Dreams ((RP Story))

[Mozag]

((Terrible things happen when Mozag has a good night of RP! I never intended to develop my Worgen's character, but Saturday's guild session of pub RP made her come alive, and this morning I couldn't settle until I wrote this down. It's not great, but I'm not completely unhappy with it.))



“Mr. and Mrs Wilkes, may I be so bold as to ask for your daughter's hand in marriage?”

The words, spoken so earnestly by Master Wyndham cause me to blush and look down at my feet, the very picture of maidenly modesty. I feel my mother's vice-like grip on my hand, and see from the corner of my eye, that she is fumbling for a handkerchief.

Oh I know full well that she is pleased, she didn't think this day would ever come. After all, why would any man of sense marry her wildcat of a daughter, personality hidden beneath the brown mouse exterior! In her wildest dreams, my mother wouldn't have imagined this pairing. The eldest son of our town's richest merchant, my future spouse is quite the sought-out catch. Perhaps, through her joy, she feels that he is too good for a mere farmer's daughter. She whispers in my ear excitedly, as we sit on the settee together, imagining us as co-conspirators, I suppose. Something about the dress, the venue, the minister, the guests...

I am not listening.

As Master Wyndham – will I ever get used to calling him George? - and my father discuss the delicate business of my dowry, I raise my eyes to him. My father's back is to me, and he cannot see, nor comment on this shocking want of virtue in his only daughter.

I look upon my future husband with the eyes of a girl of nineteen. I care nothing for his money, or his position in society. I do not think upon my future duties as a wife and a mother. My vision is simply filled with his glorious form, bursting with young, male energy. He is tall, and well-formed, strong and manly, a thick mane of shining gold surrounding a pleasing face. He sits a horse with the assurance of man born to the saddle, and more than one villager has made comment of his fine legs, tucked inside riding boots of the most expensive leather, moulded to his calves.

But it is those eyes of sparkling blue that captivated me. Even now, as he looks at me over my father's shoulder, they twinkle and dance like fairy lights.



The wedding. So chaotic, so uncomfortable. The villagers press in on us with congratulations, faces showing blurry, quickly changing visions of joy, envy, anger. I feel faint, and mildly nauseous, to say nothing of the fear of what is to come. I sway a little where I stand, as yet another person advances to wish us happy. And when I feel his strong arm around my shoulders, supporting me, giving me strength, I know he will always take care of me.

“Shall we dance, wife?”

His voice is smooth and mellow, and his use of my new title a delicious thrill. I take his hand, so large, but not rough and coarse like my father's and brother's, and I remember again that it was at a village fair that I caught his eye. He asked me to dance then too, and I felt the jealous eyes of the merchants' daughters boring into my back.

My...husband – how grown up I feel! - holds me briefly before we join the other dancers, and suddenly I realise that I am no longer frightened.


Golden memories of love and respect, of getting to know each other, of learning to use his name, of sweet nothings spoken in the perfumed nights of summer, of a gentle melding into one during the frozen days of winter. Always, always guided on my path by his strong hands and dancing eyes.


As I gaze upon my twin sons, a love such as I had never thought existed bursts into being. I stare at their petal-soft cheeks and the golden, downy fuzz on their small heads. I marvel at their fragility, and realise that I would die for them. The tortures of the past hours are forgotten, as I listen proudly to their hungry cries, and subsequently, to the joyful smacking sounds as they slurp their way into sleep.

George and I watch our sons as they grow up. We take delight in every milestone reached. Look! James smiled at me! Did you see that? Robert turned over by himself! They have become the lodestones of our existence, and I am content. Perhaps, I sense in a vague way that George is becoming more distant. Maybe I shun his nightly company too often. But I am trapped in the rosy joy of being a mother.


“They deserve better than you.”

His voice is spiteful and angry. When did the man I loved disappear? Was it my fault? Did I not share enough of the adoration I so whole-heartedly gave to my boys? I am sorry, oh how I am sorry now, as I watch my husband of many years quickly packing my golden boys out of sight. I regret every wrong I have inadvertently caused when I see the shocked face of the new wife, much prettier than I ever was, as I bitterly note.

“Did you not think of us at all, when you ran wild with the other dogs?”

Oh George, when did those grey hairs appear on your temples? Why did I not pay attention to you? I long to reach out and stroke his face, like I used to, but he would step away from me now. I can't blame him.

