Kouka Revamp ~ Female Version ~

When it came to the Feast of Winter Veil, the Argent Crusade
organizers surpassed the call of duty. No expense was spared, no
festive addition left unexplored. For every Azerothian who argued that
nothing good would come of such profligate revelry on Icecrown
Citadel’s doorstep, at least three more had reasons to counter. After
all, there was much to celebrate this year. The first major crack had
appeared in the Citadel’s armor shortly before midwinter. Despite
certain inflammatory leaders and the Lich King’s own designs, open war
between Alliance and Horde had so far been avoided. The alliance with
the Knights of the Ebon Blade continued to strengthen, and the military
presence from the Eastern Kingdoms and Kalimdor had solidified in
Northrend.



With both the high road and popular opinion firmly on
their side, the Argent Crusade set about creating the celebration soon
after the end of Pilgrim's Bounty. They called the event the Tournament
of the Winter Veil, because a grand elimination tournament would be the
climax of the festival. Orders were dispatched to every corner of
Azeroth, and were the subject of much speculation. Before long,
messengers and deliverers began to arrive at the Crusade's patch of
frozen earth in the remote northeast corner of Icecrown. They bore
invoices, parcels, packages, and manifests for wagon and ship loads.


Travelers
to the Argent Crusade’s daily jousts returned to their homes with tales
of the strange goods arriving at the Tournament Grounds: exotic metals
from the smiths of Thorium Point; strange fruits from Stranglethorn
Vale; fireworks from Saltheril’s Haven and Moonglade; livestock fat for
slaughter from the Barrens and Nagrand; bolts of cloth and barding from
the tailors of Darnassus; and barrels and casks of potent drink from
Gadgetzan, Sholazar Basin, Blackrock Depths, and the ogres of Blade’s
Edge—just to name a few.


Next, the invitations went out. For the
most part, these consisted of bright, eye-catching bills pinned to the
notice boards outside every tavern and town hall from Darkshire to the
Stormspire. A number of special invites, printed in the gold, silver,
and black of the Argent Crusade, were hand-delivered to certain
distinguished persons. Some of these meant to ensure the presence of
Azeroth’s leaders; others were appropriately flattering requests to
attend the invitation-only joust tournament that would comprise the
last two days of the celebration.


The Argent Crusade built a
number of wooden lean-tos and hoisted tents to house the anticipated
multitudes on the open ground east and south of the two Pavilion tents.
Indoors, the Silver Covenant and Sunreaver Pavilion floors were
sectioned off. Luxurious tents of silk, leather, and canvas were raised
there, out of the weather, to house the royal families and their
attendants. Long feast tables beneath protective awnings were placed
around the south and east wings of the Coliseum. The grandstands around
the Ring of Champions were doubled in size, and a large box built in
the center of the stands to comfortably seat Azeroth's nobles. Tales of
anticipated delights grew to the point that some worried that the
reality couldn’t possibly live up to the talk. Others were sure that
the Argent Crusade would keep a few surprises up its sleeve no matter
what.


At last, the opening day of the celebration arrived.
Thousands of people of all races swelled the Tournament Grounds.
Highlord Tirion Fordring officially opened the festivities, standing on
a platform before the Argent Pavilion and welcoming everyone to the
Tournament of Winter Veil. He had to shout to be heard, his words
passed back along through the crowd for the benefit of those at the
outer fringes.


With Fordring and his honor guard stood the
leaders of Azeroth. It made the mind reel to see such great folk, some
of them open adversaries, occupying the same space and waving to the
vast crowd—even if the Horde leaders kept rank on one side of Fordring
and the Alliance, the other. From the tauren Cairne Bloohoof with his
broad bare chest furred and comfortable in the arctic cold, to High
Tinker Gelbin Mekkatorque standing on a discreet box that allowed him
to see over the railing, every noble house of Azeroth's great races was
present.


It was five days before Midwinter. Highlord Fordring
reminded all those present that the Argent Tournament's usual rules of
armistice were in effect throughout the festival and would be enforced.
He went on to add that he was certain such enforcement would be
unnecessary, as the holiday spirit was thick as ghosts in the air. To
emphasize his point, he indicated the mist raised by all the mingled
breathing and talking. He got the laugh he wanted, waved once, and
stepped down from the platform with a smile and a handshake for each of
the visiting dignitaries.



