Rise of the Sun Princess

by meghollywood

It is believed that Kael'thas Sunstrider was the last heir to the Sunstrider throne in Silvermoon City. But was he...?

"You need not say anything during the initiation, understand? You are to stand still while blessed and salute when it is appropriate. And for the sake of the light please remember that this is a high priest and you will be expected to show the utmost respect to him, Wrenne! Wrenne….Wrenne? Are you even listening to me?"

"No," she replied softly, breathing in deeply the rich perfume from the clump of peacebloom she had just harvested. She knelt in the tall grass, directly under a beam of sunlight that slashed down through the thick greenery of the tall oak and maple trees around her. She loved these trees that were maybe thousands of years old, solid, secure and unchallenged; a safe haven, much like Northshire itself. Thus far the 18 years of her existence had proven uneventful. The stories she'd heard of evil creatures both human and non human, plagues that left thousands sick and dying and wasted vast expanses of land and the army amassing to destroy everything and everyone she knew and loved…these were still just stories to her. She had been raised here, in Northshire, in a small cottage with a strict but loving aunt, and had been little more than a serving maid in the great castle until two years ago, when she had finally been forced to take vows and begin training as a priestess. The decision had not been hers. She had argued violently with her aunt, claiming she wanted not a life of adventure and danger, but to live quietly here in Northshire, among the fruitful plants and trees, safe with her kind neighbors. She had no intention of leaving this secure little town. She could not accept that a place as peaceful as Northshire could ever fall.

She had lost the argument. Her aunt, Corinna, had sat her down on a sturdy wooden stool, hands firmly on her slender shoulders.

"You are so young yet, Wrenne," she began reproachfully and Wrenne's gaze slid sideways, towards the heavy oak door that Corinna had left open. Even from here she could see the distant high walls of the mountains that surrounded Northshire and helped to keep the value safe. She wanted to be out in the hills, gathering peacebloom to bring to the priests at the abbey. She wanted to come to them warm-skinned from the sunshine and fragrant from cutting the sweet small flowers, so they would laugh kindly and praise her for her skill at finding the flowers even in their trickiest hiding spots. She didn't want to sit here and be lectured about duty and nobility by a cranky aunt who seemed to live her life in fear that all the lore of Azeroth must be true and they were indeed surrounded by evil incarnate, slowly closing in from all sides. Wrenne had convinced herself that these events were taking place much too far from here to ever have any significant impact on her life. She had heard these stories told as far back as she could remember, yet the days of her youth passed in relative peace. She felt untouchable in the valley and had no desire for change. "You are young and I am sorry to say rather naïve. Northshire Valley has been undisturbed for some time, yes, but I have seen darker days and I am aware that there are more dark days coming," Corinna shuddered and gripped Wrenne's shoulder tightly, causing the slight girl to wince. Corinna caught Wrenne's longing gaze and grabbed the girl's chin, pulling her face hard so that Wrenne was forced to meet her stout aunt's cold gaze.

"Listen, child! Already there are small gangs of bandits and thieves moving into our fields and land. We, who have been sheltered so well for so long are weakened in our defense. We have made the mistake of allowing the hills of the value to be our shield, relying too heavily on them. We have allowed our children to become silly flower pickers and house keepers, our boys are lazy dolts who think only of you pretty maids running in and out of Northshire Abbey all day long at your leisure,"

"Shouldn't life be filled with joy and happiness?" Wrenne asked wistfully. "Shouldn't life be filled with light like the meadows? With sweet scents and comfort and security like the fields of our land?" Corinna sighed heavily, straightening and raising her chin to follow her young nieces gaze out to where the hill stood quiet and glimmering with sunshine under a cloudless blue sky. Wrenne could be so silly. She was a constant source of frustration for Corinna, so sweet natured and even tempered, never casting an eye about for a young lad the way the other girls did, but spending her days primarily in the fields, digging for valuable roots and pruning flowers and herbs to bring back to the priests of the abbey, to aid in the creation of salves and healing potions. What Wrenne didn't know was that Corinna had no desire to change her niece's life. She wished whole-heartedly and prayed daily that this sweet wisp of a girl be spared from a life of hardship, battle and death or even a fate much worse. Corinna had served in the Northshire abbey as cook for many years, and had seen events come to pass so awful that Wrenne in her naivety would be unable to even imagine the extent of such horrors. Corinna had witnessed the powerful and awful Medivh when he came out of his coma, after being cared for over the course of so many long years by the priests of the abbey. In her youth, she had been forced to flee Northshire after a terrible orc raid, and had helped in the aftermath, caring for the wounded, burying the dead and watching as piece by piece the abbey was restored. Corinna looked back down at Wrenne's face. Her cheeks were soft and pale pink from being out in the sun dappled meadow, her hair light red, streaked with an even paler shade of red near the top where the sun had faded the color. She wore a simple white cotton dressed, cinched at her waist with a thin strip of worn leather. On her feet she wore a hand me down pair of sandals Corinna had supplied her with. They were not wealthy and lived quite humbly in their two room cottage, but managed well enough. Wrenne had never once complained that they did not have enough; Corinna imagined the humble life style of the priests in the abbey had affected her niece in this way, and was glad of it.

"Yes;" she finally said, her tone softening. She rubbed her thumb across Wrenne's childish cheek, seeing in her mind for the briefest instant a deep gash across this pretty little face, the mark of a heavy sword…blood dripping down the fair cheek and Wrenne's pale grey eyes rolled back in her head. Corinna swallowed hard and shook the image away. Wrenne sat patiently staring up at her aunt, her expression blank. "Yes;" Corinna tried again, "it should be. But it isn't. There is much great magic in our world, such the likes of which you have never laid eyes on. Even some of the priests of the abbey are capable of great feats of magic. But for every powerful spell of the light, there is an equally dark spell spawned of corruption and despair. There are shadow spells so powerful they can strike down the greatest and noblest of warriors in a single blow, or with a single spoken word. And though these sound to you like fables and myths, I warn you, child, they are not! And they will not be held at bay for much longer. Know this, Wrenne, this evil is all around you. It is as real as the air you are breathing and the flowers you pick and the abbey and all else that you see around you. It is tangible like this table, or this loaf of bread," she touched the heavy dark wood of the unfinished table and then a hardened crust of bread Wrenne had left lying atop it earlier in the day. Corinna's voice lowered and she pushed her face close to Wrenne's, as though it were unfit to even speak these words. "There are creatures out there spawned from the very depths of hell, Wrenne. Creatures even the most anxious child could not dream up in the very worst of their nightmares," her voice was little more than a hiss now. Wrenne shifted uncomfortably away from her aunt and swallowed. She disliked the ominous nature of her aunt's lecture, and desperately wished to escape it and return to her herbing. She moved her wide grey eyes to stare directly in the faded blue of her aunt's eyes.

"If that is true, then how are we alive? How do we live in peace here in the valley? Why are we not all dead and why is not world a huge ball of flames with the minions of hell themselves as its only inhabitants?" She could hear the impertinence in her tone but failed to check it. Her aunt sighed and looked away, lowering herself into a chair facing Wrenne. The older woman's knees touched Wrenne's own knobby knees. Corinna leaned back.

"My love, every evil has its counter. For every shadow spell there is an equally powerful spell born of the light."

"And such spells I am to learn now? Even though I did not choose to?" Corinna's expression seemed full of sorrow and she nodded heavily before leaving her seat and walking to the small glass paned window on the other side of the tiny room.

"Yes," she said shortly. "Such is your destiny. You are to be a holy priestess, to counter those that partake of the dark arts and those beings who presume to defile the title of priest by calling themselves such. You will learn the arts of healing and protection. Your purpose will be to shield, protect and heal those that fight the holy fight. Those that work and sacrifice to drive these evil beings from our world."

"Will it not be very dangerous?" Wrenne whispered, getting to the very heart of the matter.

"Yes, my dear. It will be very dangerous."

Now Corinna stood over Wrenne, trying once more to instruct her as to what her duty would be and how she should behave when she was brought before the high priest at the Stormwind City cathedral. Wrenne had never left Northshire in her life, save to attend school in the nearby town of Goldshire when she was a child. Wrenne had thought very little of the impending ceremony, just as she had thought very little of her future as a priestess. She supposed the reality and the weight of the situation had yet to settle on her. It all seemed theoretical at this point, and she had failed to take it with any measure of seriousness. The few times she had stopped to imagine herself in the robes of a high priest, wielding a heavy weapon and casting spells she had found the picture in her mind to be ludicrous. She was nothing special, just a young girl with a penchant for finding herbs, nothing more, nothing less. When the priests of the abbey made reference to her future training, she wanted to protest; to tell them they sounded ridiculous, talking of her as if she could one day be as revered as the high priestesses of Dalaran or Darnassus. Even now as Corinna stood lecturing her about proper attire and behavior for her initiation she scoffed inwardly. It seemed as though everyone she knew had suddenly gone mad, to think a weakling such as herself could protect and heal the great war heroes of Azeroth.

"Do not stand shifting your gaze this way and that like a silly, empty-headed maiden when you enter the great hall. This is a great honor and you must accept it with the utmost dignity." Wrenne did not respond and Corinna rubbed her temples and sighed. It was hopeless. The depth of the situation would be of no consequence to Wrenne until she had first hand experience with it. Fear gripping Corinna and churned in her gut when she thought of the day, swiftly approaching now, that she would have to send Wrenne off to Stormwind. She had been given permission to stay with Wrenne in the great city until the initiate ceremonies came to a close and no longer. Once Wrenne was settled and officially took the title of priestess, Corinna would be forced to return to the safety of Northshire and live out her days here, praying for the niece she had raised and was now sending to war. The realization that she may never see her soft hearted and eager little niece again weighed heavily on her heart, and everyday the ceremony drew closer and closer. Her time with Wrenne became shorter and shorter by the second.

With this thought in her mind, she could not resist the urge to pull Wrenne to her feet and wrap her in a great hug.

"Oh my dear, I shall miss you so," she whispered, her usual control on her emotions gone in an instant as she stroked Wrenne's soft, waving locks. Wrenne squirmed out of her aunt's smothering embrace.

"I will be back. I will not be gone forever," she said pointedly, tilting her head at her aunt as if the older woman had indeed gone mad. Corinna at once wanted to crush the child to her bosom again and never let go, and simultaneously fought the urge to slap her about for her naivety and her light-hearted reaction to this terrible twist of fate. She did neither, knowing that Wrenne could not be expected to understand the gravity of the task being laid before not only her, but every other youth of this generation.

The younger woman got to her feet, distractedly brushing at the grass and dirt that clung to her dress where she'd been kneeling in the tall grasses. She picked up a small basket, woven out of reeds from the nearby lake and dumped the handful of peacebloom into it.

"I'm to bring this to Brother Danil," she reported and Corinna only nodded, watching as Wrenne picked her way delicately back through the meadow. The girl watched where she stepped, careful to avoid trampling on herbs that might prove useful. She is nothing more than a flower herself, Corinna thought, the feeling of dread in her gut growing. And now she has been picked and shall be shipped off for the use of others and unable to continue growing and thriving here in the safety of her meadows.

The white and gray stone walls of the abbey practically sparkled in the early afternoon sunlight. Wrenne had never felt herself fully accustomed to the beauty of Northshire. She was careful not to take for granted the deep green of the thriving oaks that stretched their long arms protectively above the beautiful stone structure and often was spotted walking with her chin tilted up, her eyes on the lush greenery surrounding her. Corinna watched Wrenne from a distance as the girl absent-mindedly swinging the little reed basket and stared up into the trees. She looked like nothing more than a daydreaming child, an unlikely candidate for high priestess of the abbey. Shaking her head dismally at Wrenne's prospects of success in the harsh lands beyond Northshire, Corinna took a deep breath and turned away.

With a light step, Wrenne walked through the high stone arch entrance of the abbey. The sound of her sandals on the cobblestones became muffled as she stepped onto a carpet of rich purple, embroidered at the edges in gold runes, each representing a different element of the teachings of the light. Inside the walls of the abbey it was cool and airy. The wind howled quietly as it swept in through the tall slender windows at the east of the abbey and out the windows that faced the west. It was always very quiet in the abbey and even as one who had yet to take on the title of priestess, just a girl who had no knowledge of the holy arts, Wrenne still felt the presence of holy magic when ever she entered this sacred place.

She found Brother Danil in a small store room off the kitchen. A little wooden door at the back of the storeroom opened up to a small pathway behind the abbey, and a wagon was parked there. Danil and a young lad that often helped in the kitchen were carefully unloading baked goods that had arrived that morning from Goldshire, and storing the valuable items on low wooden shelves in the cool, dark little room. The door creaked as the wind pushed it back and forth on it's rusty hinges; Danil and the kitchen boy worked in solemn silence but Danil's face brightened when he spotted Wrenne leaning against the door frame. She returned the smile with one of her own and held forth the basket.

"Peacebloom," she explained and Danil stepped forward to take the burden from her.

"Ah, thank you. Once again you have been an immense help. There is so much to do in the abbey these days the priests no longer have time to gather our own herbs," he seemed apologetic and she waved it off.

"I am always at your service, and I enjoy the work well enough." Danil nodded in agreement.

"As did I. I would much rather be working in the fields then attending the poor wounded soldiers and guarding prisoners."

"Prisoners?" Wrenne asked, her brows drawing together as she frowned. "There are prisoners in Northshire?"

"There are prisoners in the very building you stand in, miss!" The lad piped up. He made a ghoulish face, his eyes dancing the excitement. "Orcs! Right under your feet practically!" Wrenne glanced at her sandal clad shoes instinctively, then looked back to Danil for clarification. She had never seen an orc, but had heard they were terribly ugly and violent beasts. To imagine their presence in her beloved Northshire felt like witnessing a horrid blemish on a smooth canvas of pure and perfect white. She waited, hoping Danil would disclaim the young boys statement. To her dismay, he did not.

"Yes;" he spoke quietly, his face grave. "We still hold orc prisoners here in the abbey."

"Where?" her voice was almost inaudible. A shiver ran up her spine.

"There are tunnels running the length of the grounds, and dungeons beneath us." He took in Wrenne's horrified expression and saw the color drain from her rosy cheeks.

"I did not know…" she whispered and Danil nodded once more.

"It is not something we wish to worry young ladies with. They prisoners are quite secure, there is no need for you to be alarmed."

Despite his reassurance, Wrenne found it difficult to sleep that night as she lay on her thin mattress, wool blankets wrapped tightly around her. Across the room she could hear Corinna's soft even breathing and she knew her aunt must have known all along that there were orcs imprisoned deep under the abbey. She felt a sharp twinge of anger towards her aunt, that Corinna had kept this information from her. That her guardian and parent, for all intents and purposes, he deigned to allow Wrenne to believe Northshire was a place of safety and perfection, housing only good and noble folk and filled with the magic of the holy light. She felt a deep and growing discomfort about the home of her youth with her newfound knowledge. Where she would normally lay listening to the sounds of night, crickets chirping and the soft rustle of plants moving in the breeze, she now found herself painfully aware of any unfamiliar sound in the dark outside her window. She imagined some terrible beast of the night breaking free and rampaging through their quiet village. Unaccustomed to topics of such a dark nature she found it difficult and frightening to try and imagine what an orc would look like. She had never seen one herself and had hoped to keep it that way, as if keeping the reality of their existence blocked from her thoughts might cause them to fade away into myth and fairy tale where they belonged.

