Ella turned the statuette of Wolf, the spirit of the wild, carved from what Astrid had told her was a great cat-like beast’s fang, in her hand. Not because it was a rarefied and aesthetically pleasing piece of work – it was well enough carved, but no more than one could get from a number of merchants – but rather because it was the last thing Astrid had given her. Almost half a year ago, the norn set off again, as she always did, chasing some story, some fragmentary rumor, hoping that she might build the story of her life, her legend, as the norn called it and went on and on about at every possible opportunity.

Since then, nearing six months, Ella had been alone. She had gone to fetch the baked goods for the stall she sold from, had spent her whole day there, not quite selling out more often than not, bought something on the way home to the little home she had hoped that her and Astrid would share, in the cozy, some might say near overcrowded, Salma District of Divinity’s Reach. There she ate, and tidied, and cleaned, and knitted, and read, and tried not to pine over-much.

Breathing out, slowly, she settled the knitting needles and the start of the thick long-sleeve shirt that she hoped to be done with before winter set in, into her lap. Reached up to rub her throat, knowing perfectly well the immediate reaction that would come to her. A low, churning sensation, like little eternally bubbling spots of warmth and pleasant apprehension in her neck. In her chest, and in the pit of her stomach. Spreading, very slowly, to her thighs, and then to her forearms. She missed the stupid, tall, boisterous norn for many reasons, but the one her body recalled the best was the thing they always did. What they had done that first time they met, and what they inevitably did, again and again, that no one could or would ever do like the norn.

Every two months, at the latest, until this most recent longer wait, the two had found one-another. Or, rather, Astrid had made her way to Divinity’s Reach, last true bastion of humankind on Tyria, to the waiting little baked goods seller, retired caravan guard, to have what they now both called a very personal moot. Something the norn, the entire people, indulged in as a tradition. A reason to gather for competition, and for company. It was less competitive, for the both of them, but rather an indulgence both sweet and brutal. Ella swallowed, remembering the endless tears she could not hold back. How her throat burned, convulsing, throwing up from the depth and violence of the norn’s pounding, cruelly hard fucking of her throat, and face. That was what she desired. That, and the way she was gathered up, and held, and cradled afterwards, stuck in Astrid’s warm embrace, precisely the way she had been the first time they met. When it had saved her life. When she had been pleased to discover that her rescuer not only had the enormous strength and furnace heat of all norn, but also a massive, fat cock, the likes of which none in Divinity’s Reach could match.

It had taken her more than a few of their meetings to get the norn to stay for more than a day. Two, then three. Four. A week. But always, always, she left. Always, it was to build her stupid legend. But, until recently, she had at least always come back. Had even started to bring gifts, often odd ones proving her might and the far-flung places she had visited, as if Ella wanted carved teeth, antlers, shards of eternal ice, or anything else that she had been gifted with. She wanted Astrid to stay, and, slowly, it seemed the norn came to realize that, too. Staying longer, and longer. The last time they had been together, Astrid had even spoken of taking up residence in Divinity’s Reach. And then she had disappeared. Ella continued to hold out hope that her chosen mate, companion, whatever the norn called it, had not met her end in some foolish way, trying to build that story. She had a story already. In Ella’s heart.

The following day, Ella stopped, as she almost always did on the way home from her often only barely profitable business of selling baked goods from a stall on the Plaza of Dwayna, to buy a bottle of apple juice. To have, that night, with the potato scones she had decided to pick out of the day’s unsold goods to bring home, and eat. What could be saved and sold the day after was saved, and what could not, she typically dragged to the orphanage. With so much unrest in the world, sad as it was, the building was teeming, and always in need of more food.

More than once, she had come by the stall from which she bought juice, sometimes in Astrid’s company, and, as norn were, there had been little attempt at hiding that the two were an item. The natural, free way in which Astrid expressed herself was part of what had kept the flame alive, though it often lead to silly, sometimes absurd situations. Most times, when they had bought juice, it had simply manifested in one of the norn’s strong arms being draped around Ella, which she never objected to, in public or no.

