All in the Family

[Rigley]

They used to tell me I looked kinda like him. That I had his good looks, and my mother's smarts.

As time passed, I heard less and less of him. Eventually they just told me he was dead. Or missing. Mom told me it didn't really matter.


My father never held anything near the faintest resemblance of goodness. I could look at his passed out, drunken form for hours and couldn't find a single shred of dignity. Back then, I thought he was just a worthless old coot- But now, part of me wants to look past that. Part of me wants to, at least, find out why.

I suppose it's just hard to believe that the man that fathered you, however poorly, was really just as irredeemable as he seemed.


I hear from a lot of people that in between the jail time, in between his moves between women, children, families and one night stands, that somewhere down in his past there was a decent, humble young man, just looking to make something out of himself, like his own father never could.

I can't ask my own Ma what went wrong with Pa. I can't go back and see what happened to him growing up, or before he left another family for ours. But I can take a guess, and really that's about as good as I'll ever manage.

But if I can get a little bit of closure- If I can prove to myself that there was really some decency in his addled body- Then maybe I can keep hoping that there might be some hope for me.


They say Jack Barret Daviault used to be a good, hard worker. He was a decent man, making a living in Southshore. They even tell me he had a steady girl, and never once gave any mind to running out on another one on her.

Then, the second war broke out.

It was, from what I can best guess, where a young man got turned into a bitter, hardened soul. He was shipped down with the rest of the people volunteering to fight the approaching orcish Horde.

When I was a child, when I still held Pa up as something of a hero, I always wanted to hear about the war.

"Don't bother with any'a that crud" He told me; "War ain't worth nothin' to ye but an axe through yer neck an' a gold in some rich man's pocket."

But, I didn't have any of that, and despite his constant disagreement he finally gave in one day, and gave me the story I had been asking for.

"We had cut off for the day, and set up camp" He began, "Me and Faust from the farm were takin' up a ways back from a fire. Sleepin' was hard with the rocks an' unleven' groun', but we managed."

"'Bout halfway through the night I wake up, gettin' this wet feel on my ear. First I thought maybe it was rainin- But there weren't a sound of it in the sky."

I remember that he took a pause here. That he stared me over, as if he was thinking about stopping there. For a moment I thought he would, but he eventually kept going, seeing me there with bated breath.


"I turned my head, and saw Faust there, lying in a pool of his own blood. I saw him move- A greenskin, runnin' off as he saw me stirrin. I lit out after the bastid, gear or not."

I remember his eyes. They seemed to look at his hands, as if they had done something wrong. "I caught him. I remember how he looked at me; Grasping at me as I choked the life out of the sod."

He told me that everyone else was at a distance. That it was something to see that flame of life put out right before your eyes.

I say it was where his youthful vigor gave out, collapsed
from the shock. His friend's life was snuffed out, and so was that orc's- But his own was following short behind.

He can say he hates the greenskins as much as he wants. But they say that it was after that night that he had his listless stare. It was that night that he first nursed from the bottle, to cool away his pains. He learned what death looked like, and how close it had come to him.

I suppose I really can't tell.

-Maury Daviault

[Rigley]

Pa sent me a letter today.

Hi son

still a postman?

I don't know many of them, but the other kids of Pa tell me they get the same kinds of letters. Some scribblings on a scrap of paper, penned between bar hops.

I can't really say why he sends these things. It's not the first, and I don't suppose it the last. I always send the same thing back; I'm fine, dad. I'm still working at the postal agency, yes.

He usually doesn't reply for a year or so.


My guess is that, in wanting some fulfillment out of his years of waste, he's trying to find some greatness in his fatherless children. He's thrown seeds by the road, and comes to check on them, but he hasn't ever thought to water the things. Maybe if he tried putting all the wisdom he says he has to use he might come out with someone better than a man who drops paper around town for a living.

It's not like I feel any rejection or dislike for what he thinks of me. Instead all I can muster is some pity for him. He's a man, worthless to himself and to others, digging for years in one spot, hoping to find that glimmer of gold that will make him rich. All I have is disappointment for him. "No Pa, I'm not a rich businessman. No, Pa, I don't run the big farm you see on your way out of Goldshire. No, Pa, I'm not even a filthy politician."

I suppose you can't blame him. He's been so busy trying to escape his father's failure that he didn't pay attention to the cliff he was running right off of. I tell myself, though, that it probably wouldn't have mattered in my social importance, whether my drunkard father had stayed home that night to read us some bedtime stories; That all in all if he'd have taken us fishing, or hunting, every now and then, that we'd still pretty much end up the same, if with a few extra bruises for when he went a bit far on the bottle. I can say that all I like; But I know that, as I'm sitting here in my room staring at a sheet of scrawled writing laid out on my desk before me, if any of that had ever come true, I could write something other than this.

