Notes1: So...high elves. I've read the answer Ion gave during the recent Developer Q&A while following the high elf thread on MMO-Champion. I'm of the opinion that high elves should be included as an allied race in the future, as void elves kind of scratch that itch for the time being. However, I'm also of the opinion that the more fanatical pro-high elf advocates shouldn't resort to threatening Ion with murder and gang rape, as well turning to celebrities like Johnny Depp to give voice to their cause (and let's be real here, I don't think Johnny Depp is going to do anything at all; that's just ridiculous and reeks of desperation and the deeper problems that plague the Discord channel where most of the fighting broke out). On the other hand, I utterly loathe the smug condescension the anti-high elf people are showing everywhere I've looked that's discussed the topic, not to mention propagating all the memes that have come out of Ion's answer as their go-to response. Like, yeah, I'm aware of the 'World of Elfcraft' memes that most posters in the official cesspits like to grumble and scream into the void about to make themselves feel better, but it makes sense for elves (even now, after the Fall of Quel'Thalas) to still be more numerous than, say, humans.

But I digress; people want to play as the same tall, fair-haired, 'majestic' elf...but as Alliance. Some of them may like void elves, but I think people tend to forget that the Ren'dorei, as they are now, are former blood elves—Sin'dorei...which, going by Ion's response, doesn't make much sense? Because if we are to take his words at face value and agree that blood elves are high elves (which they are, I will agree with him on that), what would that make the high elves on the Alliance? These notes are pretty much the gist of what I have to say regarding the issue, but to me I think Ion's response was no different than how the anti-high elf posters respond: condescending (specifically, the eye contact comment about blue eyes). Perhaps not as strongly as most of the posts I've seen, but I think you can tell just how often he's been asked the question about playable Alliance high elves and how...tired? Annoyed? he is about that, and he knew full well he was going to get shit on as well as how much of a reaction it'd get out of both sides.

Seeing that Blizzard is big on class fantasy and racial identity (something which I approve of, to allow room for diversity so long as there are justifiable reasons for them) I think there can be ways to distinguish Alliance Quel'dorei from Horde Sin'dorei. Although the MMO-Champ high elf thread is rampant with constant back-and-forth bickering (or, as my folks like to call it, talking/discussing/debating and isn't that the biggest crock of shit you've ever heard?), there are some wonderful and neat ideas that have come out of it. So I decided to write this story for the more moderate pro-high elf posters, and also for the anti-high elf people that think the pro-crowd should be given Alliance high elves, though they themselves are not fans of them. Although I will admit this story falls more towards advocating playable high elves, it does present both arguments for and against changing the high elf name. Not to mention it brings up the problem of population number inconsistencies that Blizzard can't agree on, because if the high elves are fading way, why are the Silver Covenant and all other high elves not affiliated with them still around? It's more of a silly story with the usual black humor associated with my works, so it's really open to interpretation regarding the issue of playable high elves and, therefore, no definitive right or wrong answer. That is simply for the reader to decide for themselves.

"I'll just say this one last time, because I'm getting a headache and, don't take this the wrong way, I can tell you're getting one, too," Marvolo tells the man seated next to him. "I'm not Sin'dorei anymore; no one that was exiled with me is. We are Ren'dorei…but that doesn't make us Quel'dorei, you understand? Because we were Horde prior…or, well, we were, but not for a very long time; it was actually rather short. Rommath caught onto us and sent us packing when Umbric told him we weren't going to stop what we were doing. We had very good intentions, you see, and we still do."

"It's still a dangerous power you're contending with," says Tanith, and still, Marvolo laments with silent annoyance, he doesn't tear his gaze from his reflection in the canal. As if he's hoping the elements will suddenly spawn and drag him underneath where he won't have to put up with the conversation again.

"It's not so much different than bargaining with the elements! They're wild, they're chaotic, they don't really have any manners unless you parley to them, and—"

"And they don't have the propensity of driving me insane."

"Well. Yes. You're right. But don't you ever wonder if their demands are too much? You're just one elf!"

"It's not so bad," Tanith says, shrugging. "I can't say I'll ever give as much as an Illdari, but something has to give and something has to take. There has to be some sort of balance. Between chaos and order, you know."

"Is that why you're Quel'dorei and not Sin'dorei?"

"In a way. I thought about studying druidism when I was younger, before the Fall, and it was part of the reason why I couldn't bring myself to mana tap the wildlife for my own survival. I remember thinking 'there has to be another way', so that's why I'm here in Stormwind with my cousins and not my family in Silvermoon."

"Do you miss them?" Marvolo asks.

