengers from Stormwind that were sent to take a report back to the King on the state of affairs at the tower than any evil necromancers stirring up the undead in their wake and sending them out to come and drag you all to your graves."

You know those moments of perfect silence, when you've just said something, and you feel as though you'd been yelling it was so quiet afterward?  That was what it felt like just then--standing there in the midst of the Scarlet Raven, more eyes than just Malcolm's and his friends coming to rest upon me.  I could feel them, boring into the back of my skull, as though they could kill me with those looks.  Of course, it might well have been my imagination running away with me, too.  I'll freely admit that.  But just then--just there--that was how I felt.

And then there was a flurry of voices, all of them decrying the notion that their grandiose ideas about the riders were somehow wrong.  They denied my assertion that it could be anything as mundane as a routine report, and they had reasons to support their theories which they were more than happy to expound upon--whether or not they were the truth.

But it was Malcolm and his friends that held my attention more than the cacophony that had erupted around us.  He was looking at me as though he were really seeing me for the first time.

"You're one of them," he said at last--so quiet I thought only I could hear him.  And then more loudly, "She's one of them!"

"I am not one of them!" I protested, annoyance vying with my aggrieved amusement--knowing that the very idea I'd had only a moment before was coming to fruition.

He was going to turn the inn against me--the whole inn!--and there was nothing I could do to stop it.  Not a damn thing.

Except fight.

Everyone by this point was looking at us, and the hubbub had died down to a low murmur as people began to share with their neighbors about the girl necromancer who had sheltered in their town but was really one of the dark riders from Karazhan.

And then I heard a voice speaking from near the entrance.  I'd seen him before about town--heard the stories the locals told of him.  A noble's son, they said--or a rich merchant's--they were none too clear where the distinction lay these days: he was a duelist, and there was none quicker and more skilled than he with a rapier--both his wit and his sword.  He was a mysterious stranger--an incongruity within the manifold layers of fear and worry that held sway within Darkshire.  And for a moment frustration and gratitude warred within me as Kazio spoke.

"Ladies!  Gentlemen!  Surely we are not so rude as to accuse someone of malefaction without proof!  After all, has not Miss Rose helped you out with several of your problems of late?  And didn't she find little Sarah and bring her back safe that night she'd wandered off and gotten lost in the woods?"

"Maybe she was the one got her lost," a crotchety, old voice sounding like it had been scratched and warped by too many thorns and a pipe of an evening said in the back of the common room.

"Oh, Pate!" said Kazio affably.  "You're always the first to think the worst of your neighbor when your cows go missing, only to find they'd simply wandered into another pasture because you'd forgotten to close your gate."

There was a bit of laughter at his words, though it was subdued--the air still thick with pressure from the peoples' distress born of nightmares that had become realities.

"Figures you'd be a necromancer lover," said Malcolm into the tense silence.

But Kazio just smiled that cock-sure smile of his, laughter caught in his words.  "Necromancer lover?  Really?"  He eyed Malcolm with amusement.  "Is that the best you can do?"

I had hoped Kazio's appearance might forestall the inevitable fight, but I could see now that it was not to be.  Still, he had managed to turn their attention away from me, for which I was grateful.  And I could have snuck out, then and there, left him to whatever fate awaited him and found solace in the rain outside for a short while until the excitement had died down.  I could have....

...but I didn't.

"Isn't that enough?" Malcolm was saying, clearly flustered by this unflappable approach the man behind him was taking.

Kazio threw his head back and laughed, as though the idea were ludicrous, and I have to admit, the way he laughed, it really did seem so.  And I could tell that people within the inn were beginning to think so, as well--that tension that had held the inn in its vise-like grip beginning to ease.  I could see that Malcolm and his friends weren't going to be put at ease so easily, however, their hands all ready moving toward their weapons.

Whatever else I owed that stranger, he didn't deserve a knife in the gut for trying to protect me from a bunch of idiots.

With his gaze set on Kazio, I knew he'd never suspect what I intended to do.  "Hey, Malcolm," I called out as Kazio's laughter began to fade.

As he turned to face me, I lept up onto the railing, my fist all ready pulled back and ready to go.

I can't say he never saw it coming, because he saw it all right--right as it smacked into that smug look of his and caught him with just enough force to send him sprawling backward and onto his arse.

The next few moments were a blur of motion as Malcolm's friends sought to retaliate. I flipped back onto my feet just in time to avoid a punch that would have caught me in the face.  But then I and the other inn-goers watched in what I can only imagine was stupefied awe as Kazio took on Malcolm's three friends alone.

It was like watching a dance that had partners trying to kill one another instead of enjoying one another's company, and while it might not have been evident to others, I could tell that Kazio had taken the lead--maneuvering each of them as skillfully as if they'd been a party to his song and dance.  He didn't get away unscathed, of course, but no one ever really does in a dance anyhow.  When it was finished though, Malcolm's three friends lay sprawled on the ground around him cradling knees, or groins, or faces.

There was no applause.  I felt like there ought to have been after all that, but the inn had fallen to a deathly hush.  And after a moment, there was movement as people went to look after Malcolm and his lot leaving Kazio and I to ourselves.  But he only glanced at me, giving me one of his brief, self-assured smiles and a wink before turning to head toward the bar, calling out to the man behind it by name.

He'd ordered a round for everyone at the inn--myself included, but I wasn't really in the mood to celebrate whatever small victory we'd won.

Malcolm wasn't the sort to forgive those who had hurt him, and I knew that one night soon, he'd come for me--me and Kazio.  And no amount of goodwill would save us then.