[1] Nemaerys: 'The Twin Snakes of Mistmantle: I am Nemaerys Courcelle'

Hello. These are stories I have created based purely on IC happenings, I'm including all characters I encounter on Nemaerys as she makes her ascent through the Mistmantle family, I have improvised some lines, through simply not being able to remember what was actually said, and I have also enhanced some parts for a better audience understanding, but the latter is 100% real. I hope you enjoy it, and perhaps you may see yourself in the next one perchance.

Spoiler:

--------------------

“You know how to present yourself this evening, don’t you?” it was more of a statement.
Nemaerys looked up to be met with the steely expression of her father Drathil. He had eyes unlike hers, her eyes were lilac, soft as milk, like mothers’ and Gramma Courcelle’s – fathers eyes were a gritty stone colour; sunken, with several flecks of silver and onyx among them, like a mottled tiger pelt. When he looked at her in a certain way she could almost see the beasts moving behind his piercing pupils. Nemaerys nodded and he looked ahead again, gently swaying side to side in rhythm with his stallions’ plodding hooves, onward down the tawny path.
Elwynn forest scared her at night, all of it was a dark murky green, save for the lantern alit pathway before them, like a dusty ribbon meandering through the gloom for miles; and the sounds of woodland creatures scuttling in the foliage, a croak here and a rustle there. When she looked left or right into the gloom her eyes played tricks on her, she seen ferocious animals in the murk, baring fangs, hungering to tear her flesh from her bones.
She clutched her mares’ reigns and dreamt of home, in Dalaran, where there was no forests containing ferocious beasts, at least not in reach of her; where the white tiger on the banners of House Courcelle kept her safe; and where it was never dark, because the streets always had a subtle pastel glow coming from the crystals afloat above each building in the city, like beautiful gargoyles. Father had told her not to admire them because they were made by the Starwhispers, but one was right in view from her window in her bedroom, then below it looked onto a tree that grew peaches in the spring until the end of summer, not like it mattered. They could always have peaches in winter if they chose it, she’d probably be able to warp the trees’ seasonal growth herself in due time, and with that thought the fat towering oaks that surrounded her now no longer scared her. I am Nemaerys Courcelle, and I could bend the forces of nature if I wished it.
I am not afraid.

She was confident until they reached the Mistmantle estate, walking between two bannermen gate guards, clothed in the Mistmantle colours of the purple twin serpents on a crest of black eradicated all cause and effect of Courcelle’s name in her mind. Father grinned as guards or servants paused to look at the band of Courcelle bannermen make their steady ascent up the walk way toward the tower that dwarfed all buildings around it. Nemaerys heard the guards roll the front gates shut with a clang, and she was lifted off her horse by one of her fathers’ stewards.
“Water the horses and give them a rub down,” father barked, “I want that stallion to sparkle when I leave here tonight. Leave my daughters horse, however. It’s going to be stabled here.”
Just like I will be, Nemaerys thought.
Only a few from the journey in Elwynn joined them inside as they entered the Mistmantle stronghold. High walls shot to the heavens so much so that Nemaerys couldn’t even see the ceilings. The hallway was brushed with décor of fine panelling and multiple paintings of Mistmantle ancestors, mostly all men. After what seemed like an eternity of walking the hall, they finally came to stop as a cascading stairwell downward that went around in a half circle to the centre of the room where a roaring hearth and a long table stood, where the stairs ended in the middle of the room, they began with ramps leading upward, and as Nemaerys walked further into the room she could see several crossing and swirling wooden panels of walk ways above, they were at the foot of the Mistmantle Tower.
Two figures, blackened into silhouettes by the fires’ light stood stoic as statues, unspoken and immobile.
A servant broke the silence, “Lord Drathil Courcelle, of Dalaran and his Lady daughter Nemaerys.” The figures ahead took a few synchronized steps forward and began to become tangible from the hearth. Braiden Mistmantle strode into view, his hand a perch for his Countess Lady, Ophelia. He wore a monocle in his sunken face, fissured by deep frown lines between broad eyebrows. In his raven hair, a single strip of white flashed down the side.
“Good evening, Lord Courcelle.” The voice rung like thunder around the echoing tower.
“Count and Countess Mistmantle!” Drathil boomed in reply, Nemaerys felt her father’s hand grab her wrist and haul her close from behind, but discrete looking enough from infront,
“Walk behind me. Smile, speak when spoken to, and don’t say anything ridiculous.” Snarling, he released her as quickly as he took her and started forth once more, opening his arms in greeting.
“It is a great pleasure to have you and your lovely daughter here to join us for dinner. Please, seat yourselves with us.” They joined at the long table, father faced Braiden and Nemaerys faced his lady wife. Ophelia Foxworth was her maiden name before she married, and Nemaerys could see why. Her features were sharp and angular, with cat-like eyes, but a face like a fox, and hair as red as one. Her breasts were heavy with milk and her stomach slightly overlapped in her robe, still recovering from her birthing. She was staring at Nemaerys rather unashamedly, and her eyes bore through her like a blade, she was judging – she felt her eyes on her full lips, her broad eyebrows, small breasts, everything. She watched her eyes follow the braids in her long silver her until finally she had apparently stared her fill, afterwards Nemaerys felt assaulted.
“How old are you, petal?” Ophelia’s voice was like liquid amber, rich with crisp pronunciation.
“Fifteen, my Lady. My sixteenth name day is in two months’ time.” Nemaerys squeaked, the Countess smirked.
“Would you like some wine, Nemaerys?” purred Braiden, “If it please you, my Lord.”
“What pleases you, pleases me Lady Courcelle.” Nemaerys nodded a little and a servant girl filled up her goblet with wine. Ophelia drew Braiden a lurid stare, it was brief but Nemaerys caught it.
“Countess, child birth has become you – you look more radiant than ever.” Preened her father.
“You flatter me so, Lord Courcelle, but you are far too kind.”
“Come now my dear,” Braiden’s voice growled again, like a well-oiled engine, “No compliments can equal your loveliness.”
They all shared a smooth chuckle, “You both must be hungry.” And with a simple snap of his fingers, the large dome became alive with servants, carrying platters and dishes and bowls, far too much for four people. The servants, mostly young women threaded between one another, placing their loads down on the table expertly, one placed a golden plate down before Nemaerys, so sheen she could see her reflection looking back up at her.
“Congratulations on your son, Mistmantle. Firstborn as well, a worthy thing to any father.”
“Yes, near enough all Mistmantle men sire a son as their firstborn so it hardly came as a surprise.”
“Nemaerys is very good with children.” Father observed, and Braiden drew a heavy glance upon her.
“Is that so.”
Conversation was replaced with the crackle of the fire, and the scraping and tapping of cutlery against plates, Nemaerys seldom looked up from her food but when she did, Braidens’ eyes never left her.

