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late-to-the-fandom · 1 year

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In which Renathal's quest to learn more about the Maw Walker is almost as difficult and time consuming as the quest after which this story is named. Rated T for brief, inexplicit mentions of death, violence, and non-graphic sexual tension.

Takes place shortly after "A Spilled Tea", before Denathrius' imprisonment.

"Are you quite comfortable?" asked Renathal, with the sort of razor-edged politeness that would have cut another Venthyr’s sense of self-importance to ribbons.

The mortal across the table from him, however, merely shivered, taking care the motion did not disarrange his long, well-coiffed blond hair.

“Hardly. It’s freezing,” he berated the Dark Prince. “And you’d think with the number of candles in here you might actually be able to see something.”

Renathal’s eyes fluttered briefly closed. His well of inner patience was deep, but not infinite, and it had been centuries since anything had tested its limits like his on-going quest to discover more about the Maw Walker.

To add insult to inconvenience, it should have been a straightforward task. Any other time in Renathal's existence, he could have consulted the Curator, or the Master's private library. The Master himself would probably have known much about the Maw Walker's people offhand. But both the Curator's memory and her archives were ruined, and Denathrius and his library were no longer at the Prince's disposal. Still, with the surfeit of mortals currently residing in the Shadowlands, Renathal had expected little difficulty in locating another of the Maw Walker's kind to interrogate.

Recent events had illuminated the intriguing possibility that the Maw Walker might not be averse to negotiating new, more intimate, terms to their friendship. It was a tantalising prospect, though one fraught with difficulties, and while none were insurmountable, Renathal thought it prudent to collect more information on her before deciding how best to proceed. Besides, his curiousity had been salivating for some time for further details of the rebellion she had mentioned in passing but refused to fully explain.

He had sent Draven to Oribos with the task of retrieving a less recalcitrant Nightborne, but the mortal the General returned with bore only the barest resemblance to the Maw Walker. A shorter, paler elf with long, blond hair and small, green eyes, he introduced himself as a Sin'Dorei. But Blood Elf was the translation, and the term most familiar to Renathal. There were more than a few of those souls in Revendreth.

"What sort of information are you looking for?" asked the elf, adjusting himself in his chair with a long-suffering implicative of a cushion filled with nails.

"I would like the history of the Maw Walker and her people," said Renathal, ignoring the elf's show of discomfort. "And please, spare no detail."

The Sin'Dorei raised a long, blond eyebrow.

"I do have another job, you know."

But he gave Renathal an hour.

In that time, the Prince of Revendreth learned a great deal about the history of the elves of Azeroth; their descent from one race called the Highborne, and how its splintered factions became the variety of elves their world now contained. Despite his protest of busyness, the Sin'Dorei recounted many tangential tales of his own people, but his font of garrulous knowledge dried up considerably when Renathal pressed for more about the Shal'Dorei, or Nightborne. Except, this elf called them something different.

"Why do you refer to them as, Nightfallen?"

The Sin'Dorei's eye roll was the very picture of elegant disdain that, on anyone else, Renathal could not have helped but admire.

"Well, I shouldn't really, anymore," said the elf. "I suppose they're all the same now. But the ones who rebelled called themselves 'The Nightfallen' and, you know, old habits." He shrugged, and made it look like a move in a dance. "I suppose they called themselves that because they'd fallen from their once grand place in the world. Suramar City used to boast itself as the 'jewel of the Night Elf kingdom'." He wiggled his fingers skeptically. "Not hard since the majority of them live in trees but it's nothing compared to Silvermoon."

The elf paused to allow himself a well-tailored smirk, and Renathal blinked at him drily. He very much doubted either mortal city held a candle to the eternal beauty of Revendreth.

"And now, it's as much a ruin as this place," continued the elf blithely, eyes wandering the room in distaste. "Or so I hear, I've never been personally. But Lor'Themar, our Lord Regent, has been excessively generous in his assistance to the First Arcanist. He sent quite a few from Silvermoon to help them secure their city."

"The First Arcanist ... that would be the Nightborne ruler?" prompted Renathal, steering the discussion back to relevant waters.