As the cool night bore on, hours slipping slowly away towards dawn, Wrenne felt for the first time the weight of the task Corinna and the priests wanted to set at her feet. The realization made her sick to her stomach and frigid with fear. Where they all crazy? Did they really think that she, of all people could be of any use against a roaring, tearing nightmarish beast? She would be ripped limb from limb in a heartbeat! She thought of the war heroes she had witnessed as they passed through Northshire and those injured and sick she had helped care for in the abbey. They were weather beaten men and women, rippling the strength and covered in scars. They carried weapons that were taller then she was and five times her weight. There armor clanged loudly as they moved through the quiet abbey. They spoke roughly to one another, their words crude and their voices hoarse from years of battle shouts. To picture herself amongst these warriors was like to placing a wispy fern in a garden of sharp rocks. She simply was not built for warfare, she did not belong.

Her initiation as priestess was to occur in days. At first she had felt excited at the prospect of traveling to Stormwind City. She heard often tales about the strange and magical races that inhabited the town now, drainei, with their cloven feet and tall, mystical night elves…now when she thought of going to Stormwind she realized it would signify the end of her childhood and the beginning of a destiny she never would've pursued for herself. She felt a deep growing resentment for Corinna, who could sleep peacefully while Wrenne lay thinking about what dangers lay ahead. How could her own kin send her away? How could Corinna, who had raised Wrenne as her own child, send her forth into the world she had so often told Wrenne was perilous for all, no matter how strong? Wrenne felt hot tears sliding down her cheek, and she turned her face into the pillow so as not to wake Corinna. She already knew there was no option and she dared not complain. She was not being singled out, but sent to Stormwind with all of the younger people of Northshire. None of them could escape this, they would all have to learn to fend for themselves in a dangerous, hellish world.

She stood, still as stone while Corinna packed her meager belongings only three mornings later. The morning had dawned cloudy and forboding, as if urging Wrenne to rebel against the path laid before her and stay here in the safety of the valley. Corinna pointed to a pair of worn but rugged leather boots on the floor.

"Put these on, you can not go to Stormwind in the sandals of an old lady. We must prepare you as best we can," she muttered. Wrenne made no movement toward the boots and Corinna stopped in her packing and looked up. "Do not cast such vile looks upon me, child. Do you not know that I too suffer? Do you think it is my wish to send you out into a world I myself am too frightened to speak of?" Wrenne thought she saw tears welling in her aunt's eyes, but the woman turned and said roughly, "you are like my own child." After this she said no more, and reluctantly, Wrenne pulled the rough boots onto her small feet. Corinna directed Wrenne to undress, and then dressed her in a very plain long-sleeved gray sheath. She secured a small leather satchel to Wrenne's waist and handed her two circlets of the same rough leather to slide onto her wrists. These Corinna tied tightly around Wrenne's slender arms. The sheath and boots were ill-fit and Wrenne felt like a foolish child playing dress up, pretending like the young boys did, that she was some valiant hero, when really she felt herself to be useless in matters of state and country. Still, she followed obediently as Corinna led her up the dirt path from their small home to the entrance of the abbey.

"I will ride with you to Stormwind, but once you are an initiate, I am not to stay there with you. You shall have your own horse hence forth, they will bring it around now, and we must go in to receive a blessing," Corinna turned and now Wrenne could plainly see the pain in her aunt's eyes. Still, there were no tears shed by either woman. Wrenne followed Corinna into the abbey and down a long stone hallway to the main chamber. Wrenne saw there several familiar faces, all of them as pale and strained as her own. None of these youth looked like fighters, the boys were tall and lanky, the girls looked terrified. A few of the older initiates wore expressions that were strangely calm, those trained in the arts of a magi or warlock had been training since youth for this moment. But too many of them had never expected a day such as this to befall them, and the hall was eerily quiet despite the fifteen or so youth awaiting Northshire abbey's high priest to bless them before their journey. The others wore thick padded leather vests or tunics, durable riding pants and heavy boots, she alone wore the garb of a priestess and stood self consciously at the end of the line they had formed before the alter.

Wrenne lifted her head and gazed slowly around the chamber, taking in the beautiful stained glass windows and the high wooden beams supporting the ceiling, which seemed miles above her head. Even the main chamber, which she had always found to be a place of serenity, now felt daunting and ominous. The silence loomed for what felt like an eternity, then finally they heard the heavy stomp of steel boots against the cobblestone floor and lighter, quicker steps accompanying them. Wrenne turned her head to watched High Priestess Anetta and the Northshire military leader, Marshal McBride enter the room. Anetta walked rigidly, her back straight and her chin raised high. Her golden hair was plaited in a thick braid that wrapped around the crown of her head and she wore robes of brown and gold, runes like the ones on the carpet sewn along the sleeves and at the neck and bottom hem of the robes. She swept past the row of waiting youth to the altar at the front of the room. Wrenne, who had always known Anetta to be a kind of gentle woman, felt she was watching a stranger. The last time she had been at Anetta's side they had been searching for a very specific herb, one that grew atop small hills. They had climbed together to the very outskirts of the valley and had worked side by side all afternoon. Anetta had spoken that day of the power of the holy light and the useful potions the herb would be utilized to make. Wrenne had felt that day that she lived in a fairy tale, surrounding by sweet and simple magic, where the earth provided all of the answers to human suffering. Now, Anetta herself drew herself up like a warrior, grave about the task at hand. Slowly, she called each youth forward and Wrenne watched as young women and men she had gone grown up with walked solemnly forward to receive the blessing of the stolid priestess. Each person knelt before her and Wrenne stared in fascination as Anetta clasped her hands together and closed her eyes in concentration, then let forth a burst of blue light so bright it was almost a blinding white and made Wrenne squint. She was the last to step forward, and found herself trembling in her heavy hand me down boots and she trudged toward the steps leading up to the altar. When she finally reached Anetta she gazed up, her eyes pleading, begging silently for some way out of this. Anetta met her gaze levelly and when she parted her lips to speak, the sound was inaudible to all but Wrenne.

"It is not a choice to send you, child, it is a necessity," she spoke no further and Wrenne felt a surge of unasked questions forming in her mind. Things she wished she'd asked Corinna over the weeks past, instead of treating this fate with stubborn indifference as she had. Now there was no time for questions, now it was too late. Wrenne knelt on one shaking leg, training her eyes on the floor, feeling faint. She heard rather than saw the whooshing sound of energy gathering between Anetta's able hands, and suddenly felt it filling her being, starting in a warm ball in the very center of her body and stretching out until her very finger tips tingled wildly with energy. Wrenne went back to her place in line feeling light headed and as though she could lift a hundred pounds with ease. Her limbs felt taught with the white holy energy flooding every cell of her being. When she was once again standing in line with the others, all blessed, Anetta spoke, raising her powerful voice so that it filled the chamber.

"Fortitude," the word itself was like a heavy, holy hammer when she spoke it. "May this blessing provide you with the strength you will surely need to face the coming days." After the uplifting effect of the blessing, this sentence brought back the heavy sense of doom Wrenne had momentarily forgotten. Without another word, or even a glance, Anetta strode out of the chamber, and Marshal McBride stood before them, his gloved hands clasped before them. He eyes the row of youth, his thick red moustache twitching slightly as he sized each one up. The young men drew themselves up to their full height and squared their shoulders, hardened expressions plastered on their unlined and unscarred faces. McBride's gaze paused on Wrenne at the end of the line.

"Are you to train in the healing arts?" he asked gruffly, frowning hard at her.

"Yes sir," Wrenne blushed in embarrassment at the way her voice trembled in response. McBride only nodded and stepped away from her. He paced back and forth in front of them, speaking slowly and clearly.

"You will each be provided with a horse today, if you do not already have one. These horses are trained to endure; they will be very valuable to you in the coming days. You are to treat them with the utmost care, if you do not, you may find they fail you in your most dire hour. You and you alone are responsible for the care of your horse. I will lead you to Stormwind City on this day, with what relatives you may wish to bring along to see you settled in your barracks there. After that it will be you and your steed alone and you will have to learn to depend on one another for your very survival." He paused, turning and moving his gaze swiftly among them. Wrenne had a sinking feeling that she alone felt terrified. The others stood proudly, as though picked for a great and honorable task. Her own expression was despondent; she could barely meet the war hardened eyes of the great leader standing before them. She felt like an actor in a play or like the victim of some cruel jest, out of place among these other young men and women who somehow managed to look eager or at the very least calm while she stood with palms sweating and slender arms and legs trembling in her ill fitting garb.

At long last they were led from the abbey, which now felt stuffy and oppressive to Wrenne instead of sacred and peaceful. McBride led them across the fields to the large stable that housed over forty war horses, of varying colors. Childishly, Wrenne wondered if she would be able to choose her own, she had already spotted a small and fair brown and white pinto, the two opposing colors splashing over the horse's entire body like spilled paint. As they approached the barn the heady scent of fresh hay assaulted her nostrils. McBride opened the heavy wooden gate and led them across a large pasture. A horse tossed its head and neighed in welcome, others continued to graze, ignoring their visitors.

"Pick a horse. Do not dawdle. One horse is as capable as the next and the day grows long. We must start the trek to Storwind City if we wish to arrive by nightfall." There were young lads darting to and fro through the stable, securing bridles to the horses, throwing first saddle pads then polished and heavy saddles onto the horse's backs. Wrenne took the reins of the pinto mare and placed her free hand on the white star that graced the animal's forehead. The horse, a bit smaller than the rest and standing quietly as the others stomped and tosses their heads about, reminded her of herself amidst these able body young men and women, the ones who had prepared for this, the ones who had known this day was coming for years and not mere weeks as she had. Many of them had chosen this path where she had not. She felt an odd affinity with the pretty little mare and could not imagine such a slender and beautiful horse being used for war. McBride gave her a nod.

"Mount up," he said sternly. "This horse will do." Silently, Wrenne did as she was told.

As the troop left Northshire, marching in a single file line, slowly but steadily down the rocky road towards Goldshire Wrenne felt physically ill. She felt her heart pulling from her chest, staying in Northshire where it belonged, and the empty shell of her body, bouncing along on the obedient pintos back was rigid with fear and numbness. Corinna plodded along beside her, on one of the older mares, silent, with her head held high. As the last of the hills surrounding Northshire faded into the distance behind them she leaned towards her stiff and silent niece.

"Starting now you may see some very strange and disturbing sights, my dear. Keep your head and do not become distracted. Even a moment's distraction could be your very worst mistake." This was the only word spoken between them during the long trek to Stormwind. They passed through Goldshire, and children ran out into the streets, waving and oogling as they marched quietly through. Wrenne saw women come to the doorways of their homes and shops to look on with sad eyes as if sending these young people to Stormwind was a waste of perfectly good lives. The journey had yet to even begin, really, and Wrenne already felt that she'd been left for dead. Within the span of hours as the group traveled closer and closer to the giant city the peaceful life she'd lived at Nothshire seemed nothing more than a distant memory. Her aunt, still at her side seemed like a ghost of the past. Stormwind City was like a great magnet, drawing them closer whether they wished it or no.

By the time they reached the main road, wide and level, the sun was already sinking below the horizon. Their pace had slowed as the horses became tired, and Wrenne's muscles ached with exhaustion. Her thighs were sore where the saddle had chafed against her delicate skin for hours and she felt it would be impossible for her to live a life constantly on horse back, day in and day out. She'd wear her legs down to nothing but bone if she continued in this manner, she thought. She was trying desperately to adjust her legs to relieve the pain when the tallest tower of Stormwind City broke through the dusk. She moved her eyes to the strange white point, sticking high into the sky, as if reaching for heaven itself. As the dense tree coverage that was Elywnn forest finally petered out, she could see the enormous walls of Stormwind City and began to hear the bustling noise of the city.

She found she was holding her breath, and she let it go in a loud exclamation that caused her horse's ears to twitch and Corinna to turn her head sharply. The sheer size of the wall was enough to blow her away. She had never seen anything man made that was so monstrous in all her life. The wall and entrance alone made Northshire abbey nothing more than a child's doll house. Wrenne felt her hands trembling violently with fear and excitement. For the moment, her future was forgotten and she became completely engrossed in the present.

Corinna did not fail to notice that Wrenne's eyes were wide as saucers as they passed under the impossibly high arch of the Stormwind City entrance. Guards stood at attention, not moving a muscle as the group, led by McBride, made their way carefully across the worn cobblestones. Wrenne, used to the sprawl of tiny cottages and shops out in the valley was shocked to find the Stormwind buildings built one right into the other. Winding marble stair cases led to shops on second stores and even though the day was coming to a close; merchants hung out of windows to wail their wares. Large wooden signs hung on great hinges before the door of every building, engraved with the name of the store in curling and flowing lettering. Wrenne saw that along with her own language, there were strange symbols on the signs in other languages as well. As they made their way toward the center of the city, they passed by the bank, a looming stone building with a massive stair case leading up to three separate main entrances. Before it a fountain flung water high into the air, and it fell back down over three different sized tiers. The pinto mare tossed her head and neighed in apparent confusion and Wrenne distractedly reached to pat the horse behind her large fuzzy ears.

If the sights weren't enough to overwhelm one, and they certainly had overwhelmed Wrenne, then the noise of the great city alone could. The city hummed with a muddled song of shouts, hollers and laughter, of horse's hooves clipped along the cobblestones. Great fires roared from the weapon and masonry storefronts and everywhere there was a constant clanking of metal, from swords and shields to armor to strange mobile devices Wrenne could hardly peel her eyes from. Though the city was surprisingly clean for its size, the air smelled thickly of horse manure and sweat. Wrenne's hands were slack on the reins of her horse as she stared around her with eyes wide as saucers. Corinna reached out and tugged at her sleeve.

"Make haste, our horses are following behind. And close your mouth for the sake of the light, you're going to catch flies in there with all your gaping." Corinna scowled as Wrenne ignored her. "Fine fighter you will make," she muttered to herself angrily. "Staring at everything like a dumb and deaf child. Useless!" If Wrenne heard her, she showed no sign of it, and continued to gape openly as they followed a winding street and then crossed over an arching stone bridge. Water rushed below the bridge, fast paced and crowded, as everything was in this monstrous city. Unlike Goldshire and Northshire, where everyone and their brother had peered out of their homes and shops to watch as the young warriors marched grandly off to war, here in the city, full of rough looking men and women carrying fatal weaponry and riding on strange beasts Wrenne had never seen the likes of, the little troop on their comparably small horses were completely ignored. As darkness descended and the sun disappeared completely beyond the horizon the city lit up with thousands of wrought iron street lamps. Grown men roiled in the streets like young boys, carrying heavy wooden pints of what Wrenne could only assume was some kind of alcohol. Warriors rousted and clapped one another on the back, laughing amidst their blood covered shields and swords as though they had not a care in the world. As they passed a bustling and brightly lit pub, Wrenne could hear a great chorus of deep voices singing some champion's song and great cheers from the women who boldly drank at the men's sides.