Yes, Pa. Still a postman.

-Maury Daviault

[Rigley]

Once, before Pa left me and my mother, I heard he went to church once.

He was never a man much for religion. To him, a man couldn't be a man if he had to stand with the help of some sort of bookworm's magic. Besides, there was work to do, when all of the pious were sitting in their pews. He believed in the sweat of his brow for his kind of salvation; The light was just a waste of time.

That one time I hear of was when I was a baby. My mother had already seen what kind of a man he was. She knew better, by then, but he kept her with him, somehow, until he didn't want her any more. They were in some sort of fight, that night; She told him she was going to leave, and she was taking her money and her children with her.

Now, I don't give my father too much credit that he was smart, or that he for a second understood anything about any of us. It wasn't a case of him knowing us, he was just damn manipulative. One more chance was something that happened about twice a week; Another promise, every few days. I guess verbal contracts aren't worth the paper they're written on.


This time, though, she got her way. One trip to the chapel; One service, and she would at least have some peace that night.

From what I'm told, he took his seat in that chapel, and stared the preacher down the whole time, studying him. I suppose he was looking for some sort of flaw in the man; Some sort of weakness that meant his words were just as wrong. I guess Pa found nothing, because I'm told he swore off drinking, and I guess he believed it so much that he managed to hold that an entire day.

In the end, though, it was just a passing bump. It was a speck of hope for my ma in a sea of liquor and sleepless nights. She didn't get hope much, from that man she knew only about once a month, when he got a nice bag of gold out of his gambling and turned up at least near decently shaven. Even then, that faded when the bottle took what wits he had down with him.

I don't suppose I know much about what he has to say about any religion, past that. I guess the only person who would know is Liselle. She doesn't get any letters from him. I think that's for the best.

[Rigley]

Back with my pa, we never had much, in terms of luxuries, growing up. We had a house, a fenced in yard, and beds for us all to sleep on. Now and then, we even had a dog out in the yard, until it ran off from under the fence.

For my ma, who was better off at a time, was above water before he drank her out of her money, it was a sad state. Her youth was running through her fingers like water, and we, her children, were all she had to keep some hope in her life.

We were oblivious to all the pain. Most of it. We were all in the gutter, in our home. Luckily, some of us were looking up at the stars.

All those days my siblings and I spent cutting lumber with our dad (And that was just about everyday, unless ma could convince him out of taking a sick one to work), we were stuck in high dreams for the future. I had thought I might make some sort of politician one day, up until I found out what it entailed. Instead I'm a postal carrier. In the same area, I guess, just delivering mail instead of lies. My other siblings had some of their own dreams, I'm sure, though in between pa and the lumber work I don't ever remember them being brazen enough to speak up about it. At least they had them, though.

Not that anything ever came of that.


We had our own visions of what was going to be in our future; None of it ever came to fruition, but it was miles better than being damned to what ma was. Every day was another page in her life, and not a single one read any different than the other. It was all a monotony of beer bottles, cooking, worrying. What glimpse she got of the man she had married was fleeting, and he was locked away deep within that addled, drunken mind of her husk of a husband.

We might not have had much, growing up. Ma gave her all to at least keep us above ground, even if she was sinking under trying to do so. Pa just laid out on the porch, firing holes in anything dumb enough to step near his yard.

[Rigley]

Pa's got a job again.

I didn't take his word for it this time-- I saw it for myself. Once a soldier, always it seems. I got a letter not too long ago telling me he was back in the military, sailing like he did before. I guess that's all he could go back to, the most familiar place he's ever been. I guess that's fine by me. It isn't any of my business, I know, but I like to hope he sticks with this. Even if I don't have any real feelings for the man I guess I get the idea that if he can pull himself out of a rut like the one he's dug there'd be a pretty good chance of it going uphill for anyone.


I'm talking too much. I got word that he was coming in just this week, and that maybe we'd meet up. It was a scrawl as usual, but I figured that it was enough of a notion to respond to. I never got word back from him-- probably never checked the box, as well as I can guess. Maybe he didn't expect me to say yes, or reply at all. Wouldn't be the first time.