"She is for the present. I don't know what their permanent plan is. They're historically led by some sort of coalition of noble houses. And the Grand Magistrix, but you know.” The elf shifted fractiously in his seat. “Are we nearly through? This chair was clearly not designed for beings with proper nerve endings.”

Venthyr did not require air to exist. Renathal's deep, rattling inhale was entirely affectation; a subtle warning to the mortal before him that he was rapidly losing patience.

"It is safe to assume," he said crisply, disregarding the elf's complaint. "That the ephemeral histories of one minor race on one small world are predominately unknown to those of us who have spent our existences blissfully unburdened by such quaint mortal affairs."

It took a moment for the elf to grasp this scathing pronouncement. When he had, he rolled his eyes once more, though this time it was accompanied by a blotchy, unflattering flush.

"The Grand Magistrix Elisande was the Nightborne's de facto ruler for something close on 10,000 years. Before she made a deal with the Burning Legion and let demons infest their city."

Renathal straightened in his chair. At last, they were getting somewhere.

"Anyone who disagreed with her was cast out and lost access to the Nightwell, their source of power. The First Arcanist was one of those, I assume the champion was as well. They put a stop to Elisande eventually, but they're still purging the Legion from the land." He shook his head. "Really, they ought to have dealt with her much sooner. When we discovered what Sunstrider was-"

The elf's editorial comments drifted to the background of Renathal's thoughts. He leaned on the arm of his chair, stroking the hair on his chin absently, as he compared this new information to the cryptic hints the Maw Walker had dropped. He supposed this Grand Magistrix was who she had meant by “her people's Denathrius", and he assumed her rebellion of subjective success was what the Sin'Dorei called "The Nightfallen". But nothing the elf said so far accounted for why the Maw Walker would not speak of it. Unless...

"The rest of the Nightfallen. Were they destroyed?" asked Renathal, interrupting the Sin'Dorei's diatribe.

"What? No, of course not. Not all of them," he said exasperatedly. "I mean, I'm sure many were killed by the Legion, but there's plenty left. Haven't I already said Lor'Themar sent them aid? Really, if you're not even paying attention -"

But the Dark Prince of Revendreth had finally had enough, and his title, unlike his breathing, was not an affectation.

He leaned slowly forward, claws clicking menacingly against the table, and his expression would have cowed even the most hardened of Venthyr. As for the mortal opposite, he looked as though he might faint; his pale face registered a wholly inelegant terror. And the only reason he was not reduced to a gibbering puddle of penitence was Renathal’s determination to extract every bit of information he could.

"And the Maw Walker’s family? What became of them?” Renathal said into the chill silence.

"Dead, I think. She let slip something about a dead sister once, but I don’t know any details." The Sin'Dorei’s voice quavered with the dregs of fear. "Besides the fact that she's virtually indestructible, nobody knows very much about her."

Renathal's burning amber eyes narrowed dangerously.

"You told General Draven you were her friend.”

"I said I knew her, and I do!" cried the Sin'Dorei, cowering in his chair. "I followed her around in Zuldazar, and we fought together a few times but you have to understand - the Champion doesn't have friends! Not really. Even her own First Arcanist doesn't talk to her. Or about her. I don't know anybody who does. And she does not like to be asked questions."

This time, there was no artifice in the Sin'Dorei's shiver. He looked a great deal less glamorous with his pinched face discoloured by fear, and Renathal allowed his own features to soften enough so the mortal would not ruin the chair's upholstery.

“Very well,” he said, and for the first time since their introduction, granted the elf a small, smug smile.

In fact, though it would not do to show it, Renathal felt almost excessively cheerful. The idea that this mortal - and his careful good looks - enjoyed a much lower standing with the Maw Walker than Renathal himself set him in such high spirits he could not even be disappointed the elf had nothing else useful to offer. He produced a sincere thank-you and a more than civil farewell before allowing the elf to gather what remained of his dignity and scuttle from the room. With the door safely shut behind the Sin'Dorei, Renathal gave his smirk free reign of his face.

She doesn't have friends, the elf had said, but had the Maw Walker not called Renathal just that at last week's Ember Court rehearsal? A different kind of friends, he remembered her thrilling words perfectly, and he leaned back in his chair and basked in the warmth of his immoderate pride. He had not learned all he wanted, but this proof the Maw Walker preferred him to her mortal acquaintances made the time spent more than worthwhile.