Feeling as though her insides had been tumbled after the long day's ride and the busy and crowded streets of this foreign city, Wrenne sighed in relief as they finally came to a halt. She had been hoping the barracks would be in some quiet out of the way area, where perhaps in her free time she would be able to hunt for herbs. Perhaps there were strands growing here that the priests in Northshire abbey would find useful.

They did not have this luxury. The barracks where they were to be housed during training were close to the center of town. The building was low to the ground, dark and smelled musty. McBride waited as the youth dismounted and their horses were led to nearby stables by stable hands. Wrenne began to slide off her horse as well, but Corinna caught her wrist.

"Not you," she said firmly. Wrenne met her eyes with a questioning look. "You are to be housed with the priestesses in training, not here. This is housing for those that will need to train their hand to wield a sword and shield effectively, or a mace or axe. There will be many injuries of the flesh here while they learn. You will be learning to cast spells and heal. Your pain will be of the mind and not the flesh." Corinna's words sent a chill up Wrenne's aching spine, but she nodded as Corinna bid goodbye to McBride, who saluted the two women ceremoniously. Corinna turned her tired horse's head to start in the opposite direction. In spite of the late hour, the noise in the city had not diminished in the slightest.

Wrenne could barely keep her eyes open and felt sick to her stomach when they finally stopped. Corinna sharply ordered her to dismount and she could do little more than slide clumsily from the saddle, staggering as her feet hit the solid stone ground of Stormwind City. In a moment, Corinna had gathered the exhausted young girl against her side and she tugged her forward towards a small stone building with one little wooden door at the entrance. A warm yellow light poured out into the street from to small windows at either side of the door. The smell of freshly cooked bread filled Wrenne's nostrils as Corinna swung the door open and she realized that in the wake of the bewildering mixture of emotions that had raced through her all day long and the long journey to boot, she was starving. She followed Corinna into the building, trying to decide which need she wanted to sate first, her weariness or her hunger.

Wrenne said little as Corinna introduced her to the keeper of the small inn and acquired a room for the two of them. The innkeeper told Corinna she would send up bread and ale for them, and Corinna nodded her thanks and then took Wrenne by the arm, leading the tired girl up the stairs and into a small chamber. One wooden bed stood in the corner of the room, a small basin and a pitcher of water rested by a window with only thick lengths of burlap keeping out the light of the city. Even so, an orange glow seeped in around the burlap so that the room was never entirely dark. As promised, the innkeeper sent up food for the tired pair and Corinna directed Wrenne to eat and drink as she unpacked the girl's belongings and stored them in a heavy wooden chest at the foot of the bed.

"You shall stay here until your training is complete. This is home for now," Corinna began briskly. Wrenne watched her vacantly, feeling too numb to speak or even to think. Mechanically, she lifted the bread to her mouth and ate as Corinna continued to speak. "I will have to leave tomorrow after the initiation ceremony and then you will be on your own. Stay in good standing with the innkeeper, I have known her for many years and she is trustworthy and will look out for your interests." Now Corinna paused, and came over to the bed, where Wrenne sat wearily consuming the bread. Corinna took Wrenne's free hand and urgently pressed a small, heavy pouch into it.

"This is the savings of my life. It is of little use to me in Northshire, I will have all I need without this. You will need this to pay for room and board throughout your travels. You will also…" she paused when she saw that Wrenne was staring blankly at the wall on the other side of the room, the pouch sitting in her slack hand with lay in her lap. There was nothing for it, the girl was too exhausted to process Corinna's instructions. Corinna herself felt the strain of riding all day quite poignantly and with a flustered nod she took the pouch and stashed it in the trunk with the rest of her niece's belongings. Foregoing further conversation, Corinna helped Wrenne undressed and saw the girl tucked into bed, taking the ale and bread left over for her own dinner. In spite of the low hum of a city that never completely sleeps, and the howling of the wind through the mountains the city lay between that gave the city it's name, Wrenne was asleep in moments.

Stormwind City Cathedral of the Light stretched so high into the sky that one had to tilt one's head completely back on their neck to try and see the peak, and even then it was as though the stone temple continued to rise forever into the heavens. A large courtyard lay before the daunting entrance to the cathedral and thick maple trees were planted in its four corners. In the center a grand fountain with a warrior carved from marble stood guard. Now, in daylight, the courtyard bustled with merchants and travelers, calling their wares or re-stocking their inventory. Corinna led Wrenne, now wide eyed and rested, through the busy crowd. Wrenne stared all around her, allowing Corinna to lead her by the arm towards the great cathedral. Wrenne's breath caught in a little gasp when she spotted a tall figure, with skin pale blue and long dark blue hair. The woman was surprisingly tall, towering over a human man that stood at her side, and dressed in tight leather armor. She had ears that stretched up towards the sky, high over her head, and eyebrows that almost seemed to be an extension of her eyes impossibly long eyelashes, so long they winged off of her face like blue feathers.

"Is that an elf?" Wrenne hissed at her aunt, who turned a disinterested glance in the elf's direction.

"Yes, don't stare," she reprimanded. Wrenne paid her no heed and continue to gawk at the beautiful warrior. Spotting her admirer, the elf tilted her oval shaped face to the side and blinked. Her eyes were glowing circles in her face, so bright that Wrenne could not make out an actual pupil or iris. As her foot hit the first step of the wide marble staircase that led into the Cathedral of Light, Wrenne finally wrenched her attention away from the odd creature to watch her step. She stumbled after Corinna, who seemed in a hurry to get her inside the cathedral and off the crowded cities streets.

The noise of the city was muted as they passed through the great halls of the cathedral. Corinna muttered angrily as Wrenne tripped and stumbled along, too fascinated by her surroundings to watch where her feet were carrying her. They passed through a large hallway, the ceiling of which arched impossibly high above their heads and stepped on to a long royal blue carpet fringed in gold. Here Corinna paused and nudged her niece.

"This is where you will train in the coming days." She stated. Wrenne gazed slowly around the room, taking in the rich detail of the cathedral. The floor was patterned in green and white diamond shaped stones. Columns ran the length of the processional walk, and candelabras that were taller than Wrenne lit the room with warm yellow light, lined up along the edges all around the outer edge of the huge chamber. She looked straight down the processional way, her eye moving all the way up to the largest alter she had ever laid eyes open. Behind it three long windows, framed with a dark rich wood and paned with dark colored glass looked out toward the back of the city. Running along either side of the large room were similar windows, and daylight seeped through in odd colors as if the rays of light had been dyed by the colored glass panes.

Several men were in the large room, but did not turn as Wrenne and Corinna made their way forward.

"Stand straight," Corinna hissed and Wrenne realized that this was it. There was to be no crowded ceremony or feast afterwards. She would be initiated with only Corinna there to witness, and then she would be left alone in this great city, abandoned by her only kin like an orphaned child.

"Will the archbishop initiate me?" Wrenne asked in a frantic whisper.

"No, the archbishop has far more serious matters to attend to then the initiation of yet another priest to their midst."

"Well if I am so unimportant I do not see why I must be initiated at all," Wrenne said childishly, her lower lip pouting out slightly. Corinna elbowed her hard and she winced.

"There is no more time left to debate your destiny. You do not have a choice in being sent and I do not have a choice in sending you." Corinna fell silent as they made there way up the stairs to the altar. A young man stood there, and he smiled warmly in greeting. Corinna pushed Wrenne forward and then backed away. Wrenne stood, feeling small and painfully insignificant, in front of the man, who wore the sacred robes of cloth that signified his standing as a priest.

"Hello, I am Brother Benjamin," he offered her a hand in greeting. She wiped her sweaty palm quickly on her own thin robe, which seemed shabby and insufficient here within the beautiful walls of the cathedral, and shook his hand.

"I'm Wrenne," she squeaked, unnerved at the way her voice echoed in the room. Brother Benjamin was quiet for a moment, the raised his eyebrows slightly.

"And what can I assist you with, Wrenne?" he asked. Wrenne blushed, feeling rather ignorant and stammered;

"I…I am supposed to be…initiated?" it came out like a question and Wrenne fought to regain control of her voice. Brother Benjamin smiled again, his eye twinkling.

"Ah! You wish to learn the powers of the holy light, then? Splendid. We can certainly use all of the help we can get these days. Have you any previous training?"

"No…" she shook her head, wishing now that she had taken advantage of the skills and knowledge of the priests at Northshire Abbey so she wouldn't have to stand here, ignorantly proclaiming she wished to be a master at something she knew nothing about. Brother Benjamin could see the fear plainly in the young girl's features and he put a heavy and reassuring hand upon her shoulder. He lowered his voice so that only she could hear his words.

"Do not be afraid, young Wrenne. Those who follow the path of the Holy Light and trust in its powers are blessed. You have chosen a good and righteous path and will learn to be strong and brave in the face of hardship. And you are not alone. You will always find your sisters and brothers of the Holy Light along your travels for we are spread wide and far across the realm. Your blood kin may leave you on this day, but we shall be your family and your guidance in the years to come." His words were soothing, and Wrenne was horrified to find that tears were streaming from her eyes. This was not the solemn ceremony she expected. It was nothing like the previous day, when they had stood in a line, silent and had waited for their blessing from the cool and collected high priestess of Northshire Abbey. Brother Benjamin showed no sign of annoyance as she freely cried before him. Instead, he turned her so that she was facing Corinna. "Bid your aunt goodbye now," he said gently. "And come into the outstretched arms of the church of the Holy Light." Without pausing to think about her actions, Wrenne found that she was throwing herself into Corinna's familiar arms, and that tears now pouring, unchecked down her face. Her sobs echoed off the stone walls around her, but nobody turned to stare. This was not an unfamiliar scene, the priests of the cathedral were used to seeing youth taken from their families, terrified of the path they must now follow. Instead, the brothers bowed their heads respectfully and waited as Wrenne slid to her knees on the stone floor. Corinna, also with tears falling on her lined cheeks, held Wrenne tightly against her, maybe for the last time.

"I shall miss you dearly, I will prayer for you every day and every night and you will be in my thoughts always," Corinna whispered into Wrenne's ear. Before Wrenne could respond, Corinna had loosed herself from the younger girl's frantic grip, and she ran down the long procession, leaving her little niece, her only family in the world, kneeling and sobbing into her thin robes on the altar of the Great Chamber, in the Cathedral of Light in the glorious city of Stormwind.

"Elwynn Forest is the best resource in this vicinity for both peacebloom and silverleaf," with one long slender finger, the skin of which was a strange almost translucent pink hue, Tannysa made an invisible circle on the map that lay on the table before her. The parchment made a crinkling sound under the touch of her finger. Wrenne stood at her side, gazing down at the map, fully aware that the forest of Elwynn was rich with herbs. Though she had not often gone that far as a girl when picking herbs for the priests, many of them had taken day trips out into the forest and had returned successfully with basketsful of peacebloom and silverleaf. As a defenseless use, Wrenne had been made to stay within certain boundaries. Now, after three years of intensive tutoring and training, she felt confident about riding out into the surrounding forests on her own.

Tannysa, a gorgeous and mysterious night elf with bright eyes and long, thick hair the color of grass in mid-summer, had taken Wrenne in as an Apprentice Herbalist after finding the woman one day out in the courtyard of the Mage's Quarters, bent at her waist and closely inspecting the blooms on a domestic peacebloom that Tannysa herself had raised from a seedling. Tannysa, an artisan of the art herself, knew a fellow green-thumb when she saw one, and had immediately recruited the young priestess to work side by side with her and learn the trade.

Finally, after the long months of strict teachings, Wrenne was free to make a decision of her own accord. It had not taken any convincing, Tannysa had a sweet expression and a gentle hand with plants, and Wrenne, an avid lover of all flora, had been thrilled at the prospect of learning the trade herself, instead of just assisting with the herb harvesting as she'd done in Northshire.

"Once you're ready to leave Stormwind, you'll find many other herbs in the surrounding mountains. Goldthorn, Briarthorn and Wild Steelbloom are the predominant herbs, and very valuable. Here," Tannysa, her steps light as feathers on the floorboards of her sweetly scented Herb Supply shop ducked behind the counter and presented Wrenne with a green pouch. The material was slick in her fingers, almost like silk, but much sturdier. The bag was embroidered at the edges with tough leather threading. Wrenne secured it around her waist, beneath the clean white folds of her priestess robe.

"I believe I will forage through the western side of Elwynn Forest today, actually. I have the day to use at my leisure," she noted with a bright smile. Tannysa looked up in surprise.

"That is certainly uncommon, priestesses are generally kept under strict routine until training is complete."

"Ah, I am all too well aware of that, my friend. But today is special, it is the celebration of my 21st year of life!" Tannysa rolled up the map and handed it to Wrenne, then patted her friend and apprentice on the shoulder.

"Then you should do as you wish, and you do not have to go harvesting herbs on this day either. I release you from your duties to me as the priests have freed you of duty today." But Wrenne shook her head quickly.

"Oh no, being in the forest, surrounding by the living, thriving plants…that is what I wish to do today. The harvesting of herbs is just a bonus," Tannysa laughed at Wrenne's enthusiasm.

"You sound like an elven druid, such a pity you are merely a human girl," she teased, but her tone was affectionate. She pushed Wrenne lightly towards the door. "Now off with you, for I have customers to attend to and if you hang around my shop any longer I shall set you to work!" Wrenne obediently ran out the front door and into the bright sun filtering down into the courtyard of the Mage Quarters.

This was where she spent the majority of her free time, when she actually had time to spare from her vigorous training at the Cathedral. This area of the city got the most sun, and because of this advantage, was rich with green grass, flowering bushes and lush trees. Purple standards adorned the buildings here, and the cobblestone pathways twisted and weaved amongst the unevenly spaced buildings. The pinto mare Wrenne had obtained in Northshire stood patiently outside the shop, tethered to a sturdy wooden lamp post.

"Come on now, Thistle," Wrenne crooned softly. The mare's ears perked as she recognized her name being spoken. Wrenne patted the velvety patch above the animal's wide nostrils, then threw the reins over the mare's head and climbed easily into the saddle. Wheeling the Thistle around, she started off, down a wall beaten path, toward the stone bridge that led out of the Mage Quarter and into the main city.

Leaving the bustle of Stormwind behind was a relief, and Wrenne breathed a deep and contented sigh as she crossed the main bridge and then headed off the road and into the thick forest. The thick overhead of tree branches here covered the ground in a deep cool shade and herbs that would quickly wither and die in direct sunlight thrived here in the Elwynn Forest. The ground was thick with moss, muffling even Thistle's heavy steps as the pair made their way deep into the forest. Wrenne hummed easily to herself as they proceeded, taking in the wilderness around her, a smile playing on her mouth.

Even three years of city living had not dulled her senses to the fast and noisy pace of city living. In her first year she had felt a constant fatigue due to lack of sleep; the noisy pubs constantly waking her in the night as drunken citizens sang and drank to their hearts content. It had taken no less than the entire year for her to become accustom to the noise and to be able to sleep soundly through it, but even now, when her senses had been trained and honed to focus on certain things and drown others out, she found herself startled awake sometimes in the night if the pubs were having an especially boisterous celebration. Stormwind City was thriving and wealthy, and the wine and ale ran freely, encouraging citizens and travelers alike to stay up at all odd hours of the night, drinking and hollering, singing and laughing.