"Sometimes. Used to think about them a lot more back then, but I've moved on from worrying about it every day. Besides, I made some good friends among the Wildhammer and in the Earthen Ring," says Tanith, and gives the void elf a small, warm smile. "I suppose if I had stayed with the rest of my people, I…well, I'd probably know just as much about shamanism as I have in the Alliance, but I would've never gotten to know all the friends I have made or the family members that were born afterwards. I would've been Sin'dorei…Quel'dorei." His brow knitted frustration.

Marvolo frowns severely, nods knowingly. "So we have come full circle," he intones. Then, deadpanned, "Again."

"Oh, shut up. I know what I am."

"Do you?" Marvolo asks, and he really is being kind; he's been nothing but, so it wounds him slightly when his companion's forehead gains more crinkles and his lower jaw clenches even more.

"I do!" Tanith exclaims. "Oh sure, the Sin'dorei are ethnically Quel'dorei by default, but our politics and ideologies are so different from theirs! Can you imagine what a blood elf would say if they saw someone like me, or one of their own, take up shamanism? I'd be no better than the common dog, and the Farstriders get enough of that nonsense from the Blood Knights and everyone else that have the run on Silvermoon City! Maybe some of us like to go abroad. Maybe some of us don't like being surrounded by buildings a couple hundred feet tall and long, dark alleys not just in Murder Row but everywhere else when daylight sets."

He shudders, rolls into it by straightening his posture and rolling his shoulders. It makes the green and blue war paint—tattoos?—stretch and squash with the motion, sees the lean muscle flex underneath his pecs, something Marvolo tries not to pay attention to. "Look, all I'm saying is, I'm still Quel'dorei—Alliance Quel'dorei, not Horde Quel'dorei. It's no different than us having Kal'dorei Highborne and the Horde Nightborne Highborne; it was only the Nightwell and now the Arcan'dor that makes them appear physically and physiologically different. In that regard, it doesn't make Alliance Quel'dorei and Horde Quel'dorei too much different because we used to have the Sunwell and now we take it upon ourselves to quench our thirst with artifacts or learn to maintain balance with Pandaren monks and their practitioners."

"Why didn't you become one?" Marvolo asks, and takes a sip from the flask of sweet nectar he likes to carry around (and just so he has something to stare at other than half of Tanith's chest that isn't covered up by his robe). "A monk, I mean."

Tanith flushes. "I can't hold my alcohol. At all. And I never did like the taste of most of the stuff I've had."

"Monks aren't all about brew."

"No, they're not." A shift, and when Marvolo is sure he has composure under control and the flask feels decidedly a little emptier than he would have liked he turns to see Tanith sitting up and leaning back on his palms, staring up at the sky. "I guess I never really considered it. Monk teachings never really spread throughout the world until the mists parted, and even then the only way you could undergo training was either through the Northshire Abbey or the Scarlet Crusade."

"The Auchenai are still around," Marvolo notes.

"You mean the ones that aren't corrupt and twisted."

"Not as many as there used to be." Tanith sighs. "I guess if they'd come earlier, I might have. It's no big deal. We kind of learn from each other, anyway; the shaman show them how to harness the elements, and the monks show us how to more effectively harness Spirit energy, as they lack the ability to commune with elementals, unlike their shaman." He looks at Marvolo curiously. "You hardly see any Alliance high elves study that."

"Study what?"

"Shamanism. Not even druidism; I'm sure you've heard of the druids from Lordaeron that joined the Alliance because the Old Horde was defiling the land, right?"

"I have. Elves are just naturally more attuned to magic."

"So were the night elves, and the Highborne weren't allowed back into the fold until after the Shattering. It's the one of the major reasons why they turned to druidism under Malfurion and shunned the arcane for thousands of years."

"I think mages are always going to outnumber outliers like shaman and druids; it helps they have a leg up on the Sunreavers by having better access to Dalaran, especially since the Purge and their readmittance. Alliance high elves, that is." Marvolo grins at the low, rumbling growl coming out of Tanith. "You fellows ought to get yourselves a new name, since the Sin'dorei have already taken it."

"Such as?"

"Oh, I don't know. Can't call you Nature Elves or Wood Elves; I believe the Kal'dorei more or less fills that niche. Magic Elves? Why, the Sin'dorei and Shal'dorei have got that covered! Can't call you Light Elves, either, because I've heard all the Blood Knights and the priests that draw from the Sunwell have golden eyes now; golden!" Marvolo laughs. "Ah, you'd think they were druids! And, well, Lady Alleria has been teaching us how to wield the Void and resist the whispers, so it makes sense for her to call us all Ren'dorei."

"You're not even big enough to be considered a battalion," says Tanith.