He was coming out of a pub in Old Town when I got an eye on him. Drunk from the bottle with a smile plastered on his face, with an arm draped around some woman. No one I knew, and no one who really knew him-- probably the mother of another one of my extensive family come a few months, I expect. I was by the mailbox sorting out letters when he came my way, and as he ambled by our eyes met. For a moment he stared back, his grin replaced with a moment of confusion before his one night stand spoke up. His attention was snapped away, and once more he carried on without a second thought.

“My kid's a postman, y'know.” I heard him say. “Wonder if he's still around.”

I was thinking about chasing him down. 'Hey, pa. It's me'. But as I watched him move on with that woman that anger I still held for him just welled up. I didn't say anything. I just turned and walked off. Sure, pa-- have your fun. I just imagine how it'd be if he ever died; it'd be a whole room full just meeting all the kids he had.

I feel pretty sore for running off on him, but I just don't think I could have done it. If he wants to run out with some gal he met in the pub instead of trying to get a talk with his son in, then that's on him. He's the same man I always knew him to be-- he's just got his badge back and got himself trimmed up a bit.


I did get a letter back from him, and I guess that's the best I can ever hope for; just another scribbled bar napkin.

Sorry kid

I missed you this time

I don't know when next time will be. And I don't rightly care to figure it out.

-Maury Daviault

[Rigley]

I got a letter from him just a few days ago.

hey son

old town pub

I don't know if his pride kept him from asking what he really wanted to, or if it was just pure shame. Regardless I had some time to cool off since last I saw him. I decided to take the bait. It wasn't hard to guess where he was before, but I just couldn't bring myself to track the man down. I guess I just didn't care to.

When I got to the pub I eased in past the usual customers, and spotted him right away. He sat to the side, under the stairs, with a mug in hand and his head in the other. Inwardly I couldn't help smile-- I thought he was just down again; getting thrown out by his current girl, or something. I slowly worked my way through the tavern and into a seat before him, tapping the table to get his attention. When I did, he still didn't say anything. He stared at me, fingers idly running over his coarse beard as he straightened himself up before me, instantly assuming his usual slouch immediately after.

"Hey." he said. 'Evening,' I said back. I asked him if he wanted to talk to me, and he nodded, finishing up his mug and reclining back even further. From the way he moved I could tell he had been taking a few drinks too many already; I sat back, waiting for what I was sure was to be a fulfilling and completely civil discussion, only to have the man across the table from me plant his face down against the table beneath it, letting out a groan.

"You alright?" I asked him out of reflex.

He craned his head up to me, resting his arms on the table. "I got back with the marines, kid. You hear?"

I see, dad, I told him back.

"Yeah? Well, it's a good gig. Don't care too much for freezin' myself up North, but I'll go sailin' with the boys in blue any day. You still a mailboy?"

I closed my eyes in frustration and nodded.

"Well while you've been throwin' letters in boxes I've been baggin' planes and boats, kid. You ever give any mind to the military?"

I told him I hadn't.

"Damn sight more presentable than telling people you're some delivery boy, I'd say." he grumbled back. His eyes would snap to me as I began to stand, holding out a hand. "Hey. Sit it back down, son."

"I didn't come here to have you mocking me. I don't know why I came at all." came out of my mouth next, although for the entire moment of silence that followed I could have sworn that half of that was just in my head. I didn't try to wheel back, though; I just stood my ground, staring back into his eyes.


"I guess I deserve that." he murmered back, breaking the deafening silence amidst the bustling bar. His voice was deprived of its previous energy, and his eyes stared away, blankly into the distance. "I brought y'hear to tell you somethin' though, boy. I really did."

"I'm listening, pa." I replied, my anger silenced some by his somber tone.

"My ship's out today. I ain't goin' with them." he told me. "Had t'get myself checked out by the medical officer."

"Where are you going with this?"

"I ain't doin' well, kid." he said, his expression of stone and his eyes dulled of emotion. He searched around his bag, throwing a crumple piece of paper across the table to me. "They say I got troubles in me, kid."


I quickly took the paper, giving it a once over. It didn't take long to skim over-- straight and to the point. "Pa, you're getting sick. You know that, right? It's all this booze and cigs that are doing this to you. What the hell's wrong with you-- you read this and you go hit a bar?"

He growled, snatching the paper back. "No son of mine tells me what I'm gonna do, kid. You shut up before I beat some sense into you."

I quickly backed off, seeing his other hand, clad in plate, clenching tight. I nodded, quickly sinking back into my seat. He grunted in reply, nodding slowly. "They tell me I don't got too long. Wrecked, they said. Told me I should stay off the ship; don't need t'be takin' care of me when things go bad."