The Elwynn Forest, in contrast, felt like a refuge of silence. Only the sounds of small animals moving about and plants as their branches swayed and scraped against their neighboring flora could be heard. Wrenne rode until she found a particularly healthy patch of land, deep green and covered with moss sprinkled with acorns and pine cones that had dropped from the trees overhead. Wrenne dismounted and tied Thistle's reins loosely around her neck, not at all concerned about the horse straying. Thistle lowered her head and calmly snuffed at the ground, nibbling the thick greenery quietly.

Silverleaf could be found among bushes and growing close to the bases of the trees, and Wrenne had only to walk a few feet before finding full bushes of the useful plant. Its leaves were thin and papery, but covered in soft down, almost like a peach. Wrenne skillfully plucked the leaves, one at a time, pulling them from where the green shoot met the main stem of the plant, leaving the youngest leaves to continue growing. She was stacking the Silverleaf in a careful pile when the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath in the distance cut through the stillness of the forest. Wrenne straightened, placing her hands at the small of her back and arching to stretch the muscles there. She glanced at Thistle, who had raised her head and was peering, ears forward into the forest where the sound had come from. They heard a low voice growl and then a dull thud, like metal meeting a soft body, followed by an angry cry. Wrenne rushed toward the sound, than slowed in caution when she caught a glimpse through the trees of a brown cloak. The figure wearing the cloak was crouched to the ground and before him lay a large gray wolf. Even from her place yards away, Wrenne could see the red stain of the animal's blood on its matted fur. She crept slowly forward, aware of her footsteps, moving silently as a wraith through the undergrowth.

She was only five or so yards from the man now, and he had not yet stood up or made any move toward his kill. A sword, rusting toward the hilt and red with fresh blood at the tip, lay cast aside on the ground near the man's feet. He had a shock of thick reddish brown hair, and as a twig snapped under Wrenne's feet he let out a snarl that was almost animal-like, reached for his sword and turned; his stance defensive. She could see that he wore the armor of a Stormwind inhabitant, and felt no fear as she stepped away from the shade of the tree she had been clinging to and into plain sight. The man paused to survey her, his expression transforming from an angry scowl into mild curiosity. She knew that in her thin white robes, with a belt a pale blue cinching her waist and long bell sleeves that it was obvious she was of the Cathedral. The man's shoulders slumped and he crouched to the ground once more. It dawned on her that he was injured and instinctively she moved towards him, her robes so long that her feet could not be seen and it almost appeared as if she were floating over the mossy ground in his direction.

"Are you hurt?" she asked when she had reached him and stood only a few feet away, looking down. He wore thick shoulder pads and his face was turned away from her. She saw that a line of blood had traced down his arm from bicep to elbow. It had stained the worn leather bracers secured to his arms.

"Aye," he said gruffly, still not turning to look at her. Wrenne slowed her breathing until it was even and low. She closed her eyes for a moment, summoning together the energy that the priests of the cathedral had arduously trained her to control. This would be an easy test of her abilities, she had already been trained to heal and protect, and even had experience with the darker business of damage spells and reviving those close to the edge of death. Now she fell to concentrating as the energy built in the core of her being, a warm luminous mass that she could picture with her mind. As the mass built her hands began to glow with a soft radiant white light, and she brought them together, building and building the healing mass between her palms until she felt it sufficient to heal the flesh of the man's bicep where the wolf had struck him with a heavy paw. Exhaling in a gust she pushed the glowing mass of energy away from her, directing it to his arm where it expanding and waved out in thing tendrils, encircling his arm in warm glowing light. After a moment, the energy dissipated, and he moved his arm tentatively then carelessly wiped the blood away. Wrenne took a deep breath, proud of her obvious success. When she had first started her training, this type of healing cast had left her exhausted and sweating. But over the months of arduous training she had learned to at once control her mind and conserve her own energy even as she cast spells. She only knew a handful of spells, but had already grown leaps and bounds from the scared and childish girl that had come to Stormwind City ignorant and feeble three years before. Finally, the man got to his feet and turned toward her. Wrenne blinked in surprise to see that he looked young as she herself and found him to be ruggedly attractive. Dirt streaked his face and he was frowning angrily at his dead opponent. Carefully, he wiped the blade of his sword on the moss and re-sheathed it, gave the beast a swift and vengeful kick with one heavy boot and then brushed the clumps of fur and mud from his gloves.

"Thank you," he said solemnly to Wrenne, and she bobbed her head once at him. He bent and prepared to haul the wolf over his shoulder but Wrenne cleared her throat and he glanced back in her direction.

"Why did you kill it?" she asked, realizing vaguely that it was not her place to ask, but unable to contain her curiosity. Unexpectedly, the man laughed, a deep rolling sound that gave Wrenne the urge to giggle herself, though she knew not why.

"Why, I've slayed my dinner!" he gestured grandly to the wolf. "The meat is tough, but rich with nutrients. Iron!" he exclaimed, pulling one arm in to make a muscle. His bicep was thick with muscle and roped with veins, dwarfing Wrenne's small limbs. She admired his obvious strength for a moment and then blurted,

"My name is Wrenne. I'm a priestess of the Cathedral of Light, trained in the art of healing and protection," she offered though he hadn't asked. He nodded, an easy grin on his dirt smeared face.

"Aye, all of that I have seen for myself," he said, gesturing briefly at her attire and his arm, the skin now unbroken as though the injury had never been there. "Save for your name, of course," he added as an afterthought. "And you can probably see that I am a warrior of the Alliance, but as you have given your name so shall I give mine. I am Randthor," and he held out one dirty, blood stained hand toward her. Wrenne shrunk a little from it and apologetically he withdrew the hand and wiped it on his thickly padded vest.

"Ah, I forget myself, offering a blood stained hand to a lady," he mused. "What are you doing beyond the city walls? These beasts…" he pointed to the wolf, a creature larger than Wrenne herself, "are rampant in the Elwynn Forest these days. Their population has gotten beyond the control of the people in Goldshire and Northshire," Wrenne winced a little at the memory of her dear little valley. She still missed it terribly and had not been back at all in the three years of her training.

"I am training in the art of herbalism. I was gathering Silverleaf," she gestured toward the little green satchel at her waist. This seemed to endear Randthor, the warrior, and he nodded his approval.

"A noble pastime, but one I would not suggest undergoing alone, perhaps I should accompany you," he warned. Wrenne stiffened with defiance.

"I can cast damage as well as heal," she retorted, her cheeks growing warm. Randthor tried to hide the amusement from his face, not wishing to offend the brave little priestess.

"I see," he said evenly, biting back a chuckle. "All right then. What if I were to accompany you because I have an interest in herbs myself? I would like to know what it is you do with them, I have never been educated as to their value, you see." He offered. Wrenne knew he still thought it dangerous for a young woman such as herself to be wandering the forest, and that this offer of company was merely a pretense for keeping her safe, but she accepted it. She did not admit to him that as soon as she saw the big dead wolf at his feet she had considered turning back to the city anyway, scared to stay out in the woods by herself now.

"I have to confess I don't know that much yet, but I would be happy to share what information I have," she said, giving a pert little nod of her head and clasping her small hands in front of her. Randthor smiled easily.

"Well all right then," he said again. "Lead the way."

She picked her way self consciously threw the undergrowth, trying to focus on her task and not become distracted by Randthor's mobile features and pleasant smile. She felt awkward and timid as he leaned close to her to watch as she harvested the delicate Silverleaf plants, but her hands were quick and agile.

"I would be clumsy at this work," Randthor admitted after watching her for a good while. He stood leaning against a tree trunk, a long strand of grass hanging from his mouth. He chewed casually on the end and breathed deeply of the fresh forest air. "I prefer the work of skinning beasts for their pelts," he added.

"Sounds bloody," Wrenne commented, cutting another leaf of the bush before her and casting a look over her shoulder at him.

"Aye, it is a bloody job. But the pelts are worth money and easily sold in the city auction house. I'd be broke as a pauper if I could not skin a beast!" he laughed but then grew serious again. "At first the rising wolf population was a blessing of wealth for me. But now it has gotten beyond our control. There are far too many, we don't even have time to skin them all. Here we are fairly safe, this close to the city, but Elwynn Forest is not the safe beautiful sanctuary it once was," he shook his head sadly. "Have you lived always in Stormwind?" his tone turned conversational. Wrenne, tired after several hours of herb harvesting found a fallen tree nearby and lowered herself to it. She pulled a small deer skin flask from her robes, opened the top and poured some cool water into her mouth. Some of it spilled down her chin and she wiped it away self consciously and then offered the pouch of water to Randthor. He took it gratefully, swallowing a great gulp and splashing some on his dirty face. He didn't bother wiping the water away, but let it drip down his face through his neatly trimmed beard.

"No," she wondered briefly how much information about herself it would be prudent to share with this stranger, but continued anyway. "I am from the valley of Northshire. I grew up near the Abbey," Randthor noticed the wistful look that crossed her face. "I did not ask for this destiny. I did not choose it. When I was 18, three years past, I was told I would be sent to Stormwind to train as a priestess of the Holy Light. I was told that Northshire and Goldshire, and all of the towns in all the realm were in danger once again, and that to ignore it would be to willfully aid in the destruction of our peaceful way of life. So I obeyed, and here you have found me." She shrugged in conclusion.

"Ah, so you have left your family behind in Northshire then?" Randthor asked. Chagrined, Wrenne shifted uncomfortably.

"What little family I have, yes."

"Your parents, I presume?"

"You would presume wrong then. I was raised by my aunt, my only living kin, to my knowledge, anyway."

"And what of your birth parents?" Wrenne looked at him crossly.

"You certainly are a nosey fellow, for a warrior," she said with mild irritation. Randthor laughed.

"Forgive me, you are somewhat of a curious girl and I have been surrounded by men for far too long. It is only curiosity that fuels my questions and you need not answer them if you do not wish to," he said pleasantly. Wrenne sighed.

"I don't know anything of my birth parents. Corinna…my aunt…she would never tell me anything of them. She said their fate was not fit for the ears of a young girl, and now that I am no longer a girl but a woman, I am gone from Northshire and can not return to ask her about my heritage. I imagine they are long dead and gone by now, whatever happened to them…" she trailed off. It was not a subject she thought on often, but when she did, her lack of information made her frustrated, so she had long ago made a rule not to dwell on the topic of her unknown mother and father.

"That is a shame and I am sorry to hear it. A mother can be a wonderful thing, I'm quite fond of my own, though I have not seen her in many years, now."

"Where do you come from? You have light hair like a Northmen…like myself," she touched her soft waving hair and pointed at his own. He moved to sit beside her on the fallen log, a dark shadow crossing his face, his eyes hardening as he stared ahead of him.

"Aye, I am from Westfall, not far from here. My family owned a farm there for many generations, until the Defias brotherhood formed. When I was 19, four years ago, they raided my family's farm. They killed my father and my two brothers and raped my mother. They left her for dead." He said all this in an emotionless tone, and Wrenne shivered. "I was here, in Stormwind, the apprentice of a leatherworker. I had left home because the farm was failing and we needed a source of income. As the oldest it was my duty to leave Westfall and learn a trade that could sustain the family. I was not there when the raid happened. I came back to find my mother lying half dead on the floor, the crops withered and dead…they had not even disposed of the bodies of my father and brothers, they left them in the field for the crows to pick at like common beggars. I have vowed vengeance on those vile rogues. And I will slay the leader myself. Van Cleef," he hissed the name as if it were a curse. There was a long silence as Wrenne struggled to think of something to say. Randthor seemed lost in thought and his face was still as stone.

"I am sorry for your loss," she finally whispered. Dusk was falling in the forest and a swift breeze moved through the trees. Her voice seemed to bring Randthor out of his contemplation and he looked down at her.

"I require no sympathy. I am not the only one who has lost those they love in these terrible times." He said calmly, getting to his feet.

"So do you live here now, in the city?" she asked, desperate to change the gloomy topic.

"Aye, but not for long. I returned to Stormwind to hone my swordsman skills, and I intend to travel into Ironforge to get a great sword. Then I will return to Westfall and avenge my family. But I will not stop there," he puffed his chest out angrily. "I will not stop fighting until this realm is cleansed of the evil inhabiting it. I will fight any horde that crosses my path and I will not stop until they are all returned to hell whence they came, or until they slay me." He moved toward the beast he had slain earlier in the day, and began to gather its stiff body to throw over his broad shoulder. He glanced back at Wrenne, where she stood gathering Thistle's reins and he smiled once more.

"But not tonight. For tonight I am content with my kill and intend to have a round at the pub. Tonight is not the time for vengeance, but to celebrate the fact that I still live, and so do you, orphan priestess. And for that, we can be grateful. Come, it's getting dark quickly." He began the trek back towards the city and Wrenne followed him obediently, contemplating the story he had told her. She did not feel so lucky as he to be alive. It seemed to her that in this vile world the only ones completely safe from evil were those dead and buried. There was no longer a place she knew of that was completely free from the terror of the horde. She thought back to the night she had lain awake at Northshire, fearing that an orc would come charging through the door of her tiny cottage and kill her where she lay, vulnerable in her bed. If even Northshire was at risk, where in the realm could she hide that would be safe? She didn't need to waste time thinking of a place…she knew there was none.

She tried to think of what she knew about Westfall, where this oddly friendly warrior was from. In her early youth she remembered that the Westfall farmers had often sent provisions to the abbey, both an offering to those who spent their lives dedicated to the arts of the holy light as well as a good source of income. As Wrenne became older she distinctly recalled that the provisions from Westfall had become less and less until the town sent word that they could offer Northshire produce no longer, as they needed what little crops they could grow in the fallow earth for their own citizens. Beyond this she knew very little of the town of Westfall or its inhabitants, but Randthor's own story chilled her insides. Images of ravaged farms and withering plants filled her mind. She couldn't help picturing Defias bandits breaking into homes and killing all in their path, pillaging the belongings of the farmers, taking whatever they wanted and leaving the bodies to litter the little town. Her stomach churned and she felt grateful as she began to hear the sounds of the busy, lively city in the distance.

Darkness had fallen in earnest as they crossed the bridge into Stormwind and the wind howled violent in the mountains that rose high on either side of the city. Wrenne bundled her thin cloak closely around her body and hurried Thistle along the stone pathway and beneath the huge arching entrance. A thick fog had rolled in and the highest turrets of Stormwind were lost completely within the clouds.

"Have you a keeper? Are you going to be in trouble for being out so long?" Randthor asked, raising his voice to be heard above the wind. Wrenne shook her head, tendrils of hair whipping across her cheeks.

"I keep my own counsel!" she shouted in reply, and Randthor laughed his deep roaring laugh again.

"Ah, I see! Well, my indignant little friend, in this case you can join me at the tavern for a brew!" Wrenne considered it for a moment and then shrugged.

"That would please me."