“I...”

How can I explain to him what it was like? Would he ever understand? I did not think, like I think now. But in me, a mother's desire still raged. I spent days, weeks, months, I don't even know how long, searching for my pups. I knew I had them somewhere, but it was all so confusing. Even now I struggle to make sense of anything but the instincts I felt.

“Get out of my house, mongrel. My Alburga died when she rode off to 'save the day'.”

I find I cannot even fight it. I can sense his pain clearly, but if he knew my agony, maybe he would have a heart. I throw a last glance behind him, at the staircase, where, oh bless him! My little Robert blows me a kiss. How I yearn for my hands to be like they were, for my body to be as it used to. How I want to fold my boys into an embrace and never let them go.


“George...”

“Don't call me that, dog.”

“George, listen to me, you must...”

He turns his head from me, and I can sense that the wound hasn't healed at all, despite the best efforts of his little wife. I have respected his wishes and stayed away from him, away from his pretty blonde Mary, and away from my boys. I have fought the battles of Gilneas as the monster I have become, I have been deemed useful, I have been taught the use of various weapons, and to soothe the hurt inside me, I have worked with animals. But as the Forsaken threat, and the rumours about them fly around, I cannot stay silent any longer.

“Take them and go. Please, don't stay here, you don't know what you face.”

I know my voice is desperate, but perhaps he no longer recognises it. Still he refuses to look at me, and, like the proud Gilnean he is, merely shakes his head. My heart plummets as I realise that he won't save them. He won't take them away.

“George, let me take them then. Let me hide them away!”

Let me see just one glimpse of my darlings, just one! Let me touch their heads, and look upon them with the pride of a mother! I suppress the tortured howl that never leaves me alone.

He turns to look at me finally, and I step back in horror. The eyes, his dancing, blue eyes are like chips of hard ice.

“I would rather die than let them go anywhere with you.”

I want to tear out his heart and rip his innards to shreds, but my boys need their father. What, indeed, would they do with someone like me? With what I have become. I turn and flee from the house.


They are gone. I am saved, and my little ones are not. How will I go on? How will I live with this guilt?



I drag myself away from this recurring nightmare. Marlowe's hungry yowl alerts me to my surroundings, and I get up with a grunt to make some breakfast.

There are days when I can almost forget. When I lull myself into a sense of false security. When I pretend I am not a wife, a mother, a Gilnean. When I walk the roads of Stormwind in my Human form. How I have aged! I am only just past thirty, and yet I look like an old woman.

And then there are mornings like these, when my carefully constructed castle of fantasy comes crumbling down around my ears. The days when the beast in me rages supreme. I cannot go amongst people today, I cannot bear to see their faces as they look on me with the natural disgust they feel for my kind. Today, I will stay in the wild with Marlowe, who loves me as I am.

I feed the tiger and then slump down on my furs, burying my face in their pungent heat. There was a long while when I was able to pretend that things were well. I was making new friends, people who thought that I was just like them. I should never have accepted that invitation for a drink.

Oh I could smell him from outside, of course I could. I entered, ready to play my usual charade of shock at the sight of one of my kind, but he was there, unassumingly quiet in the corner. He, too, was in his Human disguise. Young, dark, slim. A demon master, plastered with the stench of the Fel. But I do not doubt my nose, and in any case, I would have thought even a normal Human would have been able to smell him. That young, strong odour. A male in his prime.

I despise him.

[Azunara]

I really like it. It has an amazing flow and would not let me stop reading. I HAD to find out what happened. It was neat to just see the slow shift in both of them, the slow drop into despair.

Win.

[Mozag]

Thanks, Azu! I'm glad you liked it.

Obviously, now that I've read it through many times during the day, I can spot all the glaring problems. But, as with everything I write, there are a few passages/turns of phrase I'm proud of, and that makes it good enough for me. Besides, I simply HAD to get it out of my system.

[TygerDarkstorm]

Wow...Mind blown! That was awesome Mozag!

[Lupis]

Such an awesome story, Mozag. It really sticks with you!

[Kamalia]

Oh, I love it. Very well written, too! Good job! <3

[Mozag]

Thanks a lot for the kind words all, really warms the cockles of my heart!

On Saturday we're having another RP session with the guild, so maybe I'll get inspired again (not always a good thing, mind you, I slept badly for two nights afterwards ) and get something more down about Albie.