"And that's the thing!" Marvolo exclaims. "I hear all the time that the Alliance Quel'dorei are fading away, that some of you are mingling with humans or the younger races; and maybe that's true, to some extent. Half-elves are uncommon, but sometimes you can't help who you love! Sometimes it helps to be a rebel! But ten percent is still an awfully large number, yes? Nowhere near as large as ninety percent, at our prime, but not all of that ten percent stayed with Lor'themar in Silvermoon, so let's say…hmm, round it out to about…five percent? No more, no less, who have left for Alliance lands. That's still a decent-sized number, don't you think? If we were under the threat of extinction, the end of Alliance Quel'dorei as we know it, then wouldn't it have made sense to not commit the Silver Covenant or Dalaranian mages to the battlefield so readily? Shouldn't we be more concerned with promoting boosting fertility and chances of conception?"

"It must not be much of a problem if Ranger-General Windrunner keeps jumping at the chance to get a shot at any Sin'dorei Farstrider, Sunreaver, and what-have-you that crosses her line of sight," Tanith scoffs. "That's like asking why the Horde are sending their men and women out to fight when most of them consist of survivors that have been almost systematically wiped out over the years." Tanith counted on his fingers, one by one: "Demons and night elves and humans for the orcs; centaur for the tauren; murlocs for the Darkspear. The Bilgewater goblins and Huojin pandaren came in by boat, portal, and balloon, but I can understand their numbers increasing after Garrosh was disposed. The Forsaken have no means of reproduction so they have to resort to necromancy and reanimation to make more of them. Everyone else that's joined up with them—the ogres, the Mok'nathal, the Mag'har from this universe, Revantusk, hozen, taunka, the hobgoblins and the leper gnomes—were either invited over time or given the ultimatum to join lest they want to be wiped out."

"You forgot about time travel," Marvolo says. "Oh, and Draenor. The orcs could bring in all the clans just as the draenei could bring their own: the Rangari, the Auchenai, the Sha'tari Defense."

"A lot of people seem to want to forget about Draenor."

"A lot of people want to forget things so it makes them feel better when in reality it doesn't magically make the things that which they despise most disappear from existence."

"That means the majority of Azeroth."

"And themselves, if they hate themselves so much. But Draenor, like it or not, is here to stay; I'm more than certain there's a reason why we weren't able to contact them and vice versa during the Legion War."

"You mean the Third Legion War."

"Right, right. I'm sure we'll hear from them eventually, just as we'll hear from Lady Vereesa and the Silver Covenant once again." Marvolo takes another sip of the nectar, but not too much. He reminds himself to go back to Old Town and purchase more later today. In bulk, this time; being fully immersed in Void has made him hungrier and thirstier than he was as a blood elf. High elf.

"Low Elf," he says aloud, after a few minutes have passed between them in companionable silence.

Tanith picks his head up. "What?"

"You should call yourselves Low Elves," Marvolo reiterates. "Blood Elves—Horde Quel'dorei—are tall, fair-haired, majestic. They rule from high on up. They are holier-than-thou. You, the Alliance Quel'dorei? You are…ruggedly majestic, in your own way." (They really are, he tells himself. It has nothing to do with Tanith's physique.) "Adventurous! Down to earth! Romantic! You are the wild antithesis of the Horde Quel'dorei's domestic arcane!"

"Low Elves," Tanith mutters, purses his lips, and for a moment sits in quiet thought. Then, shrugging, "That's not a bad name. Would take some getting used to, though. I don't think the Ranger-General would take it too kindly."

"All that matters is what you think. Let Lady Vereesa grandstand as much as she wants! If anything, renaming yourselves will prevent further confusion among both Alliance and Horde Quel'dorei. Since the Sin'dorei are Quel'dorei (and they are, but for clarity's sake let's call them as such), then that would make the Alliance Quel'dorei…hmm, Ava'dorei? Mor'dorei? Ah!" Marvolo snaps his fingers. "Nan'dorei!"

"Now you're just spouting off random Thalassain! We're not 'unwilling' or 'dark'. We didn't even turn back from anything!"

"Well, I would call you Fal'dorei, but you're neither from Suramar nor are a spider. I would much rather you be like the deer that's fashioned on your armor!" He points at the single pauldron on Tanith's left shoulder. Indeed, it is almost carved in Malorne's likeness (it's a little too lifelike for Marvolo's taste, but he's not going to bring it up).

"Or, better yet, a wolf! Or a raptor!"

"That's an orc thing," says Tanith. "And a troll's, too."

"Who says it has to be?"

"I'd rather be a unicorn, to be honest."