She housed Thistle for the night, leaving the sleepy mare in the care of one of the stable lads and pressing a silver coin in his hand so he would have a care with the little horse and promising another if Thistle was well fed and watered the following morning. Then she returned to her rooms to dawn a fresh robe. She smoothed out the tangles in her hair and washed the dirt from beneath her nails, storing the Silverleaf safely in her chest. Feeling clean and refreshed, she left the inn and headed down the street towards the tavern Randthor had told her to meet him in front of. Already light poured from the windows and door into the darkened street and music could be heard from inside. The wind outside was harsh tonight, but as she crossed the threshold into the tavern she was met by a warm and cheerful atmosphere. A fireplace was roaring and well stocked with wood at one end of the room, wooden tables and chairs crowded the room. The tavern was mostly filled with men, a few turned to eye her as she entered; priests and especially priestesses were rarely seen within tavern walls, though there were no rules prohibiting them from the rowdy places.

The tavern here was owned by a rather angry looking dwarf. He had installed a platform behind the bar so that he could be at face level with his taller patrons and with his lower half hidden behind the bar it made him seem rather like a giant, thick shouldered and with intimidating, chiseled facial features. He frowned out at the customers but frequently handed out free rounds to the regulars. In the corner a young man in the colorful garb of a mage sat playing rousing tunes on a fiddle.

Wrenne made her way to where Randthor lounged with a few other men at a low wooden table. There were no free seats so she resourcefully pulled up a barrel of ale and perched on top of it, folding her hands in her lap. A few of the men at the table cast odd sidelong glances at her and she shifted, feeling out of place and small. She heard a woman's laugh and turned at the sound, hoping for someone else to commiserate with, but the woman was standing in the center of the room, scantily clad and dancing swiftly to the fiddle music. Embarrassed to even see such wanton behavior, Wrenne brought her gaze back around to the table.

"Ah! The little priestess has decided to grace us with her presence!" Randthor slammed a heavy mug of ale down in front of her. He swayed a little as he took a seat beside her, shoving one of the other men further down the bench. His eyes were glassy. Wrenne wondered how many mugs of ale he himself had consumed in the short time it had taken her to change and wash. He had washed up as well, and his face was merry. She caught herself staring and flushed a deep scarlet, but Randthor was listening with rapt attention to a story one of the other men was telling about an especially vivacious night elf he'd had an encounter with the previous evening. Wrenne sat silently, not knowing what she could possibly add to the conversation. She had been 18 when she'd been torn from Northshire, and hadn't had much interest in the boys her age that resided there. Most of them had left to fight in the war and the few that stayed behind were not very desirable. Moving to Stormwind had made little difference in her social life, as she was made to spend almost every waking hour of her first two years in hour after hour of mental training and spell casting, as well as learning about the religion of the church she had subscribed herself to. She had spent the early months of the current year completely cloister with several other priestesses in a small building just outside the walls of Stormwind, forbidden to socialize with anyone other than the priestesses. Now, finally, she was able to do as she pleased on occasion, and found she was awkward and naïve to the relations of men and women.

Randthor interrupted the man's description of the elf's apparently ample bosom with a shout. He raised his mug of ale high over his head.

"This time next month I shall lead a troop of warriors back to Westfall, the home of my fathers, and I shall personally slay Van Cleef!" He stood up, and then climbed atop the table, still holding the mug high. "The Defias have ruined and pillaged the land and people of Westfall and they must be driven from the lands. I will take back Westfall and place Van Cleef's head on a spear at the tower for all villain to see and fear! But men! I can not go alone for even I, who fear no man, am clever enough to know the odds are stacked against me and the place is over run with these vermin bandits. Who will go with me? Who will reclaim Westfall for Stormwind! With men such as ourselves and backed by the church of the Holy Light, we can not fail!" His mighty voice could be heard in every corner of the large tavern and a boisterous roar answered his battle call. Men, drunk on the plentiful ale raised their mugs in a toast and even the fiddling mage paused so they could hear Randthor's words. "Drink up, men! The shadows of the dark are rising but we are here, in good standing and good health. Drink in celebration of your very lives, for far too few live to see old age in these dark times." He jumped off the table, hitting the wooden boards with a loud thud and took a meaningful swig from his mug, then turned to Wrenne. "Drink up! Celebrate your health and vitality, my girl." His smile was endearing, and Wrenne gave in, sipping at the bitter ale and coughing a little. She was used to only drinking the purified water of the cathedral, blessed by the resident priests before being consumed. Priestesses in training were not allowed anything but holy water, breads and fruits throughout their years of training. It was believed that meat and ale sullied the senses and made spell casting less effective. In their third year of training and after they were released from the house of priests outside the city, they were then allowed to drink and eat as they pleased, but were instructed to remain cautious that they did not succumb to gluttony.

As the evening wore on the tavern became more and more crowded and noisy. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and pipe smoke. The fiddler, drunk himself, continued to play sloppily on his fiddle, but the noise of men's voices was so loud the music was drowned in it. Wrenne found herself caught up in the rowdy atmosphere, feeling inspired by Randthor's speech, though the bit about spearing Van Cleef's head made her shudder inwardly, and for the first time felt full of anticipation and excitement. After her third mug of ale she too felt ready to storm the town of Westfall and take back the land, all unease and anxiety washed away in the thick brew she drank. Dizzily, she turned to Randthor and shouted to be heard above the roar of the tavern patrons.

"I should like to see this glorious march you and your fellow warriors will lead into Westfall, it does not seem likely that you could possibly fail with such devotion as these men have," she was shocked to find that her words were slurred and blinked as Randthor's face blurred a little and then came back into focus. He clapped her on the back as he would a fellow warrior, and the strength in his arm almost knocked her off the barrel she sat on. The ale in the mug she held in one hand sloshed over the edge as she struggled to regain her balance and she giggled.

"Well, you will see it first hand, little healer," he commented nonchalantly. Wrenne, gulping down the remainder of her drink easily now that she was already three sheets to the wind gave him a funny look.

"What d'ya mean?" she asked, stifling a hiccup. Briefly she wondered if she should have done with the ale for the evening, but the thought was quickly forgotten.

"Why, you will be there, of course," Randthor said pointedly, leaning back in his seat and smiling as though this were common knowledge.

"I will?" she slurred. Randthor sighed as if speaking to a petulant child.

"Every questing group would be wise to have a healer in their midst. I'm not one to spend much time within the walls of the Cathedral, and had not yet met with anyone I had deemed worthy of taking on the task. And here I have stumbled upon you, or perhaps it was you who stumbled upon me?" he paused to consider this and then continued merrily. "In any event, here you are!" he finished with a flourish of his hand.

"I have to do what the priests of the cathedral ask that I do," Wrenne pointed out with another hiccup, swaying on her barrel. Randthor reached to steady her, and she didn't noticed when he moved the mug of ale out of her reach.

"Silly girl. Of course you must do as they say when you are still an initiate. Once you have completed your training, you are free to do as you wish. Did you not say that you will be finished with training in the weeks to come?"

"Yes; but I will still need to," she was interrupted by yet another hiccup and the words tumbled out of her mouth fuzzily. "I will still need to study on my own. I am no high priestess, and my spells are still weak." She yawned suddenly and blinked her eyes. The lights of the tavern seemed over bearing, she felt sleepy.

"There is only so much you can practice within the safety of the city, Wrenne. Did you not realize that the rest of your experience would have to come first hand?" he seemed highly amused but she frowned suddenly, the anticipation and excitement she'd felt earlier dissolving into a familiar old fear. She felt increasingly tired and as her eyelids drooped Randthor took her arm in his big hand and pulled her to her feet. The tavern swam around her as he led her to the bar, where he tossed many silver coins to the tavernkeeper and nodded his thanks. He led her into the darkened streets and held her up with one arm as she tripped drunkenly along the cobblestones. Wrenne wonder in confusion how she could be so unstable on her feet and he so unaffected. She had watched him swallow mug after mug of the ale, yet he held her firm and walked steadily back to the door of her inn.

"Goodnight my girl, sleep well. We can speak of this more when you are not quite so drunk!" he laughed and she giggled in spite of herself, waving goodbye as she stumbled into the inn. The innkeeper stared at her wide eyed as she made her way unsteadily up the stairs, clutching at the railing. Wrenne fell across her bed and kicked her boots wearily off her feet. When she closed her eyes it felt as though she were falling into a black vortex. She was asleep before she could even remember to change her robes.

"Get a healer," Culain's voice was low as he pushed the serving woman from the room. The slender girl nodded once, moving toward the door, her silken robes flowing out behind silent feet as she moved. Culain didn't hear her shut the door as she discretely exited; the sound was buried under a high, pained moan. He turned toward the entrance way to the room where the sound had come from. Rich velvet curtains in a deep blue hue blocked the owner of the moan from his sight. For now, this was all he could handle. He had already managed to bring her back here alive, all the way from the Arathi Highlands, first holding her writhing body close to his as they rode on saber back and then watching helplessly as she wretched time and time again on the boat ride from Duskwallow back to Teldrassil. He had carried her in his arms the last part of the way; from Teldrassil back into the central city of Darnassus, where she lay now, in her mother's home, poison coursing through her body. He couldn't stand to see her lying so helpless, she who had more charisma than most of the men he knew, who would hurl herself into battle headlong no matter what the odds if she felt the cause righteous and worthy, he could barely stand to see the way the poison had dimmed the light in her eyes, the way it tinted her skin a sickly gray.

She moaned again, feebly, and he slammed his fist down on the heavy kitchen table, wanting simultaneously to run in and gather her to him in a hug and to escape from this building where she lay so he might not listen to her moaning dejectedly anymore. The door opened all the way, slamming back against the wood of the wall behind it under the force with which it was flung.

"Where is she? Where is my daughter?" Even in a state of frenzy the woman's voice held a soothing note. Her eyes were at once bewildered and calm as she swiftly surveyed the room with Culain standing in the center. Another cry of pain answered her question, and the tall slender elf that was Elorra's mother Ruidan rushed past Culain into the room where her daughter lay. Culain followed silently.

"What happened to her?" Ruidan asked, immediately placing a hand on the girl' forehead, then picking up the slender, slack wrist and feeling for a pulse. Elorra stared, her face ashen, into her mother's gaze. She tried to speak, but was cut off as another spasm violently wracked her body.

"She was hunting plain crawlers. She wanted to gather spider silk and the only way is to slay the foul beasts," Culain filled in, his voice monotone.

"And aren't you supposed to be the hunter?" Elorra's mother snapped quickly, not bothering to look at him as she pulled a small glass vial from the brown leather apron tied about her waist. Culain did not respond. Instead, he sat down on a small stool and watched as Ruidan forced her fingers into Elorra's mouth, prying apart the jaw that was clenched shut in pain. With the girl struggling under her mother's firm grasp, Ruidan bit the small cork stopped on the vial and pulled it out with her teeth, then spit it to the floor and dumped the contents of the bottle down her daughter's throat. Elorra choked on the liquid, some of it spilling out of her mouth and down the smooth grayish white of her sickly cheek.

"Come. Leave her in peace," Ruidan gestured to Culain to follow her back to the kitchen as Elorra's cries of pain began to lessen. "It will have a swift effect," Ruidan commented, placing the empty glass vial on the table. Now she turned to Culain, resting one long-fingered hand on her hip.

"You two make it your business to participate in this battle and keep our land safe, and you bring her back not with some valiant scar of war but because she became careless while harvesting spider silk?" She asked flatly. "Tell me again why it is I should let my only daughter run off to battle with you when every time she returns home she carries some injury completely unrelated?"

"Would you wish her stabbed or shot?" Culain asked hotly, his patience wearing thin and his body weary after the long trek back to Darnassus. Immediately he wished he could take it back. Ruidan's eyes flashed and her brows furrowed in fury.

"Of course not!" she hissed. "How could you say such a thing? What I mean is that the world is dangerous enough without the brigandes and villains that have taken over most of it. If Elorra can't even manage to keep herself healthy around the local wildlife in these lands Elune has forsaken, how will she survive if she actually encounters the villain?" Culain snorted.

"Many have already died at the hands of your capable daughter, Ruidan. Don't under-estimate her," he warned levelly. Ruidan turned, her gown whirling out behind her.

"I must attend to the shop. I am not a nurse maid, I can't stay by her side and nurse her back to health all the time," she said the words hastily and sounded peevish, but Culain knew that in her inner most heart Ruidan would give up her entire livelihood in an instant to aid her daughter however she could. The fact of the matter was that Elorra had only sustained a spider bite, and Ruidan knew she would be fine now with the anecdote coursing through her body, and had her own tasks to attend to. Culain also knew that Ruidan abhorred the fact that the only time she ever saw her daughter was when Elorra either wanted help with her own tailoring skills, or when she was injured. Ruidan held bitterness in her heart towards her daughter, a bitterness that thinly coated all the normal feelings of maternal love and caring. Culain could easily see this, Elorra chose daily to ignore it, saying her mother was nothing more than a bitter old woman, angry at the world and at the mother goddess and bent on dwelling in bitterness as opposed to taking action as so many others had. Culain knew also that it was not his place to try to counsel one or the other, and so remained quiet about the situation on all accounts. Elorra would soon be well, and they could depart Darnassus again, as they always did. Even now he heard her say his name, and when he pushed back the heavy curtains she was sitting up, a weak smile playing on her mouth. Her long silky hair was mussed and her face strained, but she looked more alert than she had in all the days of their travel back to Darnassus.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, the tone of her voice sweet and ringing like a quiet bell. She tilted her head to one side in a cat like manner, inquisitive. "How angry is my mother?" Culain tried to smile at her.

"Angry enough," he said briefly. "But never mind it."

"I really must learn to cure poison," immediately her face became calculating, and even as he watched her, the grayish tint drained from her cheeks and the normally pearly pinkish-white hue of her skin returned. She always jumped a step ahead; never patient enough to sit idle and see how things turned out. Elorra had to be in the center of whatever was going on. She had to create history, not just live as it was created around her. She had told Culain once that she had known from a very young age that she would fight, and had never shirked the responsibility or shrank from the challenge. She gave a weak laugh now and he looked at her, startled.

"A plain crawler!" she was musing. "I, who can shape shift and spell cast, out witted by some stupid spider," she shook her head as though being poisoned and near death had proven to be immensely amusing. Culain scowled.

"You should have a care once in awhile," he snapped, recognizing traces of her mother's sentiment in his own tone. "I can't always run around rescuing you. You're the one who is trained in healing, lot of good it's done you," Elorra's expression did not darken but she yawned lightly, bored.

"If I recall correctly I've saved you plenty of times," she said mildly and Culain, feeling chided, became defensive.

"Yes, you have – in battles against our actual enemy, and not the local wildlife," he said hotly. Elorra remained unperturbed. As the anecdote eliminated the last of the spider's poisonous venom, Elorra's familiar smile lit her face. She stepped lightly, slowly from the bed she'd been lying on and came to Culain, wrapping her long, slender arms around his waist. She turned her face up to his and he traced the markings that ran down her forehead and over her cheek with his thumb.

"I'm sorry," she placated, nestling her head against his shoulder. His anger vanished in an instant and he sighed heavily.

"I am glad you are well," he replied, kissing the top of her head. "And the trip is not wasted. I have business here in Darnassus, as I am sure you do, and after we are done here I think I will take to the sea and sail back to Stormwind Harbor."

"Stormwind Harbor? What business would you have there?" she asked curiously, perching on the edge of the table, her expression tranquil. The door opened once more and the serving hand Culain had sent out earlier for help entered quickly, then stopped short when she saw Elorra sitting on the table, her skin a healthy shade of pink, her eyes bright as if she had not only moment before been writhing in agony on her bed.