I didn't really know what to say. In the end, I didn't say anything at all. He stared back at me, his brow wrinkling as the silence passed.

"You gonna say something?"

"I don't know what you want to hear from me, pa."

He would recline back, folding his arms and staring into his mug. I began to rise up; clearly this wasn't going to end well.

"Just thought y'might would want to know."


"I thought I would too, pa." I managed, before turning and walking out. He might have said something-- I didn't listen.

I was telling him the truth, too. I had thought about it before; if Pa didn't come back from his trip out on the sea, or if he bit off more than he could chew in a bar brawl. It was always something I though would be quick, though. A message I would get after the fact. Instead he was just sitting there, worn out and ragged, fading out like a flame burning up its kindling.

It was a pitiful sight.

[Rigley]

It'd been about a week or two since I'd seen him at that bar.


Since then I had tried to forget about what he told me in there, and what I said to him. Trying to forget it just made me think about it more, though. I still can't say I could hold any love for the man. I could feel bad for him on principal, but not for him as he is. I don't know if that even makes any sense, to tell the truth.

At any rate, this time the letter wasn't from him. It was from the military, telling me where to find him. He'd been stuck in an infirmary, apparently. I guess his binging didn't buy him any more time than he already had. Strangely enough, he still didn't look all that bad. He looked... strange, though. His eyes and skin looked to be tinted with yellow. The bags under his eyes were darker, deeper. In general he just looked wrong. Like his life was just drained.

At least that's how he looked.

“Don't know why you're here.” he told me when I came in. I didn't say much of anything-- I just took a seat near his cot, and waited for his rambling to start. Which is why I was even more surprised when his expression softened, and his eyes seemed to dull out some.

“You're here to watch, ain't ya? See your old man done in before he burns out.”

“That isn't true, pa.”

“Might as well be. I know hate when I see it, boy. That look in your eye. I seen it in every greenskin I've thrown my axe into. I've seen it in all of those fel-suckin' elves and those cultists from the north. You may not want to kill me but you sure as hell don't care to see me go.”

I turned my head down, trying to formulate some kind of response. I didn't think he'd ask what he did, though.

“Why?”

Because of a childhood I didn't have. Because of a father who's idea of fun was running out on the family for some floozy and a cheap beer. 'Cause I was the kid who had to help your wife through the heartache you left behind when you ran out of town. I hate you because you're immature. I hate you because you're rude. I hate you because you're a disappointment.


“'Cause of what you did to the family, pa.” was the only thing from that list that came out of my mouth, though.

His vision went to the wall once more. His muscled arms folded over his chest, his attention seemingly drawn away from me. I waited and waited, but eventually I got the hint. This wasn't something he was talking to me about. It never was.

“I wasn't all that bad.” he said, once he managed to compose himself back up. “I taught y'to shoot. Taught y'to hunt.”

“You taught some kids how to get dinner when you spent all the coin on booze, pa.”

“I went fishin' with ya.”

“Once, and you were shootin' the fish.”


He went quiet once more; I guess he ran out of things to say. Even through all I knew about the man I couldn't help but feel a bit sorry. He brought his hand up to his head, rubbing along the creases gained from years of anger which littered his brow. After a long while he looked back over to me.

“Y'can go now.” he told me, nudging his head towards the door. “Take that with you. Pass it on to Kate if she's still running around.”

I walked over to the wall where an old, rustic rifle sat. It showed years of age, but it still gleamed like it was meant to be on display. Engraved in a gold plate on the stock was the word 'Kate'.

“Named that thing after her. She might as well get it.” he murmered. “Now shove off, boy. I ain't got anything more to say.”

I only nodded and made my way out, rifle in hand. I don't know exactly what he has in mind in sending this away, but I guess I can't refuse a dying man's request. I felt like there was more to say; something that was missing on that walk out. In truth maybe its better that I just left right there.

I suppose I'll mail that gun out tomorrow. Don't guess she'll care either way. I don't suppose I would either.

[Rigley]

After my last visit with pa I didn't make any plans on going back. I saddled up for another week of work, and just went on my way. Every now and then I'd get a letter from the infirmary-- That he was doing better, or worse. I didn't pay it much mind, and even now those cards are just sitting crumpled up in a trash bin back at the post office. I kept telling myself that it didn't matter, and that if I pulled my attention from it I would be all the better. I tried my best to keep my mind from it, and for a while that worked.