"Now why didn't I think of that? You can stand there looking pretty in one moment, and in the next, BAM!" Marvolo smacks his flask into an empty palm for emphasis. "You just gored your enemy right through their baby maker! That's a wonderful idea, mate!"

Tanith gives him a worried, searching look. "This is a side to you I haven't seen before. You're normally so…what's the word? Serious?" He glances at the flask suspiciously. "Are you sure that's not alcohol?"

"Of course not! It's much too early to be hitting the sauce! Even someone such as I have the aptitude to indulge in a little bit of fun now and then! Which makes me curious," Marvolo says, giving the flask a little shake. "I wonder what would happen if a void elf were to become inebriated. Would the whispers get stronger or weaker?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"I'm wondering that myself…but Lady Alleria ought to know, yes? And the brewmaster initiates, too, learning from the experts…hmm."

Tanith scoffs. "Trying to see how low you can go, huh?"

"And how deep we can go." Marvolo rewards him with a grin full of mischievous glee. "Let's go tell Lady Vereesa."

The shade of red the shaman's face deepens into clashes horribly with his earthy outfit, but goddamn does his reaction make up for it. "What? No! Are you crazy? Marvolo! Marvolo! Get back here!"

Cythara watches the high elf shaman (A Light-be-damned shaman!, she thinks again with the same amount of incredulity she experienced not five minutes ago) push himself to see his feet, stumble, catch himself, and chase after the void elf…mage? Warlock? Nearly every void elf she's seen so far looks the same, but whatever he is he's already up and running down the path that leads into Old Town. When she blinks the shaman is an elf, face painted and chest drawn with abstract tattoos, but when she blinks again the elf is gone—replaced by a gryphon, white plumage with an otherwise brown body, and it's squawking indignation, impatience, and his talons are clacking after his companion with loud, knife-like click-click-click-click-clicks against the cobblestones.

Then they are gone, and Cythara can only blink her green eyes and shake her head in wondering disbelief.

Population numbers? Fertility boosts?

Low Elves?

Well, they bring up some good points, she surmises. In all the years she's been in service to the Horde—from peaceful Thrall to bloodthirsty Garrosh, to patient Vol'jin and now to cunning, quiet Sylvanas (It should've been Baine, but what's done is done)—Cythara has always found it strange to see the high elves—the Alliance Quel'dorei—front and center at every battle that's been at the heart of Azeroth's safety: the assaults on the Frozen Halls in Icecrown and then Zul'Aman in the Ghostalnds, the Purge of Dalaran and the Isle of Thunder, and the Nightfallen rebellion in Suramar City. Their soldiers had been cut down; she gave them some of those deaths, but each time she saw them there would be more of them than the last and they would become more persistent. Held together by the leash wrapped around their Ranger-General's hand, if she wanted to be blunt.

So how in the Sunwell were the Alliance Quel'dorei still around?

And what in blazes should they be called? The Alliance couldn't call their high elves 'high elves' now. That was their name! Her name!

All these questions and more assailed Cythara's mind…but then she remembered what she had come to Stormwind for. Remembered what the Warchief ordered her to do ("For your sake and mine," she had said. "Do this for me, and I will reward you greatly.") and how long it would take and how much longer it would take the longer she stayed here. So Cythara stuck to the shadows (that might not even be safe now, she adds, and can't repress the shudder in time at the thought of the void elf on the pier) and went on her way.

When she returns to Orgrimmar's Embassy a few days later, she presents her report to Lady Sylvanas. Off to the side Nathanos is glaring at her, but Cythara's seen and felt sharper edges from a kitchen knife than a pair of angry eyes that have lost all their luster, so it's no big deal. On the opposite corner by the entrance she came in, Thalyssra is talking to Lady Liadrin, laying out the details of possibly constructing a telemancy network all throughout Kalimdor so as to transfer some of the peons laboring away on finishing repairs on the zeppelins damaged in the Legion invasions over to the project (and maybe grant them some higher education; she doesn't want to give off the impression she's eavesdropping too much). Liadrin's a bit of a blowhard with all her championing of the Light, but she's okay; it's Thalyssra who's the bee's knees, so seeing her gives her the confidence she needs to approach the Warchief.

Sylvanas opens the vellum scroll and reads through the contents, eyes skimming over studiously, head bobbing knowingly. "Yes…Yes…this is good. Very good. Thank you, Miss…?"

"Cythara, Warchief."

"Miss Cythara. I will admit, I did not expect to receive this much intel. If you are willing, I shall like to call on you again when the time and need arises. I wish to look this over until then."

"Of course, Warchief. I am at your command."