Inwardly, the Highlord said a prayer of
thanks to the Light that the opening ceremonies had gone so well. The
periodic visits of Warchief Thrall and Garrosh Hellscream, coinciding
with those of Varian Wrynn and Lady Jaina Proudmoore, had in particular
worn his nerves thin. Adding the rest of Azeroth's noble families was a
gamble. At least, thought Tirion as he strode into the Argent Pavilion
in search of something resembling a large brandy, it was well begun.


Outside
the Pavilion, the revelers began to amble through the grounds. Many
folk had never been to the Tournament before and were openly awed at
what they saw. Even those seasoned fighters who visited regularly were
impressed. Garlands of holly and mistletoe bordered every arch and
doorway. Red, white, and green streamers wrapped around every post,
gate, and railing. At the stables, squires braided festive ribbons and
favors into the bridles of the Tournament mounts. Vendors hawked their
wares from the stalls southwest of the Coliseum and along the path to
the Aspirants' Ring in the northwest. Many of the these offered spiced
sweets free to children and hot drinks to their parents, earning them
extra business for this small kindness.


All manner of folk
thronged the grounds, from every race and continent, from infants to
bent-backed old warriors. The chefs worked all morning and afternoon
roasting and baking, and the brewmasters sweated to keep up with the
demand for the excellent and varied drink as the afternoon waned toward
evening.


The Crusade patrollers were on hand to put a quick stop
to any grievances, but on this first day at least, nobody seemed
compelled to fight. If one looked closely enough, it was possible to
see the occasional night elf give a brief smile to a passing tauren,
or—more incredibly still—to catch a Forsaken warlock stooped in a half
bow to a gnome child. People ate, laughed, sang, drank, danced, and
slept at will. The tables were laden and bellies were full. Teams of
musicians played lively tunes at each of the Coliseum's four wings.


As
the sun began to set, Jaina Proudmoore took her leave of the company in
the Argent Pavilion to saunter through the Tournament Grounds arm in
arm with her chamberlain, Aegwynn. Beneath long blond locks, Jaina's
face reflected the serene calm she was feeling for the first time in
she didn't know how many months. She strode without purpose, a relaxed
set to her shoulders. It felt delicious to be so totally at ease.



The
former Guardian at her side was by contrast as excited as a child.
Aegwynn had braided back her long gray hair and was looking around
constantly, trying to see everything at once, setting the plait in
motion. Her eyes were bright and merry beneath the wrinkles of age. She
was like some ancient spirit of the season, Jaina thought; she herself
had no trouble succumbing to Aegwynn’s infectious good cheer.


From
time to time, Aegwynn would let go long enough to dash over to a booth
selling trinkets or foodstuffs. After a few moments, Aegwynn would
emerge from her detour bearing a glass bauble to string about her neck,
or a giant turkey leg which she waved around like a club, or a souvenir
tabard to slip over her head. Jaina wasn’t sure, but she thought that
Aegwynn was wearing no less than six tabards layered over her robes.



The
two women passed the Aspirant's Ring and walked out to the northwest
ledge to watch the sun set over the palisades and the sea below.
Aegwynn finished her turkey leg, tossed the bone off the cliff, and
dragged her ample sleeve across her mouth. “Are you happy we came, my
Lady?” she asked, looking up at Jaina. There was a time when the
Guardian would have looked down by several inches on the archmage, but
the centuries had a way of bending one beneath their weight. “Or would
you prefer to still be shuttling between Dalaran and Theramore, buried
in the damned politics and paperwork you complained about leaving
behind?”


The sun burst from behind a fleeting cloud, bathing the
sea in molten gold and dazzling their eyes. Jaina turned her head away
from the brightness and laughed, hugging Aegwynn’s arm to her side.
“Don’t you dare my lady me, Aegwynn,” she retorted. “And the
damned politics and paperwork, as you say, will still be waiting for me
when I get back, deeper than ever.” She inhaled hugely, but shook off
the weight with a laugh instead of a sigh. “Yes, I’m happy we came.
Everyone needs to escape their responsibilities sometime, at least for
a little while.”


Aegwynn nodded. “And you have more than most.”
Turned as she was toward Jaina, she caught movement from behind them
out of the corner of her eye. “Too bad you can't escape them all,” she
added in a murmur.


Jaina felt the other woman’s tension through
her arm and noted the direction of Aegwynn’s gaze. Nodding, she leaned
her cheek against Aegwynn’s rough gray head, listening to the
now-audible footsteps crunching through the snow toward them. “At least
he’ll be fighting in the tournament, so I won’t have to baby-sit,” she
whispered.


