Shhhhh-click, clack.
Shhhhh-click, clack.
One by one Kezrin checked each of the locks on her doors and windows. It was first thing she decided to do upon coming home, before even changing out yet another ruined uniform. Bleach would not fix the burn in the sleeve.
Familiarity kept the routine progressing, for her brain was thoroughly tired and distracted by trying just what, exactly, had happened.
For starters, the bossgnome gave you an “easy” job of giving away flowers because of your sprained wrist. Then some guy came up and offered to take them all so you could get off work early, kissed you in public, and then asked you to either move in with him or go ahead and kill him.
The second person who'd ever kissed her, and it was Trenetir Moradinel.
It was officially the worst “Love is in the Air” festival ever. She wondered vaguely if she could convince Bragdus to erase the last week of her life.
Not that she’d ever been fond of that holiday since she was a child and still believed in romantic gestures and grand, sweeping romances. Those things only existed in books.
Shhhhh-click, clack.
No, the holiday exemplified how willing people were to throw around money and buy the appearance of sincerity, as though simply buying a flower should earn someone’s favor. Just how often did she deal with a man who thought a charming smile and a vendor-bought chocolate would get him a discount or expedited shipping?
Shhhhh-click, clack.
And then there was Waxworth… he’d perfected the formula for being charming and thoughtful, when in truth, he was only using Kezrin. A smile and pleasing manners were simply not to be trusted; she at least owed Waxworth a small amount of thanks for making her wary of Moradinel from the very day they’d first met.
Shhhhh-click, clack.
She snorted as his so-called "donation" to the AAMS...
The idea that their encounters could grow worse after that first meeting was mind boggling. He never spoke to her except with condescension at the best of times. Now, however, Kezrin wasn’t even quite sure he was sane, anymore; the look in his eyes varied from disturbingly calm to frighteningly wild. The last time they’d met, he’d shoved her on top of a table littered with gore and viscera. She had been certain she was about to become the next chunk of unidentifiable matter. Thank Rhazin and Mormel that she’d gotten away with little more than a sprained wrist.
Shhhhh-click, clack.
And the snarky voice in her head aside, there was absolutely nothing romantic about what had happened in Orgrimmar. Trenetir had only offerred to take all the flowers because she refused to go with him anywhere until he dragged her off by force.
Shhhhh-click, clack.
He’d only kissed her because he was lying to Iceia about why they were together; she didn’t have any say in the matter, hampered by some sort of hypnotism.
Shhhhh-click, clack.
And Moradinel didn’t ask, he demanded she live with him only because- because-
Shhhhhh-
The bolt stopped before it finished sliding into place. She could not think of an answer. She thought back to when Trenetir had first approached the Wyvern’s Tail using a sing-song voice, annoyed once more that her memory wasn’t as precise as it used to be. He had mentioned correcting the fact that she was always underfoot. That had sounded very much like he intended to rid of her, permanently.
So then why insist that she live with him? And what was that mention of her not being safe?
Shhhhh-click, CLACK.
Kezrin locked the bolt into place with extra force, taking a sharp breath. Did he know something she didn’t? Perhaps it would have been better to stay at Iceia’s, or at the office behind the wards. Someplace safer. Tomorrow she could talk to Telirra or Solendenus about some extra self-defense training-
"And yet... you hold the dagger. I am weaponless, and you hold my blade, tell me then Miss Kanzelry, is my life one worth living?”
He had been serious. Quite literally deadly serious. All she had to do was kill him if she'd really wanted to leave.
She wouldn’t, but he let her go, anyway.
There was another time, in Hardwrench, when he’d ordered her to draw his blood. She had refused then as well and he’d dragged her away from Lounge.
She bit her bottom lip, remembering. No, Moradinel gotten into an argument with Mormel and had taken her away so she wouldn’t be caught up in the ensuing fight.
But that was when he was still sane and not wildly alternating from cold killer to maniac to angsty nihilist.
Kezrin rubbed her temples in annoyance. At least with Waxworth and Bragdus she knew their motivations and what to expect. Who knew what would happen the next time she saw Moradinel? Maybe not even him…
She finished the last couple of bolts and headed to bed. She fell back without even bothering to change. Perhaps a good night’s sleep and a bit of meditation would sort things out in her head. There was still a stack of meditation books on her shelf. She didn’t remember buying them, of course, but they’d proven immensely helpful, anyway.
Tomorrow she would deal with talking to Brae and explaining to Derscha why she’d lost five baskets of flowers and a booklet of AAMS coupons.
“I hate this holiday.”
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