Winter's Veil has a way of just turning any kind of sentiment like that into one string of guilt, though. I don't pretend that I was acting out of anything other than spite, but seeing the happy families in the streets and delivering gifts and cards from friends and family from far and wide just put me in a real glum mood. It reminded me of all those years I was a kid-- when Winter's Veil was something I could spend with a family. A dysfunctional and fragmenting family, but a family nonetheless. These days I don't have anyone. Except Pa, in a weird way. Come next winter I won't even have him.

I made a point to go visit him come the last of the month-- maybe celebrate the new year with him. But life has a way of screwing you over at each turn, and I guess it hasn't had its fill of me yet. When I was out on duty I got a notification from the infirmary. It was short, and to the point-- Pa was going. He wouldn't make it through the night, even with all they could give him. I took off, and ran over.


When I came in I didn't see anything like the man I once knew. Pa was a strong guy. Rough, tough, with a stare that could burn through you to the core. What lay on that bed wasn't any of those things. He was weak. Feeble. His eyes had a sickly yellow tint, as his skin did. His skin was taut and in his golden beard and hair I could see small gray strands, tangled and unkempt. When I entered he didn't even try to talk to me; he just rolled onto his side, and motioned me away. When I walked to his side and took my seat he turned away once more, hiding his face like a shamed child. Under his breath I could hear him repeating one phrase slowly, over and over.

“Pa, you alright?”

He grunted in response, wheezing as he rolled his shoulders.

“Pa?”

I got nothing. I figured it better to just sit and wait for him to come around to me, so I did. But after a while of waiting I realized that wasn't going to happen. He was showing something he never wanted me-- or anyone-- to see. He was dying, and he knew it. He was afraid. Even in the face of death itself though his pride was there. He couldn't let me see him like this. He couldn't let his boy know that he was anything less than that seasoned veteran he had made himself out to be for so many years.

“You don't have to keep this up, pa. I'm not here to make a fool out of you.”

“You're here 'cause there ain't much time left.” he finally said. His voice was worn and raspy, and each breath seemed to be made only with great exertion. Tentatively he rolled himself over onto his back once more, setting his addled gaze back up onto the ceiling.

“I never did mean t'make you mad at me.” he told me. “I never meant any of it.”

“I know, pa.”

“It ain't something I've ever meant. I was just doin' what I thought to do at the time.”

“I know, pa.”

His face wrinkled up, and his brow furrowed. I tried not to look right at him, to try and keep him from hiding off again, but I could see it pretty clear from where I was. There were tears in his eyes.

“What could've been, boy...” he murmered. “Guess life's just full'a coulds and shoulds. It's too late fer all that, though. It's all over but the shoutin' now. If there'll be any at all.” His voice was droning, reduced to a gravelly mumble. For a long while he continued to stare at the wall, and I did the same. It was probably only a few minutes 'till he spoke again, but to me it felt like hours. Just dead air, complete silence save for his labored breathing. I stayed there beside him all through that day, making conversation where I could and shutting my mouth where I needed to. It wasn't my idea of a good day, but then again it wasn't all bad either. It was the most time I had spent with pa since the family split. For a while he was almost talking to me normally, too. By the time night was falling though I knew he wasn't going to make it much longer. He had dropped back into his listless gaze at the ceiling, and the most he would say to me was just one phrase, muttering it in between his fading heaves for air.

“What could've been.”


They asked me to clear out of the room a while after-- that he needed attention, and they didn't want to deal with the relatives when they were working. I waited outside the room a while, and then some more. By the time the doctor came out I pretty much knew what he had to say to me.

“Mister Daviault is gone, sir.”

He tried to explain to me the details-- complications with his insides, how all his consumption had wrecked his body on more fronts than they could possibly manage. All I could do was nod-- since I couldn't make much of the jargon I just took that first line and mulled it over in the back of my mind.

Pa was gone. Not out on a run for beer, not run out of the house, but gone for good. After the doctor gave his condolences he let me go, saying he would get a proper burial by the military. I murmered out my thanks and left, taking the long way back to my home. It was far into the night by now, the city silent, like it was paying some respects as well.

I never though I'd care when Pa died. I never thought I would be sitting there for him up until he went, either. I always said I'd sooner make a trip into Orgrimmar than attend his funeral when the time came.

Yet here I am, dressed up in the best clothes a postman can buy. The service begins in half an hour. I don't know if Kate, Liselle or any of the others I sent out to know, or if they'll show either. That isn't my business. Here I close this journal. Like Pa, the only thing I'm left wondering is what could've been otherwise. I guess that's just something I'll only ever be able to know in my imagination.


~Maury Daviault