And - he steepled his fingers in front of him - it was not as though he had learned nothing. True, he had as many questions now as when the interview began - such as why the Maw Walker was here at all instead of aiding her own city’s restoration efforts - but he also had a greater grasp on Nightborne history, which could make it easier to coax the details he still lacked from the Maw Walker herself.

Renathal’s jovial self-satisfaction lingered through the rest of that day and into the next, insulating him from the disaster that was the first official Ember Court.

Reflecting on it as he scanned the now-empty courtyard for his co-host, Renathal was hard pressed to decide which part had been worst: the Maw Walker's spectacular failure at the Ritual of Atonement that elicited actual boos from the socialites in the crowd; some debacle with the dredgers Renathal had not personally witnessed but which resulted in the shattering of Theotar's favourite tea set; or the manifestations of sin erupting from the court's meagre anima font and assailing the precious few nobles who had consented to attend. The Prince had closed the court with his humblest apologies for the various mishaps, and assured their guest of honour - Cryptkeeper Kassir - that next week's would be a much more traditional affair.

Certainly an inauspicious inauguration, and yet … a smile teased Renathal's fangs as he spotted the Maw Walker's purple gown at the top of the rampart stairs. Apart from her belligerent argument with the Accuser over the appropriate atonements for sin, none of the incidents had really been her fault. And besides, he thought cheerfully as he crossed the courtyard, it was nice watching someone else fail for a change.

The Maw Walker was perched on the highest step, back ramrod straight and eyes tightly shut. If it were not for the slight breeze lifting loose tendrils of her high-piled hair, she might have been a statue carved from purple-hued stone. Renathal walked, rather than glided, up the steep staircase, letting the precise thud of his plate armour boots herald his approach. But the Maw Walker's eyes remained closed even when he stepped across her, carefully placing the items he carried on the nearest iron baluster.

"It could have been worse," he said by way of greeting as he set to work preparing his after-court gift.

A vague hum was Renathal's only indication the Maw Walker heard him until the pop of the cork from the bottle made her eyes snap open.

"It was only your first official foray," he continued, pouring a generous measure of anima wine into the two long-stemmed glasses. " I assure you, they do get easier. And Kassir is fortunately forgiving. He has already promised to return next week. So, we will have another opportunity."

He bent to offer a glass to the still-seated Maw Walker who regarded it steadily for a moment before, at last, accepting.

"To your first true court experience," said Renathal wryly, clinking his glass against hers.

He straightened and lifted his glass to his lips, then lowered it when he noticed the Maw Walker staring blankly at her own. Admittedly, it was the wrong sort of glass for this wine, but the best Renathal's dredger contacts had been able to purloin. He wondered if the Maw Walker - a self-proclaimed connoisseur - was particular about such things. But before he could inquire, she gave what was, for her, a dramatic sigh.

"I've been hosting courts much like this for thousands of years, your Highness," she said. "I'm afraid I’ve always been a bit disappointing."

Thus unburdened, she drained the glass in one, then held it out to Renathal again. He eyed it hesitantly, unsure if he ought to refill it or take it away.

"These sorts of affairs were a regular pastime at home," the Maw Walker added.

Renathal hastened to pour her more wine.

"Suramar, you mean," he said tonelessly, scrubbing his voice of any trace excitement.

"Mm," the Maw Walker hummed her agreement, sipping her second glass more sedately. "Political parties and courts ... impressing guests ... forging alliances over drinks. It's strange ... " She cast somewhat unfocused eyes on the courtyard below before continuing thoughtfully, "Running all the way to a different plane of reality just to find the same things you had at home."

Renathal took a short sip of his own wine, but tasted only the triumph of being granted the perfect opening.

"It is true," he said, after swallowing. "There are many similarities between our respective realms."

"What do you mean?"

The Maw Walker's voice had shed some of its dreamy quality, but Renathal, eager to flaunt his new knowledge, chose to overlook this.

