Excuse me, do you have a puke-hole?
"Are you Julia?" Diederich asked the woman advancing on the boy.
"Yes," she answered disinterestedly, focused on getting her hands on the boy before he started moving again. The very tip of her longest claw had just touched the boy's shoulder when he zipped straight to Diederich.
"Curses..."
"This is your son?" he asked dazedly, he and the little black-haired boy staring at each other. He shoved a strand of blue hair back over his shoulder jealously.
"Yes."
When Diederich looked too stupid to figure it out, she added, "I adopted him from the orphanage in Shattrath."
"Ohhh," Diederich nodded.
Diederich was shocked speechless when the boy climbed fearlessly into his lap - both because he was a Death Knight and he'd grown unaccustomed to anyone willingly touching him, and because, where he'd been raised, children simply knew better than to touch adults without invitation. He dumped the child back out of his lap quickly, trying to spare him a beating.
"Your mother wants you," he said harshly. "You'd better obey her."
The boy continued to stare at him, wide-eyed, as though the novelty of Diederich speaking had rendered the actual words meaningless.
"You shouldn't jump on people," Julia told the boy, shambling over.
[Mama, is he Forsaken?] the boy asked in Gutterspeak, pointing at Diederich.
"No, he's not Forsaken."
"Does he speak Thalassian?" Diederich asked Julia.
"Ask him yourself, I don't know," Julia said, hovering over the boy protectively.
[Do you speak Thalassian?]
The boy stared even harder. His eyebrows furrowed and it was clear that he either didn't like the question or didn't like the language it was spoken in.
[Do you speak Thalassian?] Diederich repeated, slower.
[No,] the boy grunted in Gutterspeak.
"No, no, speak Orcish," Julia said, tweaking the boy's ear lightly. "Other Blood Elves don't speak Gutterspeak."
The boy whined and rubbed his ear, then shot his mother a very Blood Elf-y scowl, making a very Forsaken noise of irritation.
[It iss okay,] Diederich said in Gutterspeak with his heavy Thalassian accent. Mother and child both stared at him in surprise. [I know a little Gutterrrspeak.]
[See, Mama? He is Forsaken! He's like me!]
"You're not Forsaken," Julia told him, looking fretful.
The boy looked heart-broken at first, but he also looked unsurprised, as though he'd gotten this pointed out to him before. [Can I sit on you?] the boy asked Diederich, bored with being sad and switching topic.
Diederich looked to the boy's mother uncertainly.
"I don't care," she said.
Diederich lifted the boy by his armpits and put him on his lap.
[What iss yourrr name?]
The boy giggled. [You have a silly accent.]
Diederich grunted.
[My name's Bastien. Are you Forsaken?]
[No. Am undead, but am not Forrrsaken.]
[I wanna be like you someday.]
Diederich twitched.
[You're like me, and you're like Mama.]
[You do not want be like. I wass... made? Made bad. Am bad.]
[You're bad?]
[No, Bastien, he's not bad,] Julia corrected Diederich. [What he means is that what was done to him to make him undead was bad.]
Diederich's stomach clenched. He wished more people saw it that way.
[You don't look bad,] Bastien smiled at Diederich, his big green eyes sincere. He then squirmed his arms under Diederich's, wrapped them around his waist, and hugged him.
Diederich stared down at the top of Bastien's head. His first thought was Dear Light Above your hair is tangled (he was who he was after all). But then his mind drifted to thoughts he wanted even less.
How could his father have done the things he did?
This boy was so small. He was trusting. Diederich ran his fingers, frostbitten hard and black, across Bastien's hair. It disturbed Diederich to see it from the other side, to look at what his father must have seen and to know what his father was willing to do to someone like this... to a child. Let alone his own son.
He couldn't even fathom it. He couldn't imagine raising a fist to this boy, and that was among the least harrowing things. Such violence and outright cruelty, when this child could be corrected with a few words and a tweak of his ear.
He thought of the other things his father had done as well, and it occurred to him with a sickened lurch of his stomach that maybe his father just liked it.
He gave the boy an awkward pat on the back and then carefully lifted him off his lap and put him back on his feet.
The Forsaken, infinitely pragmatic and devoid of squeamishness, had practical things like puke pits in their bars.
"Excuse me, do you have a puke-hole?" Diederich asked the bartender.
She pointed.
[So what's your name?] Bastien asked while Diederich emptied his guts. He was as unfazed by vomit as any Forsaken Diederich had ever met.
"Hold my hair back," Diederich groaned.
