"Ouch ..."
The little gnome looked down at her needle pricked thumb, raising it to her lips to help banish the pain with a so domestic kiss. A brow raised, as she retrieved her traitorous needle and once again set to the task at hand. Carefully she embroidered, weaving threads laced with the deep mana highlights of a spell wrought pattern.
"They say my father was a tailor, Mezzy ..."
Fingers smoothed the cloth, the touch gentle, slow and even. In and out, through the material the fine thread was weaved.
"I ... I don't remember much of Father. I can't ...can't even remember the color of his eyes, the shape of his face, the sound of his laughter."
The young woman paused in her work, raising it before her, turning it this way and that before returning it to her lap.
"It's mostly just impressions, if I close my eyes and try real hard I can remember how it felt, of belonging, of his warmth, of being cared for ... of knowing no matter how cruel the winter wind bit that I could never be cold beneath his cloak."
She smiled quietly, eyes closing, for a heartbeat or two.
"I'd hope ... I hope he'd be proud of me ...
"I'd hope ... I hope he'd smile, seeing us walk through the soft white snow drifts of home."
Next to her the little lamp flickered, casting its crystal light in a gentle sphere, keeping the night at bay.
"I wish ... I wish I could remember. It's like an emptiness, Mezzy, like a leaf falling in Azshara, caught on the breeze, tossed wherever the fates choose, adrift ... alone."
"Mezzy ..."
The little warlock looked up, her smile to the great blue voidwalker small, so small, but honest, true.
"But when I sit here, deep in the night, with needle and thread, as he must have, beneath the stars of Kharanos on a quiet night, I know one thing, I know one thing in my heart, one little truth against the darkness."
A breath, gentle.
"I am his daughter."
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