"Anchors."

Note: just a short piece - no real character development.

The ocean heaves, an endless, crashing symphony under an iron-grey sky. It is dusk, and the rough, far-off voices of captains and deckhands provide a coarse choral accompaniment to the sea's elemental rage. For the past several hours, ships of all sizes have streamed into Stormwind Harbour to escape the coming squall; the flat-bottomed transport barges were first, then the tallships which make passage to Darnassus and Valiance Keep, and finally the tiny, deep-keeled fishing smacks with their hard-bitten crews, reluctant to lose gold by returning to dock. The last handful are trickling in now, a few limping boats with their sails tightly furled and their crews hunched defensively inside oilskin cloaks and heavy boots.

Anselma sits in the relative shelter of the stone walkways which lead up into Stormwind proper. There is a neat alcove at wharf level which affords some protection from the biting winter wind; none the less, she is glad of her wool-lined cloak with its deep-cowled hood sheltering her face. The sailors stamp past her, eager to reach the warmth of an inn. Few notice one slight woman sitting cross-legged on an empty crate.

The bass rumble of thunder sounds in the distance, primal and threatening, and the sky tears open with lightning, leaving jagged purple traces across her vision as she closes her eyes. Everything about the City seems built to a larger scale than she has experienced before, and this storm is no exception. Anselma pulls forward her hood as a sudden, vicious gust of wind sprays a burst of hail sideways through the air. There is a strange thrill to watching the sea like this, ships listing and lurching in their docks and the waves spilling up onto the quayside flagstones. With little experience of sea travel and none of shipbuilding, Anselma struggles to understand how such perilously fragile constructions can withstand the forces of nature. Lashed to the docks, anchored to the sea floor, the vessels groan and strain at their moorings as if in futile attempts to break free.

Later, numb with cold, she returns to her room at the Gilded Rose, a snug, clean affair with low rafters and oil lamps on the walls. She paces, on edge and directionless, rudderless in Stormwind’s vast domain. As the wicks slowly burn down in the lamps she remains sleepless, remembering the abbey and Father Anholt; her harbour and her anchor.