Mother and Father Dearest

Not all stories begin in the shadows; the lost lass rising from the lower castes, striving against all odds to draw oneself from the humblest quarters to those the minstrels sing. Not all roles are cast in drama twisted and dark, where cruelty is called a virtue and pleasure is a gift only arising from another's pain. It is not only the poor who have children, but also the noble...

Her parents were raised as the Horde grew from but a whisper to a collective, though one far removed from their beloved Quel'Thalas. One took to the sword, the other rose within the noble courts. Both dedicated to the well being of their people, one through strength of arms and the other through the crafting of words. When they met, it was no accident. A marriage arranged for the betterment of all, a courtship following traditions old. In time they grew accustomed to each other, if it was love it was a matter of course; and enough to anchor them through the destruction of their homeland. Mother, she fought alongside Lor'themar Theron at the Second Battle of Quel'Thalas. Father, he served the Sunstrider and was one of those who returned with gifts of magic and the promise of hope.

Now, Mother trains those who wish to dedicate themselves to the Light.

And Father? He walks the halls and barters in alliances and negotiations.

Their daughter, now she shared her birthday with the Last Guardian. No fancy portent, no fell prophecy, nothing more than a simple coincidence.

They raised her as they had been raised.

Bright steel, polished perfect, sparkling beneath the sun, the strength of her will and force of personality was as vital as her sword. Other woman swooshed with each step, rich robes and silken tunics bedecked in bright and fanciful jewelry. Her pace was the unmistakable and so unique sound finely articulated armor pieces moving over each other. When she backhanded, because discipline made you strong, you it was not just a gauntlet that made her point ... it was a very reverent gauntlet. That was Mother.

She was strength of will.

They simply didn't expect that she would be exactly who she grew up to be.

The fine clothes, the kind word, the tongue of silvered adamatine and always knowing which words to say and more importantly who to say them to, now he swooshed, in his arcane robes. And the only thing that he managed better than his spells was the social politics of their rebuilt city, weaving influence as one might cast a spell. That was Father.

He was cunning insight.

Her mother's daughter, her fathers child.

Of course they loved their daughter. They made sure she had everything. A fine home, an excellent education. The nicest clothes they gave her, and made very sure that they were home, to share a formal breakfast and then dinner at night. Oh, of course, whenever possible ... one must understand dear daughter, that Mother and Father have their duties, without which you would not have all these nice things. And there was always another rendevous or official meeting with Folks who were Names ... and there was always another dark threat to the city that needed a bright sword to keep it at bay and save the day ... so those dinners, those breakfasts, tended to be exceptions rather than the rule.

Of course they loved their daughter. So pretty was she at a formal ball, a perfect token of their household, didn't she reflect well on them?

Of course Father loved her, making sure she would marry so well, the nicest young mage, of good breeding and good family, and of course she will be happy.

Of course Mother loved her, knowing she is going to follow in her footsteps for blood tells true. Everyone just knows she is destined to be a hero in service to Silvermoon.

Isn't she?

Their house. Their clothes she wore. Their choice who she would marry. Their choice of her path beneath the Sun.

She stood there, looking back at Mother and Father. Her head was tilted, quizzically, unable to comprehend why they were looking at her so strangely. True, the blood clashed, it just didn't match the color of her hair, it streaked her robes and good cleaning help was so hard to find these days and she hadn't expected the end to be so ... explosive, but then the room behind her, the sitting room, for formal introductions, wasn't overly large and, well, a Voidwalker might be big and strong and trustworthy but they tended to be less than precise.

Fine.

The Voidwalker was downright sloppy.

But most importantly, he was hers. It wasn't a gift, it wasn't another choice they had made for her. It was who she chose to be. It was something she could do. On her own terms.

"Father ..."

She tried to explain.

"Mother ..."

It did seem completely reasonable, didn't it?

"Next time you decide who I am going to marry ... at the best, you could have asked me first. At the least ... you could have picked someone ... somewhat ... less ... fragile."

That night was the first night she spent in a tavern. The bedding was not as fine as those she was used to, and that was a concern.

But she had paid for it.

With her own coin.