"This Ship We’re On Is A-Sinkin"
Never made a post, here, on Tumblr. I’ve always been rather a private sort when it comes to my writing since high school. That being said, I’ve recently started to try and knock the old rust off.
I wrote this quick, featuring my primary character for the last few years in a fanfiction setting in World of Warcraft. As a wayward Rogue from Westfall, “Hope”-fully this is on-target for a slight comeback effort.
Story’s behind the cut.
The heat was nearly unbearable. Smoldering chaff rained down throughout the cavern, like so many waning candle flames. The youthful brigand shielded his face, the blaze dancing its deadly bolero across the vessel’s hull. His steps were sodden, light across the creaking wood of the deck as he ambled up to where she had been, prior to his abandoning ship in the explosion.
He ceased movement, looking around with a squinted gaze quickly, hungry for his confirmation. The knowledge that, perhaps finally, Westfall was again free of renegade corruption. While he knew that it would take years for any improvement to be made on the landscape, his old hometown was scarred and beaten, scorched as badly as this clandestine battleship.
Leaning down, he scooped up a scarlet scarf from the boards. He let out a wry chuckle, his impish smirk hard-pressed to keep from spreading. Seemly ages had passed since he’d worn one just like it, been in this same damned cave, and had grand aspirations of overthrowing this foolish organization.
When the Defias had overtaken Westfall, the yeomen were forced to seek refuge in Stormwind or remain here under unerring control. What was once considered the breadbasket of the capital had become a shadow of its former self. The crops died without tending, and the renowned fields of golden wheat had reverted to mere deadened grass. No livelihood was available to the tenacious tenants; you either supported Van Cleef all the way, or you were removed from his path.
Standing bolt-upright, the faded cogwheel etched into his blade-scarred hand appeared to grind of its own accord as it closed into a fist around the bloody garment. Mere hours before he was able to fully infiltrate and fulfill his vendetta against the kingpin, word had reached him that a band of adventurers had waltzed in and blew the place to hell. While it was a relief that he was gone, he couldn’t help but feel that unrequited desire to have at least been there. To have done the rogue in as a rogue should: blade to ichorous blade, honorably mano a mano in an erstwhile dishonorable lifestyle.
A few more strides transported him from his reverie to the ship’s cabin. Somewhere around here should be… There! His hand went to swipe errant locks of dripping blonde hair from his face, wanting to make sure it was her.
Fanning away some of the inferno’s tendrils, he stood staring down at the lithe body strewn across the doorway to the cabin. Her eyes were open still, her face twisted into a wicked smile. Zable drank in the masque of death, absorbed the knowledge that the crimson scourge was gone again. Perhaps he’d have felt better about all of this had Van Cleef been gifted with a scrawny son to seek belated vengeance upon.
While her color was draining, he couldn’t help but notice that she was quite lovely. A hard-knock farm life wasn’t the easiest on anyone, he knew, but had she not sought after this selfish dream her father carried, there’d be no stopping him from sharing Thunderbrew lager with her. He shook his head, then noticed the conflagration approaching closer and closer.
“What a bleedin’ waste,” he spat, scowling. He glanced sidelong at the bandanna he still held.
“Rest well, Hope. May yer pops treat ya’s better’n ‘e treated Westfall,” Zable muttered before tossing the singed embersilk scrap onto Van Cleef’s lifeless form. He started to make his way to the edge of the brigantine before turning one last time, surveying the area.
“Good… no cousins ‘er nothin’. Can’t be repeatin’ tha’ crap again,” he cackled before leaping off the hull, back towards his hometown. His fields of blighted gold.