As a side step from normal activities, I've written a piece of fiction this week. Constructive criticism is welcome, trolling is not.
Deme slipped out of the tavern and flipped the hood of her cloak over her head. Her heels clipped on the cobbles as she walked over to her deathcharger. A soft whiny greeted her as she slipped the worn leather reins from their tether.
The light grew brighter and the sound of raucous laughter emerged as the tavern door swung open again, but no one followed her into the street. Taking the reins, she led her horse through the winding streets and across the canal, heading for the docks. Rounding a turn past the Cathedral, she looked up and shuddered as the she saw the spires reaching up to the stars.
Even after all she'd been through this large building intimidated her. The Light seemed to emanate and pulse from it, even in the night blue. It forbade one of Deme's kind from entering the sanctuary it provided, no matter what anyone else told her, she still felt this way. Thinking back to her first meeting with Fordring and her recent run in with Thassarian and Koltira, she was stunned momentarily. So much had changed!
The deathcharger shied as a gaurd approached on his patrol. He grunted a greeting and passed on. Still not fully welcome in my home city, mused Deme. Lost in her nostalgia, the swoop of the gryphon riders overhead brought her back to the present, and the moonlight cast over the docks.
The sea salt tickled her nostrils and she felt the cooler breeze on her face. Dropping down in front of her were the sheer grey stone ramparts of the harbour, leading out to the piers and the ships, carrying merchants, goods and the Alliance Army to all reaches of Azeroth. With her free hand she pulled the cloak tighter around her, thinking her attire wasn't really appropriate for these nocturnal activities. A dress was fine for a few drinks in the tavern on a special occasion, but not really suitable for a moonlit flit across the harbour. She missed the weight of her armour. The sense of release she'd first enjoyed at not wearing it had quickly been replaced by a vulnerability she was not accustomed to, nor entirely happy about.
She'd reached the edge of the docks. Turning right she walked the length of the board-walk, aiming for the far northern land mass, the closest point to the Light House, her final destination. Hitching up the dress, and cursing it's impracticality, she swung up onto the death charger before leaning down and stroking his shoulder. A whispered word of enchantment and they were racing across the water on a frosted mirror.
The wind tore her hood down and tugged at the cloak's clasp around her neck. The skimpy dress beneath did little to keep out the cold but she'd forgotten about that now. Racing across the water, cloak, hair and clothes flying and her grin spreading. A laugh escaped her throat and kept coming. Pure, belly laughter of delight as she sat back, reining in her charge and slowing to a canter. The pair rode onto the small jetty that served the Light House and turned to see the city of Stormwind across the water. Coming to a halt, the deathchargers snorts displaying his enjoyment of the night-time excursions.
Over the bay, the spires of the Cathedral and in the far distance the high stone walls of the keep dominated the night sky, lit from the torches placed around the city and from the lights still burning inside. In sharp contrast to the grandeur and splendour of the new Keep, was what had once been the city's Park district. Now a tumbled, crumpled and burnt out ruin. In the slivers of moonlight rocky ruins could be glimpsed, a sign of the recent horrific events to have warped Azeroth.
Deme gazed over the docks and the city for what felt like mere moments. She heard the 'clunk-splash-clunk-splash' of a rowing boat and realised that her time alone, for now, was over.