"Can we help you?" Elorra asked crossly. The serving hand began to stutter a reply but Culain silenced her with a wave of his hand.

"Her mother saw to it that she received the anecdote. She's fine," he explained "You can go," he added and looking flustered, the serving girl turned away, ushering someone else, presumably a healer, out of the door with her. Elorra could hear the girl speaking in sharp whispers to her companion and could hear even from her spot on the table and with them already outside the door, the exasperation in the girl's tone.

"I want to go to Stormwind for supplies and to see where we can be of the most help," Culain said to Elorra, returning to their conversation. Elorra nodded.

"Then we shall leave at once. But let's not stay long. Quite frankly, humans smell awful," she wrinkled her nose. Culain struggled to conceal a smile, still irritated with the nonchalant way Elorra treated the most recent attempt on her life. His struggles were in vein, she noticed, as she always noticed, the smallest things. The smallest twinge at the corner of his mouth. She laughed aloud.

"Come on, you're not angry with me. And why waste time being angry when there is trouble to be had!" she bounced off the table, restored once again to full health and not content to sit idle. She walked to the front of the room and flung the door wide open, staring out into the city of Darnassus. In the distance rose the white marble pillars of the city, intermittently placed marble gazebos stood around the city with marble walk ways connecting them on to the other. Underneath there was cool shallow water, blossoming with bright yellow lilies and teeming with wildlife. As she watched a group of swallows burst from the underbrush in the forest beyond her childhood home and darted in a close knit circle up through the marble canopies. Slender saplings stabbed up through the earth everywhere, the elves were loath to removes any tree their mother goddess Elune had seen fit to grow and so instead of clearing the woods, they built their city around the trees and wildlife. Because of this the city sprawled across the forest, with no semblance of organization or pattern. Many of the buildings were built right into or around massive tree trunks that had stood for centuries. Everything in the city was born out of the very wilderness that surrounded them. The shops, armories, taverns and inns were carved out of the sturdy wood in tiers, topped with sharply slanting wood paneled roves, braced at the top with very square beams, turned up on the ends as though the city itself were just another growing plant, branching out of and winding around all the other flora.

She knew the sight to be breathtaking, but to her it was so familiar she often forgot the raw beauty of Darnassus. Culain came to stand behind her, gazing out at the city.

"It's a wonder we even leave this place. Who in their right mind would?" He asked wistfully. Elorra became sober and turned her head to look up at his profile. He met her gaze and she said almost in a whisper,

"It's a wonder anyone remains when so much of the earth is being ravaged by evil. It's a wonder any being with a conscience can stand idly by and watch everyone else leave this place to risk their lives for it and for the great Goddess. I think the better question would be who in their right mind would stay?"

"Easy for you to say, you throw yourself into action and adventure willfully," Culain said. Elorra shook her head, still staring up at him.

"I do so because I always want to be able to return to Darnassus. If we do not fight the horde before they reach us here, we will not have such a beautiful and sacred home to return to. I would rather die out there protecting this place for generations to come then stay here or flee when the horde reaches us. I can not sit and wait for the horde to come destroy Darnassus the way they have destroyed other beautiful places. And neither can you," she took his hand and held it to her heart. "That is why we go," she said resolutely.

Wrenne knelt on a small red woven rug, her feet tucked beneath her. She tried to focus, to channel her energy and partition it in her mind. She used invisible fingers to stretch out through her veins and arteries, through every cell of her being, pulling at every string of energy alive and waiting there. She tried mostly to focus on anything other than the harsh tingle in her toes where her feet had lost feeling from kneeling for so long. Her toes were winning the battle and she shifted uncomfortably, causing a wave of pin prickles all through her feet.

"I don't feel anything," a soft voice across the room spoke, breaking the stillness of the chamber. Wrenne opened her eyes and then winced. She had woken up that morning with a splitting pain in her head after her rowdy night at the tavern. She had stumbled immediately to the basin of water on the wash table in her room, dumping cupfuls of water down her dry throat. Now she sat, re-hydrated, but still sickly from the pungent ale, trying to learn the delicate art of soothing minds with her own. Brother Bejamin was the voice across the room. He was awaiting the spell with patient indifference; he did not seem to notice her pale cheeks or her bloodshot eyes. She closed them again and took a deep breath. If she could get this right, just once, he would let her go for the day. She cleared this thought out of her mind along with all others, focusing solely on Brother Benjamin where he sat across the room. After several moments of dead silence, she reached up with both hands, her palms facing one another and her hands slightly cupped as if she were holding a big round globe. A brilliant white light began to grow between her hands. She used this ball of energy to do her will; it was the basis for every spell she knew how to cast, always beginning with the same brilliant white light, and diffusing as she channeled her will into it. She released the ball of energy in Benjamin's direction and let out her breath in an audible sigh. He smiled as the light crashed over him in a wave, then evaporated around his head.

"Very good," he began and Wrenne worked to get to her feet, shaking first one leg and then the other as the blood flowing back into the choked arteries. It felt like a hundred fire ants were swarming over her feet. Brother Benjamin came forward; seemingly unaware of the awkward dance she was doing to regain feeling in her feet. He took her hands in his.

"You've learned all I can teach you," he said simply. Forgetting her pained feet for a moment, Wrenne looked up into the priest's kind eyes.

"That's impossible, I know so little," she said. Benjamin squeezed her hands.

"That's not true. You are skilled at both healing and protection. You are quite capable of using your skills on any of our men and women in combat. And above all else you will be able to leave Stormwind knowing that you follow the one true path, the Holy Light, and we are proud to have one such as yourself representing us throughout this realm," he put an arm around her shoulders and led her from the small study that had been working in. "There is only so much we can say to you. There is only so much we can instruct you to do. Everything else, including how you choose to utilize the skills and abilities you now have control over…that is up to you." He gave her a final squeeze and turned to leave but she placed one tentative hand on the sleeve of his robe. He glanced back in surprise.

"I have nowhere else to go," she whispered. Benjamin paused and frowned in surprise.

"I would have expected you to have had multiple offers by this time. Healers are very much sought after."

"Well, I…I had an offer…I guess…" Wrenne stammered. Benjamin waited patiently for her to continue. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin. "I was asked to join a young warrior in Westfall, to rid the place of the Defias bandits," she paused, waiting for his reaction. He only nodded, sadly.

"There are many in need of healing there, Wrenne," he said. Her eyes slid to the floor; she focused on the intricate stone patterns beneath her feet and they blurred and swirled as tears welled in her eyes. Benjamin put a hand under her chin and lifted it so that her eyes met his. "Why are you crying?" He asked quietly.

"I guess I forgot…what I was here for," she began, struggling to explain in a way he would understand. "When I came from Northshire I was so filled with fear, and then I became accustom to the city and training and it seemed as if…it seemed as if the danger was still very far off. And now, suddenly…" she trailed off, searching his face, her eyes bewildered.

"And now suddenly danger is delivered on your front step?" he filled in, and she only nodded. Benjamin lead her back into the study room they had been practicing in and sat her down in a sturdy wooden chair. "Do you think you are the first person to train in Stormwind and feel this way?" he asked gently. He moved a hand through his light hair and Wrenne realized with a start that he was a very attractive young man. Because this realization only added to the turmoil she felt inside, she discarded the thought immediately.

"Wrenne, people that have a gift for healing, such as yourself are often worried about practicing it on the battlefield. Here in this great cathedral we teach you that the way to live is with great compassion and love. We teach you that your purpose is to spread goodness and compassion to the farthest reaches of the realm. We do not put a sword in your hand and a shield on your back and send you out to slay the evil you encounter. But we are well aware that this is the task being asked of you. In Westfall there is a very good chance you will have to fight alongside your companions, as well as heal and protect them. Thus, the duty of a healer is a heavy burden to bear. It takes all of your intellect and all of your spirit to cast the appropriate spells at the appropriate times." Wrenne brushed the tears from her face with the back of her hand.

"This is not making me feel any more confident," she whimpered.

"Allow me to finish. For what I was going to say next was that I am completely convinced that you will be successful on any campaign you attend. Westfall or anywhere else. I have watched you closely over these years you have been my pupil. I have studied you just as you have studied the ancient tomes of the Holy Light. If I did not think you were fit for this quest, for any quest…I would not allow you to leave the cathedral or Stormwind." He waited and she swallowed.

"Do you really think that? You are not just so used to sending young women to their deaths that it seems routine?" she knew this sounded harsh, but as she had expecting, Benjamin's features remained serene. His voice when he spoke again was grave.

"Sending my pupils out of Stormwind and knowing they face imminent danger is never routine and never enjoyable. If I were a selfish man, I would keep you here, and hope to set you up to follow in the footsteps of the High Priestess here. That is how capable I believe you to be."

"So why don't I stay then? When I can be of use here? Why don't you let me stay?" her voice took on a frantic tone, and she grasped the sleeves of his robes hopefully. Gently, he pried her fingers away, but kept her hands encircled in his own.

"Because, as I said, I am not a selfish man. Were you to stay here you would idle away your time in the cathedral, you would bless those who come through, you would tutor young students and you would live night and day within these walls," if he was trying to make this sound unpleasant, it was not working. In her mind, his prediction of her life as a High Priestess sounded wonderful. "However," he began again and she felt that small star of hope inside her chest begin to fade. "Skill of your caliber should not be locked behind cathedral doors. Your place is out in the battlefield now. Healers, priests, are in great demand in these times. To many would rather jump to take a sword and become a warrior or hunter, others would rather study spell casting that can cause great harm to their foes, so they choose to become mages or warlocks. But you, with your wonderful abilities, are one of the rare gems of this city. And the men and women you live beside now need your skill more and more every day. Stormwind may not be safe forever – unless we make it so. Do you understand, Wrenne?" She nodded miserably, sniffling, then turned her head up once more.

"You say I will be on the battlefield. Will I too, be expected to fight? Will I have to…" her voice dropped to a whisper in the quiet chamber. "Will I have to learn shadow magic?" she squeaked. Benjamin frowned hard and stood up, taking a few steps from her as though the very words had somehow contaminated her.

"That is not something I can tell you," he said sternly. "You may be called to fight and how you do so is not something we can teach you or instruct you on here in the cathedral." Wrenne balked at his angry face, feeling small and friendless.

"I am sorry…" she muttered, but he sighed and shook his head.

"No, no…I am sorry. In perfect truth, Wrenne…it is very likely you will need to learn the art of casting certain spells that can…inflict pain…upon your targets. You will most likely need to carry some sort of weapon to protect yourself as well." Suddenly he dropped to his knees in front of her, grasping her face between his large, smooth hands and staring into her eyes. "I speak to you as a friend now, not a priest or your mentor, just a friend…and as a friend I would beg you to learn at least to wield a sword before leaving the city walls," Wrenne stared, transfixed at the bleakness in his eyes as they searched her face. "Please, please learn to protect yourself. Were we…were I, in fact, to lose you…" he faltered and Wrenne felt as though her insides were turning to liquid. She slid off the chair into his arms, clinging to the man that had been her mentor, but moreso her dearest friend throughout her years in Stormwind. The weight of the situation hung around her as the realization that after she left she may never see him again dawned on her. The two knelt on the stone floor, alone in the study, clinging to one another. Both wept.

Elorra thought herself fierce but was no fool. When she saw the dark horse moving through the woods, the rider hulking and bulging with heavy armor, she ran. Only a few feet from where she had seen them, stealing through the forest, she leapt, stretching out her arms and flinging herself face first over a ledge. She landed on four solid paws, digging her bag feet deep into the rich soil of Darnassus and flinging earth and grass as she took off at break neck speed towards the city. It was now, when shape-shifted that she felt most powerful, her mouth filled with jagged ferocious teeth, her muscles tight under the thick pelt of dark fur. Elorra raced through the shady forest until she saw the first signs of the city, and then she opened her mouth and let a deep roar rumble out. Her alert was detected immediately, and she heard before she saw the metallic hiss of swords being drawn from sheaths. She reached the two guards that stood idle for the most part near the portal that lead to Rut'theran village and she had to dig her large paws deep into the ground to stop before rolling over both of them. She snorted once, shaking the dirt from her fur and then morphed back into her elven form.

"Horde!" She cried and then gathered her energy and beat her fists into the air, increasing the stamina of the two men standing before her as well as herself before whipping around and shifting back into cat form. The guards stood at the ready and she stood before them, her tail whipping angrily left and right. One of the guards caught the arm of a young woman that had been hurrying toward the portal.

"Horde, run back, tell the city guards…" he started and she shook her head, her bright eyes blazing with fear, pushing past them and ducking into the portal.

"We can't leave the portal unprotected!" the guard suddenly beseeched Elorra. She nodded her big square head and darted off, shape-shifting once again to the more convenient traveling form of a cheetah. Small and at her most agile now, she sped down the road directly into the center of town, hissing violently at every guard she passed. They, aware of the warning tone and not waiting for her to morph back, took off immediately towards the weakly guarded portal. That fool of a girl, Elorra thought furiously as she darted across one of the spanning bridges, the shape of her body reflecting in ripples on the surface of the lake, a blur as she sped forward. If they come through the portal, then they have already killed the guards at Rut'theran and she will be as good as dead as well…she trailed off and stopped short with a shriek. Riding full speed toward her, across the prisine marble bridge she stood on, was a black horse and a gargantuan rider. The horse wore chain mail, covering its face, neck and most of its body as well. It's nostrils flared furiously and it's hooves stamped the bridge with meaning. Another terrible roar came, but this time it came from the rider of the dark steed. Elorra shifted back to elven form and beat her fists in the air once more, casting a spell about herself that would inflict damage upon the monster if he came to close. He was already too close for her comfort, but she did not back down. Shifting back into a sleek and ferocious cat she growled. The green face, protruding jaw and long, muscled arms of the orc quivered with excited rage. Tusks burst out of his mouth, pointing towards the sky, gleaming as he threw back his head and screamed gruesomely at her. He leapt from the horse, shaking the entire structure of the bridge as he landed, cracking the perfect marble. Elorra dodged swiftly as his club came sailing threw the air towards her head. As it passed by her face, perilously close, she leapt straight for his throat, her claws spread.

Her first attempt failed. The monstrous orc, at least five times her side, flung her off easily, and this time his club connected with her ribs, sending her sprawling off the bridge and into the water of the lake. Water rushed into Elorra's mouth and she coughed and choked, but leapt once more from the water and towards the orc. Faintly, she could hear the cries of nearby elves who had spotted them, and she could already hear the clank of metal as city guards rushed towards the two battling on the bridge in the very heart of Darnassus. Elorra backed up, measuring her attacker's brute force. At once she blinked, concentrating the energy of her mind and throwing a faerie fire spell at the maddened orc, hoping to weaken his defenses. Small bursts of light, like fireworks, each in the shape of a tiny winged human form rained down upon the orc and he threw his head back, letting out a roar that could be heard far into the mountains. At once he was attacking again. Elorra darted forward, claws out, striking again and again, feeling the flesh of the orc ripping off in long strips under her fatal claws. She couldn't bring this creature down alone…..A flurry of movement caught her eye and in an instant an arrow had driven itself directly through one of the orc's bulging eyes with a soft crushing sound that turned Elorra's stomach. He gave an angry and surprised shout and turned his back on her, grasping at his face and allowing her just enough time to inflict a critical strike that caused him to topple forward. Several more arrows sailed past Elorra, and the first guard to reach her held his shining sword high for a moment, then brought it down in one fell swoop, taking off the orc's head.

