We All Share These Mornings
The faded sun was filtered through dirty, weathered panes and dust floating between the pale oak pews. A single priestess was tending the glowing memorial and its hundred or so candles. She was Raoul Wheaton's only company in the early hours at this chapel.
Soon enough, he imagined his fiancee would come and join him in prayer, but he had not disturbed her sleep just so they could come together.
He clasped his hands together and bowed his head. Distinctly, he felt the uneven wooden panels beneath him digging into his knees, but he didn't even shift to relieve the pressure. So much he wanted to capture the balance and force of will that the Church promoted. Pushing through this insignificant discomfort seemed like an all-important test of his self-discipline. He would not move.
Cold air crept between his skin and his thin clothes. Rather than warming him, the cotton actually seemed to trap the cold air there where he could not avoid it. His shivers and goosebumps were so disappointing.
Eventually he did find some detachment from these inconveniences. His mind went inward, away from the groaning wood and flickering shadows that fell just short of foggy windows. The memorial for the missing and recovered mages became an out-of-focus pillar of blinking yellow and orange dots in his peripheral vision. Only the distracting pain in his knees kept him from floating away completely into his spirituality.
Outside the window, a tawny worgen with face paint snorted against the glass before turning away. Juma didn't think much of the praying young man, and this was one of their better days. He had to crouch so that his hulking shoulders would fit between the low tree branches and the chapel's side.
The branches scratched at his quiver and crossbow anyway, their little black fingers trying to catch on chainmail or fur. Rough twigs and sharp edged leaves were much different than the dewy grass under his long feet. Each toe and claw sank into the cold, soft dirt, leaving brown fur against the contrasting green grass and the black earth.
Dog, a brown fox colored similarly to his master, hopped around excitedly. His ink-dipped paws and legs stomped on the ground, trying to convey some unnecessary urgency. Everything was exciting to Dog. Even these calm mornings that settled Juma's more disquieting thoughts.
Once he was past the tree, he straightened up again. Whatever the world deigned to think of him, he'd changed since that near death experience. The Curse, months of training, and re-found faith had all worked in tandem to make him a stronger man than before. A beast even.
The discipline to resist necromancy and the fel was not enough to redeem a man, especially one who had sinned as gravely as he had. If redemption was even possible for a creature like him, it was to be found in proactive good, not merely a cessation of evil. That was why he would be leaving the city again.
Unlike certain other religious young men, Juma was not content to sit and pray in isolation. Maybe Dog was a more exaggerated symbol of that eagerness, but that was unlikely. In truth, Dog was probably just an energetic animal. He patted Dog's head before tearing into the daybreak over Dalaran.
Birds scattered from trees on the church grounds.
Among the fly of feathers, a purple skinned night elf crouched in the branches. Blackbird watched the worgen leave before climbing higher gracefully. Her raven black sari flashed at the right angles, as did the many baubles and trinkets hanging from her long hair. A glittering moon crescent circlet trembling on her forehead was just another sign that should have given her away.
But the chiming sounds and sparkling metals went unnoticed because they were subdued compared to the rest of the city. Even the loudest shouts were nothing but background din when a city was bustling, a neon sign just another splash of color to disorient the eye. Such delicate clinking and modest pearly whites were little more than whispers here.
She lamented this in a way, but mostly she was grateful for it. By the time she reached the highest branch that could still support her weight, she glimpsed the lightly flapping bandages of her companion. Standing on a balcony three buildings over, an exotic ethereal waited patiently. Zaraxis was a master at waiting, far more than she was anyway, and that was another thing she lamented.
Rather than disrespecting the Church by walking across the chapel roof uninvited - a respect not to be mistaken for faith - she leaped into the empty air. Elegant arms and legs shifted to wide stormcrow wings and sharp grey talons. Unlike her wild 'brethren', no feathers fell from her beating wings as she soared across to her friend.
With any luck, he would have a Stormwind apple to treat her with.
The day was already going strong in Stormwind City. Its noble gold beams cut through the curtains like swords of holy Light, piercing the stubborn darkness of Tristand Goldreche's room. His long black hair was mussed and veiled much of his face, or rather veiled the folded arms that he was burying his face into.
In his sleep he'd twisted on to his stomach and failed to get comfortable. Waking did not change this. With all the disdain of a disturbed cat, he scrounged for the pillow that had been pushed up to the headboard. He pulled it closer and hugged it to his face instinctively.
The soft beige, chocolate, and red-striped quilting smelled clean and it pleased him enough to strain his feet in lazy stretches. Pleasing, yes, but it could not console him. It did not change all that had been suffered by the world and all that remained to be endured.
Just as he was beginning to sink into a procrastinating pit of pseudo-philosophy and regret, he scrambled on to his side and leaned up on his elbow. He looked shocked at the daytime, flustered and surely late for something. He had no appointments- did he? No, no, he didn't. Nowhere to be. But he couldn't be sure.
His concept of time was slipping.
He was up and fully dressed with a room fit for inspection before the bed even lost his body warmth.
Part of him sincerely felt like someone would be here any minute to judge him.
No one ever came.