[Work in Progress!] To Dine and Die.

[[No, it's not finished. No, I haven't spell/grammar checked it, proof read it, and I jumbled/change stuff as I went along. BUT... I thought I'd put it up here as a -work in progress- (I'm open to suggestions!) It's an account of Viatrix's final night alive! And... I hate to disappoint, but we haven't got to the dying bit yet. >.>'' Setting: Lordaeron, the day Prince Arthas returned, early evening.]]

Lady Viatrix Verranos hobbled awkwardly into the room, her vast form blocking the squalid street from view as the doorman slammed shut the solid oak behind her. She was welcomed by the warmth of a wide hearth murmuring on the far side of the room and the mumble of muted conversation. A few nearest to her turned to nod politely in her direction, most were absorbed with the food spread around the room or the company surrounding them, thrust tightly together in the darkening confines of the cramped lounge.

The space would have been large enough, although – she observed – it was hardly as opulent as the Travis Estate where she had stayed the night before, but it was brimming with the bustling aristocracy of the Capital City. It was a delightful gathering, and she stood, for a moment, simply soaking up the scene and savouring the smell of sizzling roasted boar from the nearest platter. Her hungry smile stretched to a broad grin as she raised her hand to wave playfully at Gregorian, who only smirked in return. Yet, as she wobbled uneasily into the room, she sensed a shadow of discomfort in the tone of conversation that rippled towards her.

But talk could wait for a moment more. She unclasped her lilac travelling cloak and passed it to the patient attendant, stopping for a moment to explain with a patronising frown that she had imported the material from Kul’Tiras and it was not to be creased, stained or torn. Now she was easing her way over to the platter, striding with a bumbling sort of elegance to snatch something to eat from the smouldering pile. Plate in hand she turned back to face her society. The unforgettable prattle, the scent of rich dishes, the sight of lavish furniture: all of it infused her with a formless memory of youth, so that, as she gulped down the wine offered and grinded down the succulent pork belly she found, she felt ageless, herself enriched by the richness of that room, comforted by the familiarity of it all.

Now, satisfied, she plunged eagerly into the crowd. Viatrix squeezed, with difficulty, her massive form between the islands of acquaintances around her. She waved apologetically when a few self-important gentlemen complained at being shunted aside by a mass of wriggling flesh, draped rather neatly in a violet gown. Eventually she broke into a space at the centre of the room, shunting aside a persistent young lady on her last step, leaving behind her a widened path and islands of high society, confused, annoyed or astonished by her size. But such a commotion was worth it all, because before her was a couch decorated with crimson cushions, coated with a thick satin drape and perfectly empty. With a sigh she sunk with surprising skill onto the seat, the wood groaning in protest as the weight settled onto the fragile frame.

Closing her eyes for a moment she drunk deep from the stream of chatter surrounding her. She could hear the drone of Annison, repeating some dull thesis which he had been on about since they met at the Garret’s. From the distance drifted the grating pitch of Elizabeth Van Talen, who thought it vital that everyone should know she had seen the Prince’s return a few hours ago with her own eyes! Nearby two gentleman were discussing some battle from some recent war. The war which had raged beyond her polished world, the war she knew of but did not know in truth, the war that had not quite touched her childhood in Dalaran: she could remember only rumours of it, whispers at gatherings like this and strong men departing the city in solemn silence...

“-Lady- Viatrix? Viatrix?! Oh, come on ‘V’, don’t be such a bore!”

Her eyes fluttered open; her mind swam back to the present. Standing in front of her was Mortimer Montague, the perfect gentleman, holding out a glass of Eversong wine, grinning teasingly as Viatrix heaved herself up from a passing rest.

“The purple does suit you! Have I not seen you wear it before..?”

Mortimer winked slyly at the comment; she took the wine, glowering sulkily upwards from her cosy slump on the pillows.

“Oh very funny, Mortimer. Have I not heard that joke before..?”

She strained a chubby arm out, trying to reach round to the bowl of apples on the table behind him. Her efforts unsuccessful, she snapped her fingers, shooting a gloating glance at Mortimer as the fruit drifted towards her on a wisp of purple smoke.

“Very clever! I don’t think I’ve seen that one before either.”

He moved forward to pluck the apple from midair, but it sped away from his grasp and into her outstretched fingers, fidgeting with greed. She took a large bite, juice dribbling down her chin, never taking her engrossed gaze off the man.

“You might tell me... I was listening earlier to some nonsense that Talen girl was prattling on about-...”

The scream sliced through the room. It was distant, but in the street outside a struggle was clearer. The door flew open. Silence flooded in. A hurried, haggard group of beggars were jostling their way over the threshold. All stunned stares were focussed there.

“No, I’m sorry, we don’t allow dogs in –here-!”

Sir Bradshaw, or that was who she thought it was (for she could only hear this commotion at the door), broke from the gathering to wave the group back onto the street with well bred disdain. The insult broke the spell of shock, the room laughed, relieved as well as amused, and turned inward once again. The door swung shut on the pleading poor, but pity had been left in the cold with them.

Viatrix turned back with an incredulous gawp at Mortimer, noting the fuss for a retelling at a later dinner and chuckling at the thrill which accompanied such an exciting intrusion of her polished world. But the perfect gentleman was gone, diving into the crowd around her, which now throbbed with the same thrill.

I love it! The writing is at the same level of the Duskmantle novella. As 'Bekka said, it is hard, and I respect you for this! (More than I already did)
And I did chuckle when I found out Via was overweight in life... No offense!