Sylvanas nods approval. "Willing, able, and actually competent enough to get the job done. If only more people could be like you." Maybe Cythara's imagining things, but out of the corner of her eye it looks like Nathanos is shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Draws up his shoulders and rumbles something under his breath. He looks like a turtle, a turtle trying and failing to look intimidating, and if the Warchief wasn't present she'd be laughing her ass off. But Cythara has manners and knows how to keep a straight face, so she keeps it cool and waits for her superior to dismiss her. Which she does, just as she thinks it: "You may go now, Miss Cythara. When I am ready, I will send word for you—"

She's in the middle of closing the scroll, almost has it shut when she looks down. Unrolls it slowly, bends it so she can see better and reads the postscript. Pulls it away from her, blinks, and then brings it right up to her face and reads it again. There's a blank look on her face when she pulls it away and sets it on her lap.

She looks like she's seen the Shadowlands. Escaped it and went through it again. Everyone notices it; even Thalyssra and Liadrin, who have stopped talking. "Warchief?" the latter asks.

"My Lady," Nathanos says, and moves to go to her.

Sylvanas shoots up a hand that stops him midway. "What is this?" she asks, pointing at the scroll. "At the very bottom?"

It takes all of Cythara's willpower not to squirm. "I got curious," she says, and there is no way in hell she is going to lie to the Warchief who is more than capable of screaming the soul out of her body just because. "I was making my rounds throughout the city when I came upon them. I thought nothing of it at first and, uh, started to get going when they brought up, you know, that. All of it."

"All of what?" Nathanos sneers, whirls on her, and takes a step forward. "What are you hiding, girl—"

"Nathanos, you take one more step I will demote you so hard the peon will have more authority over you, I swear it," Sylvanas says—cuts into him like a knife, and he freezes where he stands. This time Cythara doesn't want to laugh anymore. She knows for a fact it will mean having the soul screamed out of her and her body more than six feet under when the Banshee Queen pins her down with a gaze now filled with bright, wicked steel. "Tell me why."

Cythara shouldn't repeat herself. She shouldn't ask questions that are going to come off as stupid—anything, really. But she does, and it's as juvenilely idiotic and deathly tempting as it sounds: "Why what?"

"Tell me why you put this in here," Sylvanas says, and taps a long-nailed finger against the parchment. "Tell me why you thought this was so important to include in an intelligence report that could spell the end of the Alliance as we know it."

This is it, Cythara concludes, biting her lip. This is what it comes down to. Either I lie to cover my lapse in judgment…or I be honest with her. Either way, I'm going to die. I don't know what she'll do with my body. I don't even know what she'll do with my soul…but I'm sure she'll think of something. I'm sure there are ideas going through her head right now. 'What's the best way to stuff a body?' or 'How can I make a person suffer eternal agony without dying?'

Be a woman, Cythara. Father said it's a sin to tell a lie, but it's the fool that never prosper. Fools always ruin everything, and I am, indeed, a fool. A very foolish, very brave fool.

At least Father will be glad I'm being honest for once. "Because I want to hear your opinion on it."

Sylvanas stares at her.

Nathanos, Thalyssra, and Liadrin stare at her.

Cythara stares at Sylvanas.

Total silence.

Then: "Out."

Cythara's ears twitch. "Eh? I'm sorry?"

"Get out."

"My Lady, I'm sorry. I still can't hear you—"

"GET OUT!" Sylvanas snaps, rising to her feet. Liadrin and Thalyssra jump in their seats. Nathanos does the same thing, backpedals away from her, jaw gaping. "ALL OF YOU! GET! OUT!" She points them out the door.

"Lady Sylvanas!" Cythara exclaims. "I just want to know—"

"I WILL HAVE YOU KNOW THE TRUE MEANING OF SUFFERING IF YOU'RE NOT OUT BY THE COUNT OF THREE!"

"But—!"

"ONE!" Sylvanas stamps her foot down, hard, causing dark magic and the necromantic rot that comes with it to erupt and overtake the crisp taste of bonfire smoke and clean water. It's foul and sweet and all the answer Cythara needs to spin on her heel, run out of the building and not look back.

Thalyssra glances between Nathanos and Liadrin, utterly and totally bewildered. "Wait, why do I have to leave? I didn't do any—"

"TWO!" She points at her, and that's Liadrin's cue to sigh explosively, dramatically, and yank Thalssyra up to her feet by the collar and out the door, mumbling apologies and Thalassian curses on the way.