Elorra sat back on her haunches, panting and feeling numb, as she always did after a brutal fight, watching as the orc's blood gushing out onto the white marble of the bridge. The head lay to one side of the guard and they stared at one another, cat and elf, neither speaking as the gravity of the situation took hold.

'The others," the guard suddenly said, and as Elorra wheeled on her back legs and began to run towards the portal she saw that Culain was running swiftly at her side, bow in hand. They arrived at the portal to find the guards standing defensively, but alone.

"Nothing has come this way, but we heard the cries of the orc…." One began, and Culain waved his hand to silence the guard.

"Dead. How many did you see in the woods?" he asked, turning to Elorra. She shifted again and shook her head.

"Just the one, but he could have been sent as a distraction, so that our guard would be down…" The guard immediately became enraged.

"Why does not the goddess smite these foul beasts? She is supposed to protect us from evil! Darnassus should be a sanctuary, not a city defiled by the spilt blood of horde, no better than Stormwind!" she growled at the disdain in his tone.

"Silence! Your goddess is not one of war. And Darnassus is no longer safe. No place is, fool, and you had best remember that." She whirled and began to walk away from the group. Culain instructed the guard that had beheaded the orc to stay at the portal with the others, and followed Elorra as she stalked angrily away. He reached for her arm but she wrenched it from his grip.

"Slow down," he deplored and she turned to face him, her long hair whipping out behind her as she did so.

"We don't have time," she said bleakly. "We can not risk traveling to Stormwind now," she said in a low voice.

"Why not?" Culain tilted his head in confusion. Elorra's eyes were dark, her winged eye brows furrowing close together in the center of her forehead.

"Don't you see? Don't you see how easy it was for just one orc to get all the way to the very center of town without being caught?" she hissed under her breath, glancing to see that nobody else heard her. "Darnassus is not a safe haven but the guards here are slack. They take for granted every day that we live through unthreatened. They are ignorant and do not think Darnassus can be destroyed. But I believe different," now she stepped closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think our Goddess has forsaken us," she hissed urgently and Culain pushed her away a little.

"Elorra, think of what you are saying," he chastised, but she grabbed his wrist with one slender fingered hand and tugged at it.

"I am thinking of what I am saying, which is far more than I can say for the lazy guards of this city. The Goddess is not going to protect Darnassus. The city guards seem to be under the impression that Darnassus has an invisible force field that will keep out all evil if they pray hard enough and that is the belief of fools. No ethereal being is going to protect this city. We," and she gestured to herself and him, then around her in a wide swooping gesture. "Are expected to protect this city…and our failure to do so because we are waiting on the aid of a being that is not tangible and would never wield a weapon even if She were….will lead to our demise. Mark my words, Culain, I am no fool." He stared down at the bleak face before him and knew she spoke the truth.

"And what do we do now," he asked, his tone soothing, though he cast anxious glances around the city. It seemed to him that even here, many yards away, he could smell the stink of the dead orc on the bridge, like a curse on the beautiful city.

"Well, we can not leave Darnassus yet. We must be patient and we must plan. And we must get these fools to see the reality of the situation," she gestured impatiently to the guards. "We must stay."

For all the years she had spent in Stormwind, Wrenne realized again how little she really knew of the city, beyond the mage quarters. She walked now through the dwarven district, staring wide eyed all around her. She had known that the dwarves were hard-working and burly folk, and that their city was the engineering capital of the world. She knew also that the city was carved out of the very mountains beyond Stormwind, a stronghold that had never yet been threatened by horde. She was told that this was the safest place in the realm, carved out of the mountain, the floor and ceiling that covered the expansive city entirely of solid, indestructible rock. The folk of Ironforge were welcoming when she stepped off the Deeprun Tram that had brought her here, to her destination. As she stepped lightly from the tram a gnome, not even three feet high, held out a hand in greeting.

"Welcome, I don't recognize your face, have you visited Ironforge before?" he asked, his voice very high and lithe. Wrenne looked down on the gnome with a nervous little smile and shook her head. Immediately, he took her hand in his small one and began to lead her from the tram.

"Come come!" the little gnome almost bounced with excitement. "You will very much like it here. It is the safest place in the realm, exciting, well-populated and warm…" as he spoke the word warm he gestured with one stubby arm to the scene before them. He had led her through a tiny tunnel and now she looked up and gasped.

At the very heart of Ironforge were fountains of lava, pooling far below a banister she could look right over, and being poured through chutes that ran the length of the ceiling, carried away elsewhere. The heat from the lava hit her face when she peeked over the banister, and she drew back, a little fearfully, wondering if anyone had ever fallen in. The gnome chuckled beside her.

"Yes; caution is key. But do not be afraid, the lava runs this great city. We funnel and redistribute it to heat the entire city," his eyes were wide and sparkling. "So that even though the outside of the mountain is always covered in snow and even the very gates of Ironforge often hidden in the snow drifts – it is always warm and welcoming here inside."

The gnome, who bid her goodbye shortly after providing her with a general sense of direction in the city, was right through and through. Wrenne immediately wanted to stay in Ironforge forever. Dwarves, humans and gnomes were everywhere, laughter and music, merrier even then the music of Stormwind, surrounded her as she made her way through one long cavernous tunnel after another. After an hour of walking, she realized that she didn't even mind being lost in the city. Everywhere she turned it seemed there was a friendly face. The dwarves had very common characteristics, large noses and big square faces, coarse reddish hair large feet and hands. Many offered her help with directions, but soon she found herself wandering idly, glancing in this shop and that, fascinated at the mechanical machines gnomes and dwarves alike worked on throughout the city. She jumped in fear when she first saw a strange, squeaking, wheezy device moving in her direction, and then listened, absorbed in fascination, as the little gnome that had been sitting atop the device explained that it was a robot and showed her how it functioned.

Finally, as the hour was growing late, she focused on finding her destination. To the western side of the city she found a bank and a large auction house, the two important buildings facing one another, a bridge in the center to cross from one side of the lava pit to the other. Beside the auction house she saw the heavy wooden sign of the armory, and once she spotted it, made a beeline for the building.

Wrenne heard Randthor's familiar laugh even before she saw him. As she entered she spotted him, standing with his back to her, deep in animated conversation with a sturdy, rough faced dwarf. The dwarf was indicating some fine scrawling pattern that adorned the hilt of a gleaming sword. She watched the two for a moment, their head's bent together as they carefully inspected the sword together, and she smiled merrily when the dwarf spotted her in the doorway. His thick bronze colored beard lifted a little as the mouth hidden beneath it turned up in a small.

"Rarely graced by a pretty young lady is the doorway to this shop," he said with a hearty laugh, and Randthor turned in surprise and then grinned as well. Feeling rather light-hearted, in spite of her earlier conversation with Benjamin Wrenne laughed.

"Don't women need swords as well?" she asked smartly and the dwarf winked at her.

"Aye, they do – but the women that need swords are not nearly as delicate and beautiful as you, young priestess. Rather hard they are, like toughened leather." Wrenne blushed deeply and Randthor shook his head.

"Pay him no mind, he talks like this to any woman with the guts to come into his store," he shot a glance of pretended exasperation at the dwarf, who shrugged and laughed in turn. The dwarf came out from behind the counter, took Wrenne's hand in his own gruff one and planted a kiss upon it. His beard tickled her fingers and she giggled.

"Pay him no mind," the dwarf said with another wink. "I talk like this to women that deserve to be told they are pretty. My name is Falrim. Welcome to my armory. Need you a sword?" he gave her a puzzled look and she shook her head.

"Ah, no, I don't think my arms strong enough to even carry one. I came to find Randthor, actually," she glanced back at the man and noticed that he seemed pleased by this news. Falrim raised his bushy eyebrows and peered at Randthor.

"You are a lucky man, Randthor, to have so fair a flower drifting about Ironforge in search of you," he said mischievously. Randthor threw back his head and gave a short laugh.

"Don't look so surprised," he chastised the dwarf, who merely shrugged and settled comfortably on a stool.

"Do you two have private matters to discuss, or shall we have a round of ale?" Randthor agreed to the round immediately. Wrenne hesitated, thinking of her previous experience with ale.

"Water, for me, please…" she said quietly and Randthor smirked. Clearly, he had not forgotten her drunkenness either. She felt her cheeks burn but cleared her throat and took a seat at the small square table in the corner. Even here, in an armory, surrounded by fatal weapons, Wrenne felt safe. A fire flickered lazily around several thick dry logs in a hearth on the opposite side of the room, casting the shop in the same warm orange glow that all of Ironforge was enveloped in.

"So," Randthor began cheerfully, still fingering the intricate gold pattern engraved on the hilt of the sword that lay across the table. "To what do I owe the honor of you traipsing all through Ironforge to find me?" Wrenne took a deep breath, sitting up straight and lifting her chin.

"I came to tell you that I will go to Westfall with your campaign," she spoke in the most authoritative and confident tone she could muster, and felt a bit indignant when Randthor laughed.

"Well of course. But I already knew that," he said simply. Falrim raised an eyebrow, glancing between the two of them and calmly sipping his mug of ale.

"I never gave you an answer," Wrenne retorted swiftly and Randthor shook his head.

"You had to go with somebody, some group on some campaign. Taking into account the fact that you have very few friends in this city and have been cloistered in the cathedral for over three years now…I simply assumed you would go with me," he shrugged indifferently. "We leave two moons from tonight," he added.

"I have friends," Wrenne muttered, her gray eyes narrow.

"Don't get haughty with me, woman," Randthor said mildly, swirling his drink in the mug he held. He leaned back, comfortable in a white linen shirt and tan breeches. A medallion hung on a leather cord about his neck, his reddish brown hair was combed neatly and shined in the light from the flames. For a moment she forgot his words, staring at him, wondering how in the course of weeks she had come to befriend this man whose life she knew very little about.

All three were quiet and when Wrenne glanced back at the cup of water Falrim had set before her, Randthor stared at her in return. The three years she had spent in Stormwind had done little to harden her. Her hair had grown long, left uncut over the years of her training, and hung down around her shoulders in soft reddish blonde waves. Her face was young and sweet, her eyes large and naïve. Her mouth was set like a small pink flower, she bit one side of her lip now and lifted her gaze slowly to meet Randthor's stare from beneath long lashes. For the briefest moment he wanted to withdraw his statement about knowing she would join them; it was difficult to picture this small, clean woman anywhere even within the vicinity of Westfall. He had the urge to leave her here, with Falrim, to instruct his old friend to lock her up safely and ensure no harm could possibly come to her. He wanted to touch her hair and see how soft it was….Randthor cleared his throat, tearing his eyes from hers, banishing these thoughts from his mind immediately. He knew, even if she didn't, the violent power she was now capable of. He had met many healers in his travels, all of them weak in body but perilously dangerous in their spell casting. Even if she knew only spells of healing and protection, it would take little time for her to reach into that darker place in her mind, to learn shadow spells that were lethal to whomever they were cast upon. For him, Wrenne would be no more than a weapon and a tool. A being brought alone to diminish the defenses of their foes from afar, and then to heal the injuries they would no doubt receive in battle. That was all, and nothing more. Falrim seemed to sense the tension hanging in the air of the store and he smacked his hands, palms down on the table, causing them both to jump.

"Well, now you've your sword. Is there any other favor I can do for you, my friend?" he asked, clapping Randthor heartily on the back. Wrenne's small sigh of relief did not escape his keen observance, but, pitying the small creature he pretended as though he had not heard it.

"No, Falrim, thank you," Randthor stood, took the sword in one strong hand and sheathed it as though it were light as a feather though Wrenne could only imagine it must be a very heavy weapon. "Before we are to go to Westfall though, we will need to make a rather dangerous journey," he was addressing her again, and Wrenne looked up, tilting her head slightly to one side and brushing back a strand of her hair.

"To where?" she asked curiously. Randthor offered his hand to her and when she took it, he pulled her easily to her feet.

"Can you use a dagger, my girl?"

"No, of course not," she answered, puzzled.

"A sword then? A mace? An axe?" he pressed. Falrim chuckled at the interrogation, shook his head and began to tidy the shop.

"You know they do not train priests at the cathedral to use weaponry," she said with a little frown.

"Well you do not intend to rush into battle empty handed, do you?"

"I thought…" Wrenne stammered, but trailed off. To be truthful, she wasn't entirely sure what she though, or what she expected.

"You thought you would just wait idly while we fought for our lives, then clean up the mess, did you?" Randthor teased, poking her in the side. She moved away from him, irritated.

"Yes; I suppose that is something of what I thought," she answered, once again indignant.

"Well, I disagree. A sword and shield may be much too heavy for you, but there are weapons that are not. We will travel to Darnassus," he said resolutely. Wrenne gasped, but Randthor was shaking Falrim's hand.

"Again, you have both my thanks and my enduring friendship. Be well, keep safe." Falrim shook the hand with a twinkling eye and a smile hidden by his voluminous beard.

"You are the one who should keep safe. I hope to see you again and to hear how many you slay by my sword. May the Holy Light guide your campaign and bring you once again safely to Ironforge." He reached around Randthor and took Wrenne's hand again, planting another kiss upon it. "You be safe as well, priestess. And count me among your friends. You are always welcome here in Ironforge, and in my shop, though I have little to offer that will suit you." Wrenne smiled, warmed by his kindness and nodded. She followed Randthor as he stepped out of the door and back into the bustling court yard between the bank and auction house. For a few moments they walked in silence, side by side through the crowd of talking laughing gnomes, dwarves and humans. Wrenne watched the crowd in wonder. You could hardly imagine the entire realm was at war if you stood here and gazed at the scene. Ironforge was prosperous and merry, warm and inviting. Westfall seemed like a fable out of an ancient tome and when she tried to picture herself there, among the desolation and destruction she had only so far heard about in talk, she could not imagine it. Yet here was Randthor, telling her they would leave this place in the next handful of moons, and she had agreed to leave it at will. In the midst of the bustle and chatter she felt a familiar old dread churning in her stomach, the same dread she had felt when she and Corinna had left Northshire with the other young people. Now, finally the time had come for her to put into action the cumulative efforts of both her training and studying.

"Darnassus," she said suddenly and Randthor looked down at her.

"Mm," he said with a brief nod.

"But why?" she knew what Darnassus was. She knew that it was the capital city of the elves. She knew that the entire city lay beneath an enormous tree the followers of the druid beliefs had planted there in an effort to regain their former strength. She had heard many stories regarding the beauty and tranquility of the place, that the elves could walk without making the sound of footsteps, and even that some of them had the ability to change into animal forms, a thought that both fascinated and frightened her. She had seen elves in Stormwind, tall and imposing and simultaneously waif-like and ethereal. They certainly did not look like fighters, even in the rough garb of a warrior or hunter. They were like beings out of a dream, vaguely resembling humans, but at the same time distinctly non-human. Elves to her seemed like walking contradictions. Physically beautiful, mysteriously deadly.