Aegwynn whispered back, “The tournament’s two days away, and I don’t think baby-sitting is at all on his mind.”
As whispers went, it was an awfully loud one. Jaina resisted the urge
to elbow her chamberlain in the ribs as the footsteps stopped mere
yards behind them.



“Now, here's a lovely picture.” The voice, at
once haughty and warm, embodied the duality that existed to the core in
its owner, and to which Jaina had learned she must not give an inch.
Unfortunately, the man could be as charming and genuine as he was
volatile, which made her distrust of him—despite her outward show of
support—harder for her conscience to bear.


It didn’t help that he had recently begun to court her, making no secret of his intentions.Jaina turned smoothly, affecting surprise, reflecting nothing. “Hello, Varian,” she said pleasantly.Aegwynn,
not partial to such niceties, peered at Varian from beneath Jaina’s
chin and her own craggy brows. “Well, if it isn’t the king of
Stormwind,” she announced. “Now this is a nice surprise. Isn’t
it a nice surprise, my lady?” Her voice and face were all innocent
delight, yet Jaina sensed the mockery there and was sure Varian could
too.



“Thank you, Aegwynn,” said Jaina firmly, hoping to quell
her. To her horror, she found she was biting back laughter, rather than
dismissing Aegwynn to other tasks, as she often did when Varian visited
them in Theramore and her chamberlain was disinclined to be
cooperative. Which, Jaina thought, was most of the time where Varian
Wrynn was concerned. On that subject, Aegwynn was clear: Varian
represented the single biggest threat to undoing everything Jaina had
worked so hard to achieve since Lordaeron fell.


Jaina eyed Varian
warily. Her position was a unique one, on two very different fronts.
She represented the sole human beachhead in Kalimdor, which to Varian’s
ambitions was a perfect conduit through which to launch an invasion or
repel an attack in Horde territory. To Varian as widower, father, and
man, however, Jaina Proudmoore was nearly as tempting as her city. She
was beautiful, intelligent, well-bred, and independent. Jaina could
hear this opinion in everything Varian said, and didn't say. She
claimed none of those attributes herself.


What she did claim, she
hoped, was that she was also intimidating. She had helped to nurse
Varian's physical and mental health when he'd been only a shell of a
man—or, rather, two men. He'd healed and overcome many of his demons,
but she still had the psychological advantage of having known him at
his worst and most helpless. Since that time, she had stood firmly in
his way to prevent outright war with the Horde, counseling wisdom and
refusing to credit his rantings. Her power gave him pause. It was
probably the only reason he hadn’t asked outright for her hand.


Her
deeper instincts (and, frequently, Aegwynn) screamed that he was the
wrong choice for husband. He was reckless. He was dangerous, in more
ways than one. His sheer masculinity appealed to Jaina on a primitive
level, one that she often thought would make her life easier if she
didn't possess. His courtship, while disturbing in all its
implications, was also gratifying in a way that made her squirm in
self-disgust. That same weakness whispered to her on sleepless nights,
revealing that despite everything, some dark corner of her psyche still
loved Arthas.


Ignorant of the turmoil in Jaina’s mind, Varian
knit his brows at Aegwynn before according her a short nod. He turned
his attention back to Jaina. The sounds of music and revelry came
faintly to them across the grounds. Small groups of people strolled at
a distance, but no one else had chosen to watch the sunset from their
particular vantage point. Jaina stood in a nimbus of sunset light that
tangled in her hair like a golden crown. Her face was in shadow so he
couldn’t see her expression: just the curve of cheek and jaw as she
coyly laid her cheek against Aegwynn’s hair.


He wasted no time
coming to the point. “Jaina, do me the honor of dining with me
tonight.” Despite the courteous phrasing, it wasn't a request. Jaina
raised her head slowly, keeping her face expressionless. She had in
fact hoped to dine with Thrall, in an attempt to rekindle her recently
distanced friendship with the Warchief; to simply let him know she had
enjoyed their conversations on the bluffs above Razor Hill, and missed
them. However, she hadn't had the opportunity to speak to him about
it—he'd been spirited away from the Argent Pavilion right after
Tirion's speech by Sylvanas Windrunner, and between her and Garrosh,
he'd seemed to have his hands full. Informing Varian of her intent to
sup with his least favorite Horde leader would certainly dispel the
tranquility and happiness Jaina had felt all afternoon. She wasn't
ready to let go of it.