Nathanos slowly, cautiously, approaches her. "Sylvanas," he begins in as low and gentle a tone he can muster, "it's alright. I'm here. You don't need those buffoons. You have me. If you can just show me the paper, I can help you and we can figure something out—"

Sylvanas whirls around and gives him the most tight-lipped, murderous glare he's ever seen. He looks at her, takes in the wide, shining crimson eyes set in a face that has gone draenic purple (the kind of purple that puts the beloved 'blueberry' nickname for the voidwalkers to shame). He mimics a dry swallow that makes his throat, licks a dry tongue that runs like sandpaper over his lips. "On second thought…I think I'll get going—"

"NOW!" The decorations on the walls and the weapons in their rack rattle with the force of her yell.

It's enough to blow the hair back from his head and the skin around his mouth to pull away. "Okay, okay! I'm going! I'm going!" He double-times it out of there before Sylvanas can get another word in.

She doesn't. She lets him go and settles back in the throne, clutching the scroll in a death grip. Were she still alive, she would be breathing heavily now, have the sweat drip down her face and neck as it used to Way Back When, have the blood rise into her cheeks and make her so hot she'd think she was on fire. (A memory rises, suddenly and unbidden: it's of a time when her and Alleria were still in the Academy, still trying to one-up their classmates in target practice and archery contests, and when whenever Sylvanas failed to hit her mark or placed lower than first her face would turn that bright shade of red, of crimson; Alleria would grin, the goddamned fiend, laugh and call her The Cat Queen because her face and the way her ears went back against her head made her look just like the springpaw lynxes that roam Eversong, and that doesn't help at all, she's heard enough people whispering when they thought she couldn't hear them that she's a closet cat lady who aims to win allies over and conquer the Alliance by setting loose all the cats she's harboring in the Underhold or in Silvermoon or the Undercity, but none of that matters; what matters is that they're somewhere, and when she deems the time right she'll set them loose. She'll set them all loose and—)

Sylvanas decompresses. She lets the tension seep out of her and slides against the back of the throne until she's nearly sprawled over it.

She recalls a couple years ago, during Garrosh's trial (and what a fantastic idea that was), her and Vereesa taking a walk around the grounds of the Temple of the White Tiger. It had been a recess period for the rest of the day, so while the jury wallowed in their own misery and the Celestials quietly deliberated in their clothed forms away from the hubbub, Vereesa invited her for an outing. There had been a plan they were concocting; there should have been a plan, Sylvanas thinks now, a plan that would have gotten the meathead out of the way forever and prevent the whole mess of the Broken Isles and Argus and all the azerite cropping up all over the world from ever happening. It would have been a great plan, and when they had found themselves a seat that was removed from prying ears and listening ears, Sylvanas had been more than ready to go over the details with Vereesa in a way she hadn't thought she'd ever experienced again: excitement. Anticipation. Relief.

(Regret, for what she was going to do to Vee when it was all said and done, but she didn't have to know. She'd be told it was an accident, it had been done in the heat of the moment but that she meant well. None of those things were even remotely true, but what Vee didn't know wouldn't hurt her. Not for long, anyway; the kids would have Arator to parent them, they'd have the Light. Vereesa always stuck out like a sore thumb no matter how hard she tried to distinguish herself from the dead war hero and the undead traitor. She would fit right in, with the cold and rot and shadows.)

All of that crumbled away when Vereesa said the words that made her feel condemned all over again: "I've been having a problem."

"A problem?" Sylvanas asked, feigning cool detachment, but inside she was hot, she was blazing. She was wondering what went wrong and what she could do to fix it. "What is it?"

Vereesa made a face, as if she'd swallowed a lemon whole, and looked away. "It's nothing serious."

"It must be, for you to have brought me all the way out here." Sylvanas scooted closer. "Tell me, Vereesa. Tell me what it is that ails you, and I will be sure to deal with it as…professionally as possible."

That little frown got deeper. "I don't think you can help me with it."

"I won't know until I try."

"It's kind of stupid, actually, but I've been thinking about it off and on for…." She became quiet.

"For…?" Sylvanas drew out slowly, patiently.

Vereesa purses her lips and nods. Just nods. "A very long time. Years, Sylvanas. It won't leave me alone."

"What do I have to kill?" the Banshee Queen asked.

Vereesa started. "What?"

"What do I have to kill?" she asked again. "Give me the name, the last known location, and I will get rid of it for you. Them. Whatever it is. I will see to it firsthand."

"It's not a thing, Sylvanas! I mean, not a creature or anything like that!" Vereesa clicked her tongue against her teeth; it was something she did when she was getting annoyed. "It's not even a person!"

"Then what is it?" Sylvanas asked, keeping a tight rein on her impatience. "You have to tell me, otherwise I can't help you—"

"It's about elves."

Sylvanas blinked. "Eh? Elves? Elves in general or elves in specific? Like night elves, high elves, blood elves—"

"Blood elves, Sylvanas. And high elves, too."

