Kharris Dawndancer-Blacksong

Weekly Writing Challenge - Week 9; New Year/Resolutions

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Kharris looked at the blanks. She frowned deep enough that her dimples popped out in both cheeks. She didn't usually do resolutions and she wasn't quite  sure what had taken her to make her start a list.

Her brows pulled down tight over her eyes. She took another drink. Even the smooth bite of the alcohol didn't dislodge the frown. This felt like too much pressure. The future was too far away. Even tomorrow seemed unreasonable to speculate about.

Her ear flickered toward the whirring of something mechanical. Asarel was working on something in the back room. The Barge...

It was a time of year when there was a great whirlwind of activity. She remembered being in Ironforge for it one year; Silvermoon wasn't that festive, but it was still decorated and the air of the holiday was pervasive. Kharris smiled to herself as she placed the small package under the tree she'd put up and decorated with Castien and Ylaise.

She hadn't gone extravagant for gifts for anyone for a few years now. Books, journals, small trinkets, and favorite foods. But time spent with loved ones was lavished and she made sure she savored it. She would make it out to see Keiran, if only for a day or so.

The kitchen at Threadneedle smelled of cookies, candied nuts, breads, and cider. Asarel had consented to wearing the soft, fuzzy pajama...

Her head rested on Asarel's bare chest, her black hair fanning out over the pale skin. He was not sleeping, he still so rarely slept well, but he was resting. His fingers teased slowly through her hair and she was grateful. Her head chased his hand subtly. He knew what she needed, even if neither of them could articulate it.

Two weeks out, nearly, and she finally felt easy breathing. Her heart was calmer again, with no adrenaline spiking through her sleep, no half-heard voice. That part usually only lasted a few days. The nightmares had had come only one night, but were soothed by the warm embrace of her lover. The other dreams had lingered, as they did every year, but the ache was bittersweet and more welcome.

It was just that she...

She lay in bed, comforter pulled up and a book lay across her bent legs. There was a mug of tea on the side table and her free hand tapped an unconscious rhythm on the sheets as she read.  She startled and nearly threw her book--and kicked her cat--when suddenly her feet were attacked by an unrivaled predator.

Kharris laughed lightly and then cooed to soothe Fathing's own irritation at the disappearance of his prey. The cat sauntered up to her, silent and haughty, accepting the soft touches she offered to the big tom. He flopped down next to her heavily. He moved with grace and lithe power, but Kharris frowned to see how much slower he was moving. And, lately, he hadn't leapt directly onto the bed, but first onto the bench, then up to...

Kharris gave Kieran another hug while Coire waited grumpily near the small group of elves. The old direwolf didn't appreciate the disruption of this time of year. Kharris smiled to see the wolf, understand some of his agitation.

She kissed her friend's cheek and sank down to the flat of her feet. He was much taller than she was. It always surprised her, no matter how many times she saw him.

They were no longer children, but they would always be startled by that, so deeply entrenched in each other's more innocent days.

Guilt pulled at her here. Guilt for leaving Kieran out here with only his wolf for company. She knew that she and Asarel were welcome here--but at the same time, Kieran would undoubtedly feel some ease as they left.

Asarel...

The sky was clear blue and the clouds were sailing across the sky. She watched them for hours while the biting scent of the pines filled her lungs and the grass cushioned her rest. There was smoke coming from the cabin nearby; Asarel was cooking for supper and giving her space. Kieran and Coire were out hunting.

She'd been here, like every year, tasting the Hinterlands and letting herself feel things she didn't let out except at this time of year.  This year she'd brought him a small bow and a quiver of arrows, along with the other offerings. Rowan would have been eleven years old, tomorrow. There were a burst of poppies to cut the smell of sap and bring some color to the hilltop. But every year it was the same, the wet-stone smell of...

(( This post is a reply to Ruecien's post here: http://ruecien.tumblr.com/post/177631332602/sharing-trouble ))

Included in a small parcel was an elegant envelope and thick, expensive parchment. The script was less refined than he might have remembered, as if learned and mastered as an adult and only recently. A small tin of personally blended goldthorn tea and a series of packets of seeds from the Kul Tiras with a variety of drawings with descriptions and notations as she felt he might enjoy.

Dearest Ruecien,

I have received your letter and have thought it over. Trouble has been long absent for many of us, and I fear Sinobel is not the only one to start stagnating. We've all long kept our noses down and out of the fires that...