She kicked back and lifted her feet up on a stool, swearing at the heavy woolen dress that restricted her movement. Cor, they weren’t kidding when the said the place was spartan. Proper clothing wouldn’t be up for a few days, and even then Isolde would have to apply rudimentary and rough sewing techniques to come up with something that fit.

Isolde sipped from the pint she held and grumbled as she stared into the flames. Hell’s bells, that one. Not the first soldier she’d come across, nor the first veteran, but at least he was partly the right sort, and not some toff either. Gawds… what to make of him and his teasing. Certainly ain’t had that sort make that sorta comment before.

Another sip, and she drifted back into memories. What a week.

She was still in chains, but now the formal list of charges was being read before the judge, along with the account of that drunken evening. Renson, the bastard, standing there looking prim and suitably apologetic for such an *unfortunate* affair that he couldn’t *possibly* be responsible for. He’d been just another guard that night, drinking with the lads, and she’d been drinking as well and looking for a fun tumble before heading out for another hunting bounty.

Oh, it’d be a fun tumble, all right, as far as it got before his wife had come striding into the pub in a right fury. Fumbling behind the stairs, Isolde hadn’t noticed, and Renson sure as hell didn’t, just like he’d made no mention of a wife. When his eyes widened and he shoved her off, and then the wife came screeching and cursing…well, that was an entertainment and a half, for everyone else. Akward flirting became frantic protestations, and then name calling, and then swearing. Laughter from the watchers dropped to silence and then grumbles, gearing up for a fight…Renson had laid hands on her, but of course the story was different here in court. He’d called her a whore and shoved her, and the wife had slapped her, and Isolde had made a solid swing for his jaw in retaliation. That got his mates involved, and someone had stumbled and broken Big Bill’s pint mug, and the whole place had gone to hell.

Isolde rolled her eyes and then made a rude gesture at Renson, causing a snap and a scowl from the judge to behave. And…that was it. She was unchained, cautioned, and a armful of mail and a Stormwind tabard shoved at her, along with a warning to be on the ship by night fall. And, damn it all to hell, she listened, and she was there, before any one else, because it was a mattered of godsdamned honour, and those bastards were already muttering about Gilneans needing handouts, about Greymane covering for his own… 

She polished off the rum and a moment later the black robe went flying across the room. She crawled into bed with a scowl, as was usual. She couldn’t get normal clothes here fast enough.

Author Wallaroo
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