"Well, the parallels between the Master and your Grand Magistrix speak for themselves," he said, taking his time with each word as if only now considering them. "Rulers who have betrayed their realms to an enemy in exchange for power. In Denathrius' case, the Jailer, and in Elisande's, the Burning Legion. And, of course, the Nightfallen rebellion has much in common with our work here in Sinfall."

He chanced a glance at the step below him. The Maw Walker was openly staring. Shock radiated off her like a wave of her arcane magic, and Renathal used his half-full glass to cover the smirk he could not quite contain.

"How do you know all this?" she asked in wary wonder.

Renathal, who had absolutely no intention of ever admitting the lengths to which he had gone to gain this information, merely arched an eyebrow and gave a shrug the Sin'Dorei would have envied.

"This is not Bastion, where souls are divested of their memories. Those who arrive in Revendreth bring many stories, their own and others. And I have always been a passionate collector of such tales."

The Maw Walker's eyes narrowed, and Renathal cast about for a decent distraction before she could pick apart his non-answer.

"Of course, stories lack pictures, but from what I understand, Suramar City was once nearly as handsome as Revendreth."

He was taken aback at how well this rudimentary tactic worked.

"Nearly as handsome?” the Maw Walker repeated, the growing shrewdness in her face abruptly vanishing. "Suramar City at the height of its power was the jewel of all Azeroth. Truly, there is nowhere that compares.”

Renathal sniffed, and took another sip of wine. "Quite," was his only reply, but its dubiousness did not go unnoticed.

"I am not sure you could be considered a qualified judge, your Highness, having never left the Shadowlands," said the Maw Walker loftily. "I have been to many, many worlds now and have yet to see anywhere more beautiful than Suramar City before its fall. It was..." Her mouth hung open, waiting for the right word to appear. But language ultimately failed her, and she shook her head. "Beyond description."

Biting back the argument unlikely to vouchsafe him more answers, Renathal dipped his head and agreed, "I am sure it was considered very beautiful among mortal cities."

It was the closest he could come to concession, but apparently it would not do.

The Maw Walker's glass rattled as she abandoned it on the stone step and finally stood, squaring against the Dark Prince with uncharacteristic vim. He gave no ground; indeed, the spark in her blue-white eyes - not to speak of her body's sudden close proximity - made anima pump through him pleasantly and his heart affect a faster pace.

She stared at him for several, unblinking seconds, and Renathal could not decide if she was more likely to hit him or kiss him. But the Maw Walker - always full of surprises - chose, instead, a wide and wine-dark smile.

"Would you like to see?" she said in a voice that promised mischief, and before Renathal could fathom her meaning, let alone decide on an answer, the Maw Walker had reached up and touched her fingers to his temple.

The last time she did this - when rescuing him from the Maw - her spell had granted Renathal a unique mental clarity. This time, it dropped a heavy purple veil over all his senses. The wuthering wind and caustic Light of the Ember Ward disappeared, replaced by the soft murmur of running water and a silky, violet twilight. He opened his mouth to ask the Maw Walker what she had done, but a glance at his new surroundings temporarily robbed him of speech.

The entire world was drenched in agnate shades of purple and blue. Renathal's vision swum as his eyes tried to focus; the lack of visible horizon on which to anchor himself made him sway. A city engulfed the skyline on every side, swelling in endless crescendos; it felt as though he was drowning in a sea of enormous, graceful buildings. Except, to call them buildings was uncharitable, almost indecent - they looked birthed, rather than made, crafted through some more elegant magic than Revendreth's steel and muck-made mortar. He craned his neck to follow their silhouettes where they surrendered to a glittering indigo sky.

"Welcome to Suramar, Prince Renathal."

The Maw Walker's voice broke through Renathal's trance.

“How is ... what did ...” he stuttered incoherently, his brain stumbling through the deluge of sensations, but the Maw Walker - as was often the case - understood his concern without words.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t kidnapped you," she said in mild amusement. "This is just an illusion. We’re still standing on the ramparts. So be careful where you step."

Her warning recalled Renathal’s sluggish mind back to his body. He became aware of his slack jaw, his loose grip on his half-forgotten glass.

“So… what do you think?” the Maw Walker asked with ill-concealed smugness.

Renathal brought his wine to his lips and swallowed thoughtlessly, buying himself more time to craft the admission she was certainly owed.