Sylvanas nodded. "Okay. What about them?" Vereesa didn't speak, seeming more hesitant than lost in thought. "Tell me, Vereesa. What is it about the high elves and the blood elves?"

She thought she would have to repeat herself, thought she might let that old childhood frustration slip through and tell her to cut the crap and demand an answer. She didn't have to when Vereesa said, "I had a talk with Halduron Brightwing a while back. Like, going on a couple years ago now. Before the attack on Zul'Aman."

"Okay." Okay. They were getting somewhere, but at the pace they were going a snail would outrun them. "What did you talk about with Halduron?"

"About nomenclature."

She let that sink in. Then, a little disbelievingly, "Nomenclature? Over what?"

"About our people," Vereesa said. "And politics. And ideologies. Miscegenation. Oh, and ethnic groups."

She let that sink in even more. "What," was all she could manage. With a little more emotion, but with just as much incredulity: "What brought this on?"

"It wasn't my idea! Halduron brought it up!" Vereesa said a little heatedly, settling back upon realizing she had leaned up and got into Sylvanas's personal space. Her cheeks were flushed with both the cold and a little embarrassment. "It was a few days before Vol'jin came with the Siame-Quashi," she added, when she had calmed. "Halduron came up to me on my side of the camp and asked me if we could palaver: he said it was nothing fishy, nothing serious. He just wanted to talk and need my opinion on something, so guards weren't necessary. I didn't believe him at first, but I had assumed it was about our plans for the assault, so I went with him to a spot away from the camp where no one would hear us.

"He asked me what I thought about giving the Alliance Quel'dorei a different name."

"A different…Why?"

"He said there was some confusion among the Sin'dorei. They were saying how they were still blood elves despite the name change and that they wanted to be distinguished from the ones that went with me in exile. He said if they refuse to honor their fallen by at least changing their name or accept the fact that the Sin'dorei were still Quel'dorei in body and spirit, then it would be in the Alliance Quel'dorei's best interests to change their name to reflect their nature and avoid promoting recurrent perennialism."

"Hah?"

"I told him it was a bunch of poppycock," Vereesa sniffed. "I told him the moment they decided to roll with the Horde they were no longer high elves. They might be my people, not mine anymore, you get what I'm saying? I stuck with my morals. I wasn't about to sacrifice an innocent animal's life just for a little mana. It's not their fault our land was in such turmoil and decided to do what was right by them and by myself! So I told Halduron where to go and never bring it up again. I told him I liked my name and wasn't going to change it anytime soon; and who would, Sylvanas? Who would, after everything we've been through? We changed it way back then to separate ourselves with the Kal'dorei, and that's about ten thousand years between then and now so that's plenty of time for people to change based on diet, climate, the Sunwell. It makes sense. So he walked away, and that had been the end of that."

"But it wasn't," said Sylvanas.

"No," Vereesa agreed sullenly. "No it wasn't, and it got me thinking. It got me wondering, and by the Light, Sylvanas, I didn't want him to be right. I didn't want to agree with him. So I went to Auric. You remember Auric Sunchaser, right?"

Sylvanas did. He had gone to the Academy with Alleria, was one of her closest friends along with Lor'themar Theron. Nice guy, if a bit paint by the numbers. Mother had been so hoping they—one of them—would woo her daughter after they had graduated and secured their place among the Farstriders, but in the end she was crushed when Alleria balked and then laughed at the idea of being with either man. It would not have come as a surprise to her then, had she lived long enough to see her oldest child befriend the first of the human paladins, become close, and bear him a son. She would have simply said it was 'a very Alleria thing to do'. So Sylvanas said, "I do."

"I went to him," Vereesa said again, picking up where she left off. "He had been in Ironforge, talking to Kurdran and Farseer Javad, one of the draenei shaman, in an office by the Great Forge, so I waited outside for him until he was finished. I managed to get him someplace and told him what Halduron told me, and asked him what he thought about it." She shrugged. "He didn't seem too happy about it, but he also said that if cut down on the confusion between the Horde and the Alliance then perhaps Halduron had the right idea." She looked up at Sylvanas. "Auric always wanted to see our people reunited. Together under a single banner. Did you know that?"

She did not, so Sylvanas told her: "I did not." Then: "What did you think?"

