Azar set Kleitos Leonidas’ water – with its precise double helix of lemon and orange peel twined around four cubes of ice – on the small table between their two chaises. “I gotta say, boss, this is a great place.” He clambered into his own chair with an umbrella-topped Mai Tai. “I thought we were going to blow this Popsicle stand as soon as you nabbed me back from Moru, and good riddance. But,” he ratcheted the chaise back a notch and spread stick-like arms to soak up the August heat, “a body could get used to this. I almost feel dried out again.”
Anduin Wrynn’s breath steamed from cold and exertion as he crested the steep road climbing from the valleys of Dun Morogh to Ironforge. The pair of adventurers he had wheedled into accompanying him from Stormwind balked at leaving the cloaked and incognito young prince at the base of the mountain, but he promised to reveal himself to the nearest guard if anything went amiss and sent them on their uneasy way.
He drew a few curious glances as he bent down at regular intervals, poking holes in the snow with a stick and dropping in small objects before smoothing them back over, but no one stopped him or asked what he was doing. This was not Stormwind. Dun Morogh hadn’t escaped wholly unscathed from the elemental Cataclysm, true, but Deathwing had not scarred their citadel and orcs were not burning Kharanos. There was still some small room for innocence, so he planted his seeds unmolested.
“Snow White.” The syllables spun forth from the king’s lips and onto her shoulders like an unwanted mantle as he stepped from his sleigh. Well, she wouldn’t have to wear it long. Regicide was a capital crime in the realm; if she were taken she could expect little more of her brief free life than a few weeks in chains and the executioner’s axe. “So this is how it ends.”
The woods woman hated winter. Game was scarce and shy. Chill winds skittered beneath the door and seeped between the windowpanes. And though she cherished her solitude, weeks cooped up in a tiny cottage as blizzard after blizzard howled outside could drive anyone a little around the bend.
There was another reason she despised the season, buried so deep in her psyche she scarcely thought about it anymore. Three drops of blood fallen in the snow and a mother’s heartfelt wish. Would that my little daughter may be as white as that snow, as red as the blood, and as black as the ebony window-frame!
The morning after his courting of Sylvie, Kleitos Leonidas rose before dawn began to pink the eastern sky, turned off the lights she habitually left blazing all night to annoy her neighbors and threaded his way through the oaks to the lake’s edge. The moon had gone down some hours before and had anyone been up to observe they might have wondered how he managed to move so easily by only the weak illumination of the stars.
He tamped tobacco into his pipe, lit it, and stood gazing into the water for some minutes. During the night frost had crept from the shore to the lake shallows, and the same observer might wonder how Kleitos could stand unmoving, barefoot and bare-chested, apparently unperturbed by the chill morning air. Because of course in this world of science and reason, there are no such things as magicians or merfolk. Or other older, darker beings.