"You ... did not exaggerate,” he said finally.

The Maw Walker's laugh lacked condescension. It was a free, light-hearted sound, happier than any Renathal had yet heard, and her face was bright with a joy that made her look, somehow, younger.

“And you’ve hardly seen anything, your Highness. Come!"

She grabbed his free hand and attempted to drag him forward, but Renathal dug in his heels. Thrown off his axis and scrambling for some semblance of control, he regarded the Maw Walker sternly, an expression only part jest.

"I have asked you to call me Renathal."

The little violet spots on the Maw Walker's cheeks were the same shade as the surrounding twilight. She wet her lips briefly, then conceded, "Very well. Come then, Renathal."

She tugged at his hand, more gently this time, and Renathal allowed her to lead him into the illusion of Suramar City.

Conscious of the ramparts hidden beneath them, the Maw Walker picked a careful path through a courtyard of such splendor even the Master would have been envious. To Renathal's surprise and delight, she turned out to be an effusive guide, all her usual reticence gone as she named and explained Suramar's intricate architectural details. His eyes drifted in and out of focus, struggling to absorb each new wonder, but the longer they wandered, the less Renathal noticed the sights at all - the towering magenta topiaries, the dusk lilies floating in softly glowing pools - and the more his attention fixated on the Maw Walker herself.

Perhaps it was the anima wine or some effect of her own arcane magic, but the visible change it wrought in her usually impassive face was striking. He had noted on many occasions the Maw Walker's various physical attractions, but the carefree smile she wore now - as natural on her face as her nose or eyes - had transformed her into something as exquisitely lovely as the city she clearly adored.

At first, Renathal kept up a suitable dialogue, nodding and querying where appropriate, but this eventually trailed into pensive silence as he drank in the Maw Walker's voice. What must it be like to be talked about with such undisguisable affection, to be thought of in such adulation it leaked into every word someone spoke? His mind conjured mesmerizing fantasies of the Maw Walker saying his name like this, and the thrilling shiver it drew from him caught her eye.

"Where the arcwine is - Oh." She broke off mid-sentence and stopped so abruptly Renathal nearly knocked her down. "I'm ... so sorry, your - Renathal. I - I suppose I've made my point. I'm sure you must be bored. I'll take us back."

Embarrassment marred her earnest beauty, and Renathal could not permit it. He tightened his grip on her hand before she could end her spell and slip away.

“No, not at all! Far from it," he insisted. “This has been a rare delight. I have loved every minute we have shared here, I was ... merely wondering ..."

The Sin'Dorei's warning about the Maw Walker's stance on questions gave Renathal pause. But ... he was a different sort of friend; she had said so herself. Surely such rules did not apply?

As if in encouragement, the Maw Walker's thumb absently stroked the back of his hand, and the intimate gesture infused Renathal with a warm and sanguine confidence.

"Why did you leave Suramar?"

A cloud passed over the Maw Walker's shining face. She blinked it quickly away.

"I am better suited other places," she said, which answered nothing, and Renathal pressed recklessly on.

"Better suited somewhere other than your home? Other than ... here?"

He indicated the magnificence around them with his glass, spilling wine across the illusory marble. It made the Maw Walker laugh, albeit less fully than before, and pluck the cup from Renathal's careless hand.

"Is this your way of saying you no longer need me in Revendreth?"

"Absolutely not."

The low growl in Renathal's words surprised even him, and made the Maw Walker's breath catch sharply. He was suddenly very aware of how little space remained between them. To lean in and taste the wine still lingering on her lips would require no effort at all. But...

His eyes flicked from side to side, vainly attempting to penetrate the rich purple glow of the illusion to the courtyard lurking underneath. It had been empty except for the guards when he had first found the Maw Walker, but he had no idea how long ago that had been ... or who might have ventured out of Sinfall's depths in that time ... or even where exactly in the courtyard they now were.

Renathal inhaled deeply through his nose, a breath necessary only for cooling his heated anima. Reluctantly, he eased himself back a fraction, adding a measure of cautious space between himself and temptation.

"I am certainly not giving you permission to abandon the oath you swore to Revendreth," he said. "But it is evident how much this place means to you. It seems strange for you to have left it."