Now Vereesa did that thing when she wanted everyone in the vicinity to know she was asserting her authority (as much as she could, given how small she was compared to Alleria and Sylvanas herself) and how right she was and how wrong they were—she drew up on herself, shoulders squared and set back, ears tall and quivering rigidity like a gnomish Alarm-o-Bot going full blast. "What do I think? I think they're wrong!" (Eyup, Sylvanas thinks.) "What would they know? The high elves belong to the Alliance. The blood elves belong to the Horde. This is right. This is how it's supposed to be. I mean, it's not like unity is ever going to happen in our lifetimes. Why should I care about a few elves that left their morals at the door and joined the very group that almost wiped us out? Let them be called blood elves; they have enough of that on their hands already, so it suits them. I don't need to change my name. I can and will honor my people my way, whether they like it or not."

Damn, Sylvanas thought, nodding all the while throughout that little speech. DAMN, she repeated, because everyone in the Windrunner family knew that once Vereesa got going, she got going. There would be no stopping her, and anyone that tried would get quite the mouthful from her, along with wide blue eyes that made her seem more like a deer about to eat the arrow with its name on it than the springpaw lynx about to jump someone and rock their world. Little Sister Justice, Sylvanas used to tell Alleria, when Vereesa had stormed off, and Alleria would clap her hands to her mouth and try so hard not to bust out laughing and have the whole neighborhood staring. Mother would give her an exasperated glare and Father would snicker until he was put under that hooded gaze and was silenced.

Sylvanas had no intention to have Vee go off on her; the girl's fire went out as quickly as it started, and she could it see now in the way Vereesa slouched and stared moodily at the clasped hands in her lap. "So that's your answer then," Sylvanas said.

"It was my answer back then and it's still my answer now," Vereesa grumbled. Beneath the curtain fall of the hair between her eyes, she looked up at the Banshee Queen, suddenly curious. "But what do you think?"

"Eh?"

"What do you think about the high elves changing their name? I mean"—Vereesa raised a shoulder in a shrug—"I'd rather not; we've already had to adapt to losing the Sunwell and Silvermoon to the Horde, Quel'lithien, Theramore…we've changed too much as it is. To change our name would be to change who we are as a people."

"Then just stick with the name you have," said Sylvanas.

"That's what we're doing, Sylvanas. If anything, the Sin'dorei should change their names. They're not high elves! They should be…I dunno, Light Elves, Cloud Elves, or Holy Elves! Whatever shoves that stick further up their ass!"

Sylvanas mulled it over. "…Then that would make them high elves. I mean, the only difference between your people and Lor'themar's is ideology. You're both technically high elves."

"No, we're not, Sylvanas!" Oh Darkness, Vereesa sat up and was giving her the wide-eyed, patented Windrunner glare that threatened her to take that back; murder was usually the next step, but words had as much bite and punch to them as an ass-kicking did, and this was Sylvanas. Where outsmarting Sylvanas was concerned, an ass-kicking was the worst and last thing to do.

"Yes, you are. We can talk in circles and I would still be right."

"You're wrong!"

"I am not," Sylvanas growled, and thought, This is stupid.

This is still stupid, she thinks now, and the scent of burnt paper wafts up her nostrils. She looks down and sees the black fire sprouting from her fingertips, sees the edges of the parchment crinkling, blackening, and burning away. Scoffing, Sylvanas wills the magic under control where it recedes back into her veins and only the stench of sulfur and decay remain.

They had bickered back and forth like children in the cold daylight afterwards until eventually Sylvanas simply said "Nope, don't get me involved", got up, and stalked away. Vereesa, for her part, told her to get lost and blew a raspberry at her retreating back. "I don't need your opinion, anyway!" she had said, and that had been the last she had seen her. At least until the next day, when she came to the Banshee Queen, sullen and forlorn and apologizing profusely for losing her temper ("But I'm still right!" she had grumbled). Sylvanas had said "Eh," said there was nothing to worry about, and shortly thereafter they went back to scheming the right way to assassinate Garrosh and make it look like an accident.

(Sylvanas stops herself from thinking anymore about that.)

She sighs and rolls the scroll shut. You should have never put that in, she muses of the blood elf that's all but hightailed it to Razor Hill by now. Maybe she'll have reached Sen'jin Village and stop once she realizes a witch hunt isn't out to get her.

The girl got too curious for her own good, but one little lapse in judgment isn't going to stop Sylvanas from hiring her again. She'll just have to omit it from the report before she allows Velonara and the other dark rangers in the know about the next course of action (she doesn't even want to imagine the reaction they'll have if they see it). They'll be moving onto Stormwind soon. And if that doesn't pan out, well, there's always Teldrassil. For what better way to push the night elves and their allies out of Kalimdor than by taking the very tree they held sacred? And when all their leaders were rounded up and taken care of in one fell swoop…

At least with them, she won't have to put up with any more of those stupid, cyclical, headache-inducing arguments. Good riddance to that.