(no subject)
I've had a list in my head for a while now:
Isandare hasn't tried to find out if their father is still alive.
And he hasn't told Dora either about his visit to a fellow exile set up locally as a law clerk, to set it down on paper with three witnesses present that I, Isandare Blackwell, being of sound mind and body, hereby leave all the Blackwell possessions to which I am legally entitled to Alia and Ninian Russell, to be kept in trust until they are of age. The thick envelope is sealed with wax and ribbon, and tucked neatly into the bottom of a sturdy oak chest in the Stormwind Bank against the day (Light, let it be a long time coming).
He thinks she knows, anyway.
--
Isandare sighs into his tea when an annoyed kaldorei appears in their doorway, hand firmly set on the shoulder of a certain small Gilnean maid. Dora will not be best pleased when she returns from her work, he thinks, as he stands and fixes her with a stern look. "Ninian. Your room. Now."
And once again, he smiles apologetically and offers tea and applies himself to soothing the ruffled feelings that inevitably rise when said maid leaps out of the shrubbery and accidentally knocks one's packages all across the path with her play-spear, yelling war cries in bastard Darnassian as no gently bred Gilnean should ever do.
Isandare hasn't tried to find out if their father is still alive.
And he hasn't told Dora either about his visit to a fellow exile set up locally as a law clerk, to set it down on paper with three witnesses present that I, Isandare Blackwell, being of sound mind and body, hereby leave all the Blackwell possessions to which I am legally entitled to Alia and Ninian Russell, to be kept in trust until they are of age. The thick envelope is sealed with wax and ribbon, and tucked neatly into the bottom of a sturdy oak chest in the Stormwind Bank against the day (Light, let it be a long time coming).
He thinks she knows, anyway.
--
Isandare sighs into his tea when an annoyed kaldorei appears in their doorway, hand firmly set on the shoulder of a certain small Gilnean maid. Dora will not be best pleased when she returns from her work, he thinks, as he stands and fixes her with a stern look. "Ninian. Your room. Now."
And once again, he smiles apologetically and offers tea and applies himself to soothing the ruffled feelings that inevitably rise when said maid leaps out of the shrubbery and accidentally knocks one's packages all across the path with her play-spear, yelling war cries in bastard Darnassian as no gently bred Gilnean should ever do.