The Maw Walker's breathing was also measured, and Renathal wondered if their thoughts ran the same tantalising track. But when she spoke, her voice was subdued.

"This is Suramar as I remember it before the Burning Legion," she said. "Nearly everything I loved about it - that made it home - is gone. It is ... not like this anymore."

This time the Maw Walker succeeded in freeing her hand, and she touched Renathal's forehead again.

The noise assailed his senses first, a cacophony of terrified screams and uncanny, eldritch shrieks. Glancing around the same courtyard through which the Maw Walker had escorted him, Renathal watched as demons of various incarnations prowled the once pristine streets. The glowing trees and topiaries were alight with fel green flame, tainting the purples and blues in a jarring, inconsanant glow.

From a strictly aesthetic perspective, the scene was inarguably horrible, but Renathal was less discomfited than he had been upon his first vision of Suramar. Terror was much more his wheelhouse. He watched in professional curiousity as the fel creatures wrought their havoc, and cocked his head in interest at one beast in particular whose horns and hooves and wings were oddly familiar...

Renathal took a half step forward, intending to inspect the illusion, but the Maw Walker's hand suddenly clutched his shoulder, winning his undivided attention. His amber eyes widened as they found her face, more startled by her sickly pallor than any of the surrounding horrors. She leaned closer to him - head bowed, eyes closed - and if Renathal had not known her better he would have said she sought his protection. Which made it all the more fortunate none of the visions could do them harm; the Maw Walker's obvious and uncharacteristic distress had frozen him in place.

Some enormous demon of rock and green flame lumbered around the corner. Its steps made the ground beneath them shake, and the Maw Walker actually shiver. Her hand holding Renathal's wine glass trembled so violently he was sure it would shatter. But it was only when her head hit his chest plate that his trance finally cracked in alarm.

"End this," he said to her. "Now."

It was a command, and though Renathal lacked his medallion, it rang with unbroachable power. Eyes closed, the Maw Walker's fingers crawled up his face; locating his forehead, and pressing hard, and -

- and they were standing on the silent ramparts overlooking the Bridge of Banishment.

Renathal shook his head to clear the dregs of the vision, blinking in the abrupt change of light. The clamor and chaos had left a ringing in his ears, so he felt the Maw Walker's short sigh of relief against his chest more than heard it. Squinting through the Ember Ward's harsh light, he inspected her discreetly. Not that she noticed; her eyes were still squeezed shut, fingers fisting in his shirt. It would wrinkle the material, which was a ridiculous thing to be thinking about, but Renathal's mind was still fumbling to find sure footing in a world where the Maw Walker was afraid.

"I suppose that would be the Burning Legion," he said slowly.

He hoped his voice might break the spell of whatever horrors held her captive. But the Maw Walker only nodded once, another quiet tremor wracking her frame.

Renathal glanced around the ramparts and what he could see of the courtyard below. Apart from a few scattered dredgers, and the Stoneborn guards he knew waited at the gate underneath, there were no witnesses to observe them. With all the gentle, respectful caution he would apply to a skittish sinrunner, Renathal slipped his arms around the Maw Walker's bare shoulders. She didn't move - another surprise - although one considerably more pleasant.

The initial shock of her fear now fading, he found he very much liked being the Maw Walker's source of comfort. Seeing her capable of anything so mundane as fear was as nice a change as watching her fail at the Ember Court. It made the illustrious champion of the Horde seem more real, not to mention what it did for Renathal's ego. In fact, the only thing marring the buoyant experience was his inconveniently irrepressible curiousity.

Even as his fingers stroked soft circles in the Maw Walker's silky gown, his mind was racing, seething to know why such commonplace enemies should upset her. He sifted through the sights the Maw Walker had shown him, searching for something she might have let slip ... Let slip ... the Sin'Dorei had used those same words, and Renathal was struck with an idea.

"Was your sister among those Nightborne killed by the Legion?" he asked, realising his mistake too late.

The Maw Walker stiffened in his arms. She released her hold on Renathal and lifted her head, face fixed in an expressionless mask.

"Did one of Revendreth's souls tell you that as well, your Highness?"