The merchant, Petyr, seemed unusually chatty that evening. He had the bottle within reach, ready, as ever, but as she handed him the scant few coins and received it back, he said more than the usual pedestrian pleasantries.

“Things no longer bliss at home?”

For a moment, Ella lowered her brows just a touch. How would he know that Astrid had been gone for far too long? They were acquaintances, but she had never really shared anything with him that provided much detail. It was unusual, perhaps, but not entirely absurd that a human and a norn should find themselves together.

“I haven’t seen Astrid for months,” Ella said, taking the bottle slowly. “Why would they be bliss?”

“Ah, terribly sorry. Just that I heard someone matching her description having been seen but a week ago.”

“From who?”

“Some stumbling drunkard, nothing more. I’m sure it was nothing,” he said.

Ella took the bottle, and cradled it to her body. Her brows sank further, though she did not center her attention on the merchant, a blur of thoughts bumbling and falling through her mind such that it was difficult to identify any single one.

“Still,” Ella said. “Any idea who?”

“You know the jewelry shop that was robbed two moons ago? One of the former guards from there, best I could tell.”

“Thanks,” Ella said. She looked up to him again, nodding. Then turned, and left him behind.

She went no further than around a corner before she found a bench to seat herself, having decided to eat her potato scones and drink her juice right then and there, so she might try to track down the disgraced guard. Norn were not so uncommon that a sighting of one had to be Astrid, of course, but she was rather distinctive. Hair white as snow, tied into a single, thick braid which hung halfway down her back. Tall, and strong, and loud, of course, but not to a freakish extent – her people were, as a rule, built to tower several feet over the average human. And they were seemingly always loud, at least if they had been raised among the main cluster of their kind in the southern reaches. Within a reasonable distance from Hoelbrak, their capital. The Great Lodge.

Finishing her small stack of scones, almost potato flatbread, really, and the juice, Ella rose again and, for lack of anywhere else to turn, went in the direction of the recently robbed jewelry shop. Closed now, of course, dusk descending, darkness extending slowly from each daytime shadow, it was nevertheless the only real lead she had. Following the promenade, she came to the place. Shuttered. Next to it, however, was a very much open tavern, from which drifted the sound of a banjo, and an overwhelming buzz of conversation. A wall of sense-impressions which she had to mentally prepare herself to carve and push into.

The thought that had lingered at the back of her mind, that had made her feel as if someone rested two fingers against her throat where it met her collarbone, came to the fore. And as it did, she swallowed, and still the sensation of someone just keeping fingers lightly pushed against remained. What if Astrid had returned, but had grown tired of her dull little bread-seller girl? What if someone new, someone more exciting, had turned up on one of those long trips to go fight an ice elemental, or a great beast, or the sons of Svanir, who inexplicably still lingered on the fringes, in caves and in the endless cold of the northern Shiverpeaks? Would she, one day, run into Astrid, arm slung around someone else? Have to awkwardly nod, greet, and then excuse herself to run off somewhere?

Ella shook her head. Blinked, and ran the back of her hand over her eyes. She remembered still the feeling of Astrid crushing her nose, bottomed out in her throat, hands curled around her head to hold her in just the right place. It was a memory of many different occasions blending together into one sensation, one she now wondered whether she would soon want to forget. If she would be able to forget it at all.

The interior of the tavern was warm, and smoky, and crowded. A long row of booths, free-standing tables and chairs, a counter. And every surface darkened by decades of smoke seeping into the wood. Shiny, and clean enough, all things considered, but a place for the rowdy and the drunk. Near the bar, a seemingly endlessly patient bard strummed his banjo, and tried to rouse a too-drunk few tables who refused to sing along at his tempo.

Looking perhaps just enough like a lost bird flapping endlessly around, confused about where the doorway it had entered by now was, Ella soon found a waitress at her arm.

“Can I get you anything, love?”

“I’m looking for a norn. Astrid. White hair, braid?”

“Get at least one drink, Bert might feel chatty,” she said, grasping Ella’s arm and pointing her towards the counter.

