moonshadows | TBTT 14. Fairy dust is for sissies

The next time she wakes up, it is because sleeping on the couch after half-killing herself the day before has given her wicked leg cramps. Mandatory classes have given her command of half a dozen languages used in the Burning Legion, and she swears in all of them as she hauls herself back to the hot tub. She refrains from cursing in her Kal’shan’s native language, just in case he’s watching, but once the hot water has relaxed her rebellious legs she realizes how silly that train of thought is. He commanded a significant force of demons as the master of the Black Temple, no doubt he picked up their languages without realizing it. If she was being listened to while cursing a blue streak, he would likely understand the words even if they weren’t in an Azerothian dialect.

As much as she would have liked to stay in the hot tub all day, she remembers from her Basic Combat physical education classes that the best thing she can do is get her abused muscles working again. Given the unexpected pleasure her Kal’shan took when she made or blocked a strike, it’s a safe bet that she’ll be sparring with him regularly from now on, so she figures she may as well get back into shape.

She hauls herself out of the comforting embrace of the hot tub, dries laboriously off, and shrugs into some loose sweats. A quick mutter, and her human disguise shifts to pure illusion; she’s going to need her wings for this, and she doesn’t think the guards watching need to see them. It doesn’t take long to kick stray items out of the way to create an open area to work in. She takes a deep breath and begins the warm-ups she was taught in school.

Half an hour later, she limps to the couch and flops belly-down onto it.

Good one, Tessa. Copy your last report card out and brag about your agility, and then run away from home and sit around getting lazy and out of shape. With a groan, she flails around for her nozzle and drinks in electricity for a minute. If he whirls those huge warglaives around like that, and he’s done it for years and years, then it’s no wonder he can fly.

She lifts one wing, winces, and lets it drop. He never actually came out and said he could fly, but the ability is a potent status symbol among the Nathrezim. Any dreadlord with ragged wing-edges has either the physical power or the magical might to lift him- or her-self off the ground, and should not be underestimated. Of course, the sheer amount of damage that has been done to his wings makes her wish she could oil them for him, and maybe rub some healing ointment onto the edges, but that thought is currently eclipsed by the realization that if she learns the warglaive, it might give her the muscle strength needed to gain the coveted ability of flight for herself.

That is, if she can keep up with him. She groans and stuffs herself back into mostly-human form, burying her face in a throw pillow once her horns have been reduced to the three-inch nubs that mark her as demon without scaring the natives. Perhaps a minute and a half is spent wallowing in teenage insecurities, and then she suddenly sits up, wincing as she does. She can’t just sit around feeling sorry for herself. After all, she has orders.