It had been a long trip, alone to the Gilnean countryside. Forsaken and worgen alike seemed to be at a standstill over the contested territory, and it had been relatively easy for the drake to land out near the rocky cliff sides, unbothered. Annaliese peered out over the stormy oceans for a long moment, watching the waves crash up against the rocky precipices. Gulls cried out from above her, but her eyes gleamed like lanterns over the dark waters below her, stuck to the waves and all their mysterious glory. Could she still perhaps feel the cold of those depths crashing against her flesh in this state? Or was the water a numbing blanket, lulling one such as her into a comatose sleep?
Her enthrallment almost caused her to tip over the cliff side and into the deep blue, but the strong wing of her drake came forward, ushering her back gently to safety. The forsaken woman let out a quiet chuckle. She must have seemed like she could be carried off by a wind to the Netherdrake, so small she was by comparison. The small, white hand that reached up to stroke his muzzle seemed to glow in the low-light of the pine trees.
“I am glad you are here with me, Onin,” she called softly, and began to walk past the drake. The ruins of the manor before her stretched up and up ahead as she walked nearer, the garden long withered in front of it. The lattice gate was knocked off of its hinges---she was sure it was whole the last time she visited. Broken pieces of furniture, dirty drapes, and now unrecognizable antiques lay in a scattered trail on the walkway, and yet another window was smashed, more recent additions by way of desperate vandalism. She was like a ghost here in both thought and appearance, silently mourning what once was. It was a sad sight. Slowly, she picked her way through the ruin, gathering up what remained of her childhood.
Piecing it all back together, if only for her mother’s memory.
How many times had she been told to scrape the memories of life from her mind since her fall to the Forsaken? Too many too count. It was a natural stage in the Dark Lady’s war machine, to carve perfect soldiers out of her people. Perhaps being bound in service and duty to such a cause alone was a satisfactory way in spending the rest of one’s unlife, but Annaliese’s own ideals on the matter fell…short. High Instructor Lacransa could scream about the power of a ‘true warlock’ until all the black diamonds in her precious staff shattered, if she wanted, but Anna could not simply, forget.
More than that, she did not want to forget.
It was like swimming through wreckage, when Annaliese stepped through the broken doors of the manor, wooden utencils and glass pooled at her feet. Past the large, mahogany dining table was the stone fireplace, and scoping its mantle, she found something to be missing. From the inner pockets of her garments, she pulled out the small wooden picture frame. She smiled down at her handiwork, having restored the piece with a pane of new glass, so that the wrinkled picture inside could be looked upon just a bit more clearly. It made a solemn scraping sound as it was put in place on the mantle, as solemn as the photographed eyes that stared out at her now. She managed to smile in return at the small picture frame, feeling she had done something right for the first time in a long time. Perhaps her young sister Charlette would never forgive her for the loss of the man in the picture frame, but Anna could see in his gentle, sad expression, that he might have.
“Welcome home,” she whispered to the picture of the brother she never got to know.
And with that, Annaliese took the old, wooden broom in hand, and began to sweep.
