Log in

tower of light

February 2017

Powered by LiveJournal.com
nemu - pain

[World of Warcraft]Kataphileo (Duncan/Catelyn)

Wrote this because, after my second stay in Booty Bay. I became convinced that Catelyn and Duncan had the hots for each other.

Title: Kataphileo
Pairing: Duncan/Catelyn (World of Warcraft)
Author: Renata Lord
Disclaimer: NPCs belong to Blizz, duh.

Kataphileo [Greek]: v., to kiss repeatedly, intensively, and earnestly.

The daughter of the Archmage had beautiful eyes. In the smoky and comfortable dimness of the Salty Sailor Tavern, shrouded by the flickering candlelight shadows, they glittered before me like semi-precious stone.

"Put something 'tween his shoulders and I'm sure he'll give it up."

I was taken aback by the faint but unmistakable Dalaran accent that echoed through her tough-girl speech. The aristocratic sound of arcane mysteries, of dust and quill ink in that long-fallen kingdom—it was utterly strange to encounter it here, in a bay embraced by savage blue water and blood-colored sails.

The young lady had used politely veiled words for an execution request. I think I even detected a smile dancing around her lips.

Still, it was time to get busy.


"Pretty Boy" Duncan was of course no longer a boy, but too—what else, pretty—to be perceived as a man’s man. As I watched him from afar, his jet black hair made a striking impression amidst the fair-complexioned Blood Sails. He stood by the fire pile, the runed blade glistening in his hands as if it had always belonged to him.

Apparently unaware of his imminent demise, Duncan was chatting with his cohorts by the fire. He talked loudly and laughed even louder, and a pair of blonde mages seemed to unable to contain their girlish giggles around him.

So he was a charming one. I had encountered his type before: a kind of person who would grin brilliantly at his prey with an open and honest look on his face, but with their hearts as cold and hard as the depth of the sea.

Oddly enough, when I thought of this, the image of the Catelyn sprung to mind instead.

Perhaps it was because he had mentioned her name just then. Something about how he had taken the dagger instead of a more traditional momento, knowing it would lead her back to him.

“Her nick is Catelyn the Blade, isn’t it? Well I’ve got the pretty blade. Any hour now, she’s gonna walk through that tunnel and come to me.”

The mage girls gave their indulgent disapproval for this scheme.

As for me, I lied there waiting for the opportune moment.


When I brought the knife back to Catelyn, the blood on it had already begun to dry. The blade was partially coated by a sinister red sheen, its luster now dulled with the aftertaste of murder. Nevertheless, she seemed to take great joy in recovering her treasured weapon.

I watched as she tenderly touched the unclean blood on her blade, as if savoring the taste of blood through her touch. Then she held up her marble white hand, caressed the knife's sharp tip momentarily—

—And pressed down with enough force to puncture through the skin. Fresh blood flowed down then, enveloping the dead man's own.

Perhaps it was a ritual of victory, of commemorating enemies vanquished at long last. After all, as I’ve been told by a lady named Garona, a woman is made by equal parts in violence and wile.

But as I watched it, all I saw was blood kissing blood, their shades and scents mingling on the cold metal.