Bastien gathered up Diederich's ponytail and artfully stray tendrils as he heaved again.
"Yes," she answered disinterestedly, focused on getting her hands on the boy before he started moving again. The very tip of her longest claw had just touched the boy's shoulder when he zipped straight to Diederich.
"Curses..."
"This is your son?" he asked dazedly, he and the little black-haired boy staring at each other. He shoved a strand of blue hair back over his shoulder jealously.
"Yes."
When Diederich looked too stupid to figure it out, she added, "I adopted him from the orphanage in Shattrath."
"Ohhh," Diederich nodded.
Diederich was shocked speechless when the boy climbed fearlessly into his lap - both because he was a Death Knight and he'd grown unaccustomed to anyone willingly touching him, and because, where he'd been raised, children simply knew better than to touch adults without invitation. He dumped the child back out of his lap quickly, trying to spare him a beating.
"Your mother wants you," he said harshly. "You'd better obey her."
The boy continued to stare at him, wide-eyed, as though the novelty of Diederich speaking had rendered the actual words meaningless.
"You shouldn't jump on people," Julia told the boy, shambling over.
[Mama, is he Forsaken?] the boy asked in Gutterspeak, pointing at Diederich.
"No, he's not Forsaken."
"Does he speak Thalassian?" Diederich asked Julia.
"Ask him yourself, I don't know," Julia said, hovering over the boy protectively.
[Do you speak Thalassian?]
The boy stared even harder. His eyebrows furrowed and it was clear that he either didn't like the question or didn't like the language it was spoken in.
[Do you speak Thalassian?] Diederich repeated, slower.
[No,] the boy grunted in Gutterspeak.
"No, no, speak Orcish," Julia said, tweaking the boy's ear lightly. "Other Blood Elves don't speak Gutterspeak."
The boy whined and rubbed his ear, then shot his mother a very Blood Elf-y scowl, making a very Forsaken noise of irritation.
[It iss okay,] Diederich said in Gutterspeak with his heavy Thalassian accent. Mother and child both stared at him in surprise. [I know a little Gutterrrspeak.]
[See, Mama? He is Forsaken! He's like me!]
"You're not Forsaken," Julia told him, looking fretful.
The boy looked heart-broken at first, but he also looked unsurprised, as though he'd gotten this pointed out to him before. [Can I sit on you?] the boy asked Diederich, bored with being sad and switching topic.
Diederich looked to the boy's mother uncertainly.
"I don't care," she said.
Diederich lifted the boy by his armpits and put him on his lap.
[What iss yourrr name?]
The boy giggled. [You have a silly accent.]
Diederich grunted.
[My name's Bastien. Are you Forsaken?]
[No. Am undead, but am not Forrrsaken.]
[I wanna be like you someday.]
Diederich twitched.
[You're like me, and you're like Mama.]
[You do not want be like. I wass... made? Made bad. Am bad.]
[You're bad?]
[No, Bastien, he's not bad,] Julia corrected Diederich. [What he means is that what was done to him to make him undead was bad.]
Diederich's stomach clenched. He wished more people saw it that way.
[You don't look bad,] Bastien smiled at Diederich, his big green eyes sincere. He then squirmed his arms under Diederich's, wrapped them around his waist, and hugged him.
Diederich stared down at the top of Bastien's head. His first thought was Dear Light Above your hair is tangled (he was who he was after all). But then his mind drifted to thoughts he wanted even less.
How could his father have done the things he did?
This boy was so small. He was trusting. Diederich ran his fingers, frostbitten hard and black, across Bastien's hair. It disturbed Diederich to see it from the other side, to look at what his father must have seen and to know what his father was willing to do to someone like this... to a child. Let alone his own son.
He couldn't even fathom it. He couldn't imagine raising a fist to this boy, and that was among the least harrowing things. Such violence and outright cruelty, when this child could be corrected with a few words and a tweak of his ear.
He thought of the other things his father had done as well, and it occurred to him with a sickened lurch of his stomach that maybe his father just liked it.
He gave the boy an awkward pat on the back and then carefully lifted him off his lap and put him back on his feet.
The Forsaken, infinitely pragmatic and devoid of squeamishness, had practical things like puke pits in their bars.
"Excuse me, do you have a puke-hole?" Diederich asked the bartender.
She pointed.
[So what's your name?] Bastien asked while Diederich emptied his guts. He was as unfazed by vomit as any Forsaken Diederich had ever met.
"Hold my hair back," Diederich groaned.
Bastien gathered up Diederich's ponytail and artfully stray tendrils as he heaved again.