“So,” father began, delicately dabbing his napkin against his mouth. “Nemaerys shall become your ward, I am to believe.”
“That is correct.” Braiden was lounging in his high-backed chair, slowly turning a cufflink with a tiny twin snake on it in his hand, Nemaerys had caught glimpse of them in his sleeves earlier, but he had rolled them up after eating.
“We have plenty of room here, don’t we my dear?” he mused, Ophelia gave him a smile as sweet as pie.
Nemaerys found herself gazing around the grand room, smiling when her eyes met a spider, weaving a web between where the stonework met the wood on a bridge canopy above, it quickly scuttled away in a hidey-hole when the door was thrown open.
“My Lord, the Disciples come with urgent news.” A servant panted, he was quickly accompanied by two stout men, one was clad in a linen robe, the other clattering into the room in full plated armor, each step rattled off the walls like a thunderclap until they halted in unision before the stairwell.
Drathil sneered, and Braiden stood. The man removed his plate helmet, he was as blonde as the sun, unlike his counterpart, who was raven haired with an eyepatch. Nemaerys noted the breaking dawn Sigel on their tabards after they straightened up from bowing.
“Lords, Ladies, we are sorry to disturb your evening events, but we carry dark words from the city.”
“Elric Williams, isn’t it? Go on…” Braiden purred, but his tone was discontent.
“The necromancer Drustai, m’lord. She was apprehended by the guards in Stormwind, but she escaped by portal, or she dissapeared, or something - we don't know for sure. A mage tracked her, and said he found some residue to lead to he-”
More clattering rattled around the hall as two soldiers bombed it up the hallway with their weapons drawn. They had the Alliance Lion of the Stormwind Regiment on their tabards, Nemaerys recognised it from the city.
“The necromancer is believed to be here!” one of the guards bellowed, they didn’t take their helmets off. “Captain Bismack’s orders for us to report!” another shrieked
Braiden snorted incredulously, “You think I’m hiding a criminal I’ve convicted myself? Morons!”
“Nay, m’lord. We thought it best if you should know about the suspicious portal, and the whole ordeal.” Retorted Elric, gently.
“Very well, your observance is noted, now get out, all of you.” The four men and women retreated down the hall.
“Blasted Disciples, all Light followers are irrational you’ll find. And those Regiment pups are becoming as wild as their Captain.” Drathil rambled.
Nemaerys turned to her father, who was becoming a shade of purple. “Father, isn’t Drustai a lecturer in the Kirin Tor?” she had recalled seeing Drustai before, a lofty draenei woman who only came out at night from the sewers below, despite her time around waste and undeath, she always smelled sickly sweet, almost too much to bare when standing beside her.
“Yes.” Father spoke through his teeth, then abruptly rose from the table.
“I’m afraid I shall have to depart for now, Count and Countess. I shall leave my daughter in your care, my Lady wife and I shall return at a later date to see how she and your family are faring. I have to straighten a few knots out in Dalaran.”
She felt fear grasp her heart like a cold Mistmantle hand, “Father, w-wait!”
“Come Nemaerys, I want to have a word with you before I depart. Kings Honour, Count and Countess.”

He led her to the long hallway they walked down when Nemaerys was still free.
“F-father-… I-I don’t know if I can stay here.”
“What’re you talking about?” he snapped, Nemaerys winced, her tone like a mewling kitten,
“But-… I don-… They’re just not… very friendly, father.”
“Do as you’re told Nemaerys, you listen to me. This is how this world works, you win or you die.” He grasped her forearms firmly above the elbow and gave her a little shake with every word he announced firmly, “The strong live, and the weak die. You are a Courcelle, you are the strongest and you are worth more than all these Mistmantles, but you musn’t let them know that – someday you may join both our households and families together,” it all suddenly became clear, father was intending for her to marry the suckling Mistmantle when he came of age. Nemaerys had never really thought twice about marriage, she always lived believing she would marry her brother as is Courcelle tradition, but now she faced a whole new family and a whole new concept.
“What is our motto, girl?” his eyes were piercing, and his silver locks only enhanced them.
“Family is the homeland of the heart…” she whickered, defeated.
“Our blood is purest, you are doing the Mistmantle’s the honour, and don’t you forget it. Now kiss me goodbye, and go back to your new home.”
With a heavy heart, she made herself light on her toes as she knelt up to kiss her father’s cheek, before he turned from her, shrinking down the tunnel with brisk strides, Nemaerys watched the white tiger of House Courcelle that rippled and danced on his cape grow smaller with distance,

I am Nemaerys Courcelle, she repeated, and I am not afraid.