Chapter 4: Hands of the Merchant's Mercy
Priscilla Ashvane accepted the rum with a gracious nod, sinking into the sofa without a care for decorum. Her attire evoked the briny decks of Kul Tiras: a fitted jacket and shirt straining against her generous bosom, an outer coat trimmed in fox fur draping her shoulders. Tight trousers hugged her full thighs, ending in sturdy boots that spoke of command at sea. She blended ladylike poise with the crisp vigor of a merchant queen—an allure that ensnared nobles like sirens, leaving them begging for a mere sip of her favor. Many had tried to court her, dreaming of toe-kisses or bathwater's dregs, only to wash up rejected on her indifference. It only amplified her mystique: the plump maturity of a woman who bent the world to her will.
"What troubles you, little prince?"
"My father has granted me leave to ride with Uther the Lightbringer and the Alliance vanguard. Those orcs are formidable foes—and intriguing prizes. Whispers say they hail from a distant world, bearing arms and wonders unknown to Azeroth. I'll claim their heads and lay their treasures at your feet, dear aunt."
Arthas spoke with grave intent. Poverty gnawed at him; self-made wealth was his forge for power. Command of coin meant armies loyal not to crowns, but to coffers—pillars for his rising empire.
"And for that, I need your backing. Auntie, care to guess the revelation the Holy Light bestowed upon me?"
Treasures stirred the merchant in her; sleep fled her eyes. She savored a draught of rum, its fire kindling her smile. "Ever the schemer, my prince. War's no jest—guard your life above all else. As for spoils? Bah, your safe return outshines any hoard. Name your desire; it's yours."
How many lords schemed for a sliver of her ledgers? A single voyage's profit eclipsed a baron's yearly tithe. Maritime trade was a gamble of storms and serpents—not for the faint. Yet Priscilla, barren of sons, cherished Arthas as her own. His honeyed words and filial warmth had woven him into her heart; had he not been Terenas's sole heir, adoption might have tempted her. She adored him fiercely, a surrogate flame in her hearth.
"Two frigates under my banner, armed to the teeth with cannons."
Arthas knew firepower's edge in mortal clashes. Kul Tiras's fleets crushed leviathans with broadsides and ballistae; on open waves, even heroes' spells paled against iron hail.
"Done—and I'll spare you five, fully crewed. But return them post-victory, intact as you found them."
She grinned, her full figure shifting with easy grace—the motion sending Arthas's pulse racing. Maturity's bloom, intoxicating as spiced wine.
"My thanks, Auntie. Tonight, in my chambers—I'll share secrets worth the voyage."
He fled before his body's betrayal showed, cheeks aflame.
"Hah! Such a spirited lad."
Priscilla's laugh rang bold and unashamed. She'd spied his arousal—impressive for his youth. Pride swelled in her chest; at her age, to stir a prince so? Flattering, indeed.
Night cloaked the palace as Arthas retreated to his quarters. Quill in hand, he scrawled feverishly on vellum: Southshore, the Hinterlands, red dragonflight, dwarves, trolls. Pivotal threads in the Second War's tapestry. Plot-knowledge was his edge; he'd harvest boons before divergences unraveled the weave. Gains demanded bends in fate—inevitable. The art lay in maximizing the yield.
Mid-scrawl, he set aside the notes, hefting longsword and shield for courtyard drills. Time-killing, yes—but also honing edges sharp as regret.
Paladins branched threefold: Retribution's wrath for slaying, Holy's grace for mending, Protection's bulwark for enduring. Arthas had chosen the last—death's sting too final for risks. A tank's pinnacle? Foes broken not by blade, but by unbreakable will. Unslayable, they'd weary and shatter.
His arsenal unfurled in the mind's eye:
*Devotion Aura: Consecrate a five-square-meter field of Holy Light. Allies within regain 1% life per second, suffer 5% less harm; foes take 10% extra wounds. (Basic)*
*Avenger's Shield: Infuse your shield with Light, hurling it to strike thrice—bouncing foes for 150% weapon damage. (Basic)*
*Consecration: Summon a hammer of judgment upon a single target, dealing 200% damage and kindling Holy Power. (Basic)*
*Block: Wield shield to parry strikes, absorbing 60% of incoming fury. (Basic)*
*Crusader Strike: Expend three Holy Power to lunge forward, smiting nearby enemies for 150% damage. (Basic)*
*Word of Glory: Channel Holy Power to mend self or ally, restoring 20% max health. (Basic)*
Six foundations: heal, guard, smite—a balanced arsenal. Arthas knew not if all paladins mirrored this, but his echoed the old game's echo, if fleshier. No cataclysmic blasts, but endurance to outlast tempests. Gazing at locked tiers—levels gating greater might—he felt a thrill of tomorrow.
An hour's sweat later, truths diverged from pixels: No cooldowns bound him here. Stamina alone set the rhythm; Holy Light knit fatigue like mending cloth. Drenched yet invigorated, he felt boundless.
Maids attended his bath, their hands a prelude to repose. Submerged in scented steam, Arthas pondered war's windfalls—maximizing amid chaos. Then, from behind: two skilled hands, firm and sure, tracing his chest before kneading shoulders with masterful pressure. No maid's feather-touch—this was command, bold and unyielding.
Arthas's eyes snapped open, twisting to behold: Priscilla Ashvane, her gown shed for a silken shift, cheeks flushed with wine's glow.
"Auntie!"
"Brat—what's the surprise? You've seen me unclothed aplenty."
Her voice carried rum's husky edge, breath warm against his ear. How many bottles had she claimed? Her jade hands persisted, usurping the maids' role with intimate ease—fingers digging deep, easing knots born of blade and burden.