A middle-aged man with a beard a little too thin to make him handsome manned the bar, speaking pleasantly with all the patrons lined up along it. Ella nodded her thanks to the waitress, and navigated her way past several tables to get to the counter, managing only to have someone accidentally touch her thigh once. Not knowing who it was, and not in possession of any fighting skills, she resolved to brush it off and reach the bar.

One drink later, a tall glass of dark beer, she managed to catch the bartender’s attention for more than a second.

“I’m looking for a norn! Astrid! White hair? Braid?” She had to shout, having gone deep enough into the saturated soundscape of the tavern that it was difficult to organize even her own thoughts with the noise of twenty different conversations blurring together, meshing with the banjo and the singing.

“Week ago,” he said. “Taken away by a few seraphs.”

“The guards? Why?”

“Ruckus. Brawling!” He said. He disappeared for several minutes, serving a few clusters of patrons, then returned. “Got a few people hurt, but they were antagonizing her. The norn love a good brawl, everyone knows that. A few seraph were nearby, saw it all, and decided to drag her off to the dungeons, I think. Haven’t seen her since. Maybe they’ve just tossed her in there and thrown away the key?”

“Was she with anyone?” Ella took a nervous sip of her drink, casting her eyes over the amazingly noisy patrons.

“What?”

She repeated herself, and he nodded along, perhaps not willing to admit that he had heard only half of what she said. Then again, perhaps half was enough. Ella managed another mouthful of her drink.

“Stupid. You don’t offer a chance to fight to a norn. They like it. It’s like a party, to them,” he said.

“I know,” Ella replied. “So she fought, got someone hurt, was taken away by the seraphs?”

“That’s about the size of it,” he said. Disappeared again to pour yet more drinks.

By the time he returned, only the half-full glass remained as evidence that Ella had been there at all.

Though Ella really did not have enough saved up to ditch selling for a day, she had nevertheless decided to forego serving the morning rush the next day. Instead, she navigated to the nearest seraph station until she learned where Astrid had been sent, and put. Into the dungeons, likely meant to be hauled back out, perhaps to pay a fine, after a day or three. But it had been over a week, and there was yet no sign of her, leading Ella to interrogate the decidedly sour-faced, tired seraph staffing the desk in the front room of the small two-story building.

At her insistence, he eventually went through a pile of hastily scrawled records, which revealed the name of the judge that had rapid-fire processed all the minor cases brought to the station that day, where perhaps the man had been in a bad mood. Several of those brought before him for rather minor crimes were nevertheless given the maximum punishment he could reasonably apply to them, and so, it seemed, was Astrid. A year in the dungeons for a tavern brawl which had, according to the record, grievously injured three other patrons of the establishment. Erin’s assessment of the place was that most of the people who spent time in there probably deserved a little injury. She had never known Astrid to kill indiscriminately, only to knock people out. As she would have with her own people, really – it was a sport, a part of most festivities that you fought. A few lost teeth and great bruises really only meant that you had had a good night. Moot. Whatever.

Ella thanked the seraph for his help, and sighed as soon as she left the station. Found a wall against which to lean. The whole day would pass without her being able to sell anything, but it seemed the only way to get to the bottom of what had happened to Astrid to seek out the judge. With a little luck, she would keep her relatively luxurious two-room apartment, rented primarily because it was situated in an old warehouse and thus had very high ceilings. Ceilings that suited Astrid much better. Of course, if Astrid had been in the city without telling her, perhaps there was no longer a reason to rent that place – if she had found someone else.

It took perhaps half an hour to find the house of justice in which the judge, she was told, worked when not visiting individual stations. It took another three hours of navigating the labyrinth of functionaries and secretaries and permission slips and telling the same story and reasoning four times over to actually find herself sat outside of his door. The man, judge Perkins, was in the transition period between aged but basically still broad and powerful-seeming, into the inevitable frailty of older age. Occupied more with carefully, at the speed of molasses, signing a series of documents. He barely looked up as Ella told her tale, merely waved her away. And, when she would not go without him actually speaking, he fixed her with a long and terrible gaze which she endured, and then he sighed.