The words were tinged with an unmistakable frost. Renathal scrambled to construct a plausible explanation, a suitable excuse. But he could think of nothing, and the Maw Walker was still staring, and he fell back on his old failsafes: dark humour and charm.

"In a manner of speaking," he said, painting on a wry smile. "I do not believe I specified whether the soul was living or dead. Or ... whether they were condemned to Revendreth or here on some different errand."

The Maw Walker blinked slowly, then turned, still carrying Renathal's wine glass, and walked briskly down the ramparts in the direction of the stairs. Leaving Renathal's heart to plummet miserably as he kicked himself for his misstep. Her uncommon volubility in the illusion had disarmed him, lulled him into a false sense of candor. And now ...

Now, he thought glumly, he had damaged the remarkable friendship they had managed to create, and almost certainly destroyed his budding hopes for more. He would be demoted to the same status as the Sin'Dorei: an acquaintance whose tiresome company the Maw Walker was occasionally forced to endure. And that thought was so unbearable, Renathal forsook his own scrupulous self-regard.

He followed the Maw Walker's path down the ramparts, in something shamefully close to a run, determined to offer an apology she could not reasonably refuse. He had no idea if he was truly sorry, or even what he had to be sorry for, but that was beside the point. The Maw Walker was the refreshing oasis that sustained Renathal in these tumultuous times, and he would shelve his sense of fairness - and his insatiable curiousity - if the alternative was losing her altogether.

His brisk footsteps slowed as he rounded the corner. The Maw Walker was still at the top of the stairs.

She had retrieved her abandoned wine glass and was filling it again, Renathal's own waiting beside it on the iron baluster. When the glass was full - much more than was strictly proper - she emptied the last of the bottle into his. Renathal took this as a sign the Maw Walker would permit his presence, though he walked the rest of the ramparts with a greater degree of caution.

"I'm sorry," she said as he reached her, though she addressed the courtyard below. "I know things are different here. Death ... doesn't seem like such a loss. It's not the end of anything for you, but ... you must understand, it was for me." Wine trickled down the Maw Walker's chin as she gulped down the last of her glass. She brushed it away, fingers hiding her face as she finished, "My sister's death was the end of my life, and I prefer to let it rest in peace."

There was a definite tremor in the Maw Walker's voice, but her hand as she set down her glass and picked up Renathal's was steady.

"I know you have an ... excessive fondness for stories," she said, turning to face Renathal though not meeting his eye. "But mine is disappointing. And I prefer it to be forgotten. I hope you can understand this, and I hope ... we can still be friends."

The Maw Walker held the wine out to Renathal like an offering of peace. Its request was inherent, and he hesitated only a second before acquiescing.

If privacy was the price for her friendship, he would find a way to pay it. He nodded his agreement, accepting the glass with both hands.

"I apologize," he said, and was surprised to find a genuine earnestness tripping his tongue. "I cannot pretend to truly understand, but ... you do not have to explain if it pains you. And ... I am sorry for your sake that circumstances have led you here. Revendreth must seem a very poor replacement for your home and your family."

The Maw Walker blinked, and her sangfroid gently thawed.

"I wouldn't say that," she replied. "Renathal." She added his name in a voice as soft as Suramarian twilight. And while it could not quite be called adoration, it still made Renathal's anima effervesce.

With a final eloquent shudder, the Maw Walker shed the conversation like an ill-fitting coat and leaned back against the balustrade.

"Alright," she said, adopting a business-like air. "Explain to me how atonement works. All these different sins and their punishments, I just - do not understand. How do you decide what sort of punishments make up for the different kinds of crimes?"

Renathal's long-suffering sigh would have made the Sin'Dorei's pale face green with envy, as would the friendly, familiar way he leaned on the balustrade beside the Maw Walker.

"We do not punish in Revendreth," he explained. "We educate."

The next hour found them propped side by side, debating the intricacies of atonement. And while they remained at least a sword's length apart, Renathal genuinely felt no disappointment. It was not exactly how he had hoped the evening would end, but, for the moment, he was smugly content in the knowledge he remained a different sort of friend.

The Maw Walker was not going anywhere. Renathal could wait.

Read Part 21: Mortal Reminders: What are you hiding? | Visit the Masterpost

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