"There is a female elf I know in Darnassus. I have had word that she is there now, between conquests, helping to protect the city. She has great knowledge of using these," and suddenly he reached for a rickety wooden stave held by a woman dwarf that stood nearby. He winked at the woman and she giggled, her round cheeks rising on her face, causing her eyes to squint into two little half moons. Wrenne saw in that little woman's face that she was not the only one to realize Randthor was an attractive man. He twirled the staff casually in his hand, then struck a mock defensive stance and pointed the staff directly at her, carefully raising it until it touched her chin lightly. "Staves. They are light to carry, and deadly to wield. The perfect two-handed weapon for you," content with his explanation, he bowed to the dwarven woman and handed the weapon back to her. She shook her head in amusement and moved on.

"You think I will be close enough to evil that I will need to physically fight them away," she said flatly, her eyes locked on his. Randthor put an arm around her slender shoulders and drew her in, putting his mouth perilously close to her ear.

"I don't think so, I know so."

Wrenne awoke before dawn had broken on the day of their scheduled departure. She sat at a small wooden vanity table, staring at her reflection in the oval mirror above it. A thin crack ran up through the mirror, and she followed it from the corner where it started to the top of the mirror, then met her own gaze. She had slept very little, tossing in the night with the anticipation of a seaward voyage heavy on her mind. She had never been in a boat, and did not relish the idea of sailing off to the fairy tale city of Darnassus, full of elves that had secluded themselves from the rest of the Alliance and could probably assassinate you in your sleep with more ease than any other race. She had thought of all she knew about Tannysa and realized that thought Tannysa was her closest friend in Stormwind and had taught her many things about herbalism with unending patience, she still found the elf, who was almost a full two heads taller than her, to be an intimidating and mysterious woman.

She sat there, staring and pondering until thin rays of sunshine began to filter around the burlap curtain on the window. Sounds of shops opening and people moving about in the street below began to filter up through the window, and Wrenne finally stood to dress.

She brought only two empty leather satchels and a small green pouch filled with herbs when she left. She paused to hand the innkeeper several golden coins, imploring the woman to save her room and protect the belongings she had stored in the chest there. The woman nodded knowingly, tucking away Wrenne's payment and whispering a soft blessing as she watched the young solemn woman that she had first met as a childish and tearful girl walk from the inn. She wondered if this priestess would in fact return for the belongings stored in the room upstairs, or if that trunk would be added to the many she had stored in the basement; full with the belongings of Alliance members now dead and rotting out in the vast battlefields of the realm.

As if he had already been fore-warned of her departure, one of the young stable lads had brushed and saddled Thistle and brought her around to the front of the inn. Now he held out the reigns to Wrenne and as she took them, she noticed tears in the young boy's eyes.

"Why are you crying?" she asked, taking Thistle's reigns in her hands, struggling to keep her own emotions in check, buried deep inside her heart.

"So many leave and don't come back," the words tumbled out of the young boy's mouth unchecked. "You are so kind and so pretty. I don't want you to leave; I fear I'll never see you again." His frankness startled her, and she found that for several moments she could not answer. She had always been under the impression that this stable lad was kind to her because she in turn paid him generously, but the tears welling in his wide blue eyes were genuine. She brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. She did not even know his name; she had never thought to ask.

"What are you called?" she asked now and he drew himself up.

"Seth," he answered simply, leaving off his last name as though they had been dear friends for a long time.

"Well, Seth. I will make every effort to see you once again, even if you are fully grown when I do," without waiting for him to reply, she threw the reigns over Thistle's head and mounted quickly, leaving the inn and Seth behind her.

"I wonder what the flora will be like in Darnassus," Wrenne said absently. She sat atop a wooden crate, leaning her head on her arms, which rested on the side of the boat they sailed on. Randthor, looking a bit green in the face, glancing her way and thought she looked nothing more than a child, leaning idly and daydreaming about flowers. "I hear they have a little red flower that grows there in abundance, with petals so slender they look like paintbrushes on the ends," she continued. As the ship lurched and rolled through the ominous waves of the sea Randthor gulped and placed a hand to his stomach. There third day at sea and still his stomach had not settled. Too proud to complain to anyone about his sea illness, he stayed silent, keeping mostly to his cabins. Today, Wrenne had pestered him until he emerged, and he wondered how she, on her very first sea expedition, could sit there so calm and serene while the boat rolled over wave after nauseating wave…he shut his eyes, but that only increased the dizziness he felt. Before he could open them again, he felt a cool hand on his cheek. The coolness warmed and warmed until the nausea subsided. He could see the yellow energy radiating from Wrenne's small palm as she drew it away.

"Why didn't you tell me you were not feeling well?" she asked softly. "Have you been suffering three days in your cabin while I sat here, perfectly capable of aiding you?" a tiny smile played at the corners of her mouth. Randthor scoffed.

"It was nothing. I've suffered far worse in my day," he grumbled.

"It's what I'm here for," she reminded him quietly. He didn't answer, and she turned her eyes back out to the vast sea. The wind picked up her hair and played in it, causing strands to whip across her forehead and cheeks, which were pink from the biting wind. She drew her rough woolen cloak closely around her and returned to the topic of plants, one she never ceased to tire of, but that Randthor had little knowledge of. Still; she even had the voice of a healer, soft and soothing like balm on a burn. He did not like to admit it, but he had worried for her when they first boarded. He had plainly seen the way the male sailors had eyed her from head to toe with poorly concealed lust, and even the way the female sailors, hardened and unfeminine from a brutal life at sea, had looked upon her with anything ranging from total disinterest to downright scorn. Wrenne had pleasantly surprised the crew by helping those aboard that suffered sea sickness, and she had gained the respect of male and female sailor alike by preventing the unwanted task of cleaning vomit for those too sick to leave their cabins and throw up over the side of the boat. They were traveling to Darnassus alone, and Randthor was loathe to leave Wrenne by herself wandering the boat, but the men and women kept their distance from the young priestess, regarding her with a respectful nod when she passed by. He knew she probably had not paused to think about the dangers of traveling with men and women that could best be labeled as pirates and because it seemed she was free of any threat, did not bother to bring it up to her now.

Now she removed a small blue silk satchel from her neck and pressed it into his hand. He looked up at her questioningly and she motioned for him to put it around his neck.

"Lice," she said briefly. "It will keep them out of your hair."

"This?" he rolled the little blue pouch in his hand. "What is it?"

"Feathergorom and blithhox. It's poisonous to insects, and difficult to find.

"Poisonous to insects…" he repeated in surprise, having never heard of such a thing. Wrenne nodded and smiled merrily.

"As you yourself reminded me, I am skilled in some things," she pointed out. Randthor, giving in, put the small pouch on its thin cord around his neck and tucked it away beneath his linen shirt. "How many days?" she asked suddenly, still staring out at the dark waves. Above them the sky was bright and clear, but in the distance, maybe miles away, it was always hard to tell when all around you there was only water, water and more water, Randthor could see gray clouds rolling on the horizon, possibly a storm they would have to sail through the following day, or even tonight.

"Assuming the good weather holds," he began doubtfully, "we should arrive within the week. If a storm rolls through it could set us back," as he spoke he watched Wrenne gaze up at the thick sails above their heads, bearing the crest of Stormwind City. There was little to do aboard the ship but wait to arrive at Darnassus, and, accustom to keeping busy, Randthor felt restless with boredom. Wrenne seemed content to sit and talk of flowers, but he could not. Even now he stood, invigorated from her healing touch, and paced the long planks of the deck beside her. In the middle of his pacing, a dark shadow fell over his body then moved off down the deck. Wrenne followed the shadow until she spotted the griffin that circled high above the boat. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth formed a little surprised o. The bird, or beast, rather, had blue feathers, so dark they were almost black, from it's beak to the center of its body, where the feathers diminished into the thick tan pelt of a four legged animal. It had large paws like a jungle cat, and enormous talons shimmered in the sunlight as the bird circled, then dove towards the deck, landing with a graceful thump.

An elf was perched on the beasts back. It shook its head and gave an impatient shrill squawk as the elf leaped easily from its back. She was a female, dressed in a white silk shirt embroidered in gold thread. On her chest she bore the symbol of a messenger and she nodded briefly to them. Her hair, so thin and light it looked as if it floated about her face instead of hanging heavy like Wrenne's own was cut in a short boyish bob, it's color like none Wrenne had seen on any living being before, a bright vivid green. It's color reminded Wrenne of Northshire. She ignored the stab of homesickness in her chest.

"The captain?" she asked pertly. Wrenne stared at a dagger the elf had chained to her waist and felt surprised even though she knew she should not. Even a simple messenger had to carry a weapon and it troubled her.

"You will find him in his cabin below," Randthor replied, signaling to a man sitting on a barrel whittling a piece of wood. "You there, take this messenger to the captain?" the man nodded and jerked his head for the elf to follow him. He stared at her warily as she drifted across the planks like a ghost in his wake.

"They are beautiful, aren't they?" Wrenne said wistfully when the elf had gone.

"Aye, and nothing but trouble. Do not be fooled."

"Trouble?" Wrenne asked curiously, thinking of her own friend Tannysa. "They are part of the Alliance, aren't they?" Randthor shook his head.

"No. Didn't you ever wonder why you saw so few elves in Stormwind?"

"Well, I just assumed it is because the city is a human city mainly…"

"The elves want little to do with humans, to be perfectly truthful," Randthor leaned on the railing beside her, staring out at the waves and aware that since Wrenne's healing spell they no longer affected him negatively. He breathed deep of the salted air and ran a hand through his hair. "They have their own conflict," he said shortly. Wrenne frowned and looked up at him, waiting for him to say more. "Theirs is a conflict of beliefs, not a physical war. Darnassus is split down the middle as far as beliefs go. Both druids and priestesses reside in Darnassus. The priestesses are led by a High Priestess, just like the High Priestess of Stormwind, but the female elves that pledge their allegiance never leave Darnassus the way you have left the Cathedral of Holy Light. They are maidens that server Tyande, their High Priestess and their lives are pledged fully to her. They can belong to no man, and no other belief structure. There is a holy temple in Darnassus, called the Temple of the Moon. This is where they reside. There are also druids living in Darnassus now and they follow a druid Archbishop. The priestesses of the temple worship a goddess called Elune, she is believed to be the goddess of the moon. The druids, as you may well know, worship Nature. They had slept for a long time in a land you and I and any other race will never see, a hidden land where they were immortal. They have awoken to the turmoil of this war between the Alliance and the Horde. They have little interest in either faction – they live to heal and care for the realm and to purge the land of those that would destroy it…." He paused, then added, "as Westfall was destroyed." Wrenne had listened intently to Randthor's knowledge of the lore.

"And you've been before? To Darnassus?"

"Aye, and you should be forewarned that it will be nothing like Stormwind. You will not be unwelcome in Darnassus, but you will be watched warily. The elves do not much like humans roving into their territory. They would rather remain neutral and undiscovered. They want to fade into our memories like an old myth, so they may live in peace."

"They will not want me there," Wrenne said, her voice trembling nervously. "They are already divided and neither side follows the Holy Light. They will not welcome a priestess from yet another faith…" she pulled her cloak tighter still and glanced worriedly up at him. Randthor smiled comfortingly.

"No, little healer, they will not shun you. No human is fully welcome in Darnassus, but they are a peaceful race and will accept us during our short visit. Besides, I have friends awaiting our arrival. I sent word before we even set sail, so our arrival is not unexpected."

"The arrival of Horde to Stormwind or Westfall or even Northshire is expected also, but that does not make it any more welcome." She said stubbornly. Randthor shrugged.

"Aye, but there is no need for you to worry. The elves strive always to maintain peace, even if we are not fully welcomed to their city, they will not lift a hand to harm us and you will see. We will be welcomed hospitably. You must trust me." It sounded more like a command then a plea, and Wrenne did not respond.

The storm Randthor had feared held off, but their arrival to Darnassus was not as he thought it would be. Three more moons passed before the day when Wrenne could look across the water and see the faint black line, thin as a pencil scratch, on the distant horizon, beyond the miles and miles of water. She squinted hard, trying to force her eyes to see further than they were able to, until the line became a blur and her temples ached with the strain of squinting. Behind her, Randthor parried half heartedly with a rugged deckhand he had befriended in his boredom. Wrenne ignored the clink and clank of their swords clashing together and continued to lean forward over the railing, staring at the mass of land still so far away.

"Will you have done with all your staring? It will neither make the boat arrive more quickly or do your eyes any good," Randthor chided, pausing in his mock fight with the deck hand, who took the opportunity to corner him, the tip of his tarnished sword held to Randthor's throat. Randthor laughed good-naturedly, but Wrenne strode toward them, crossly placing her hand on the sword and pushing it away from the neck of her companion.

"Stop that, before somebody gets hurt," she snapped. The long voyage had done little to improve her character. At first she had been content to sit on the ship's deck and watch the water rolling over and over itself; content to sit imagining the herbs and flowers she might find and gather in Darnassus. After several days even she had become bored, yearning for the feel of solid land beneath her feet, sick of the heaving and crashing of the boat against the waves and the never ending view of water that met her eyes no matter which way she looked. Even her speech had changed, losing its formality and slipping into the simpler tongue of the deckhands that had been her constant companions for days. Her cheeks blazed pink with sunburn, as did Ranthor's, and the ivory of her arms had grown darker from hours of sitting on the deck of the ship with the sleeves of her robe rolled up to her elbows.

By the time the sun had begun to sink below the distant horizon, the thin black line of the coast had evolved into a large misshapen lump of land. As they came even closer to docking, Wrenne gazed through the mist at the odd terrain. It looked almost like rope, dark in color, winding and twining in no particular pattern. She was trying to figure out if it was some unfamiliar rock or dirt when Randthor came to stand beside her.

"That's very odd land," she commented, pointing through the damp air to the land that seemed to rise and fall in odd places, one strip tangling around another as if the dirt or rock or whatever it was had risen up over the actual land of the island and consumed it whole. Randthor threw back his head and laughed.

"Aye, odd indeed. That isn't land, little one. That's a tree."

The guards at the end of the dock, which had itself been carved right from the roots of the massive tree that was the island of Rut'theran, waited silent and patient for the Stormwind barge to glide slowly into their port. One of the guardian elves ran silently back to the village to ask if the barge should be allowed to dock, or sent away in light of recent events. He knelt before Daryn Lightwind, a formidable elven female who stood especially tall. She was draped in robes of emerald green, her hair plaited into to thick long braids. She stared down her long straight nose at the elven guardian as he entered her chamber.

"Lady Daryn," he spoke respectfully, his tone melodious and low. "Are we still to allow passage to the humans traveling in from Stormwind?"

"How many?" her question was brisk and direct. She stared hard at the guardian and he trembled slightly under her stern gaze.

"Two."

"Let them pass," she dismissed him immediately, returning to a large leather bound volume that lay open on the table beside her. The guard hesitated and she turned swiftly. "Go!" she hissed and he ran from the room like a startled hare.

A massive tree. Growing to such massive size that an entire forest had been spawned in its cracks and crevices. So huge that an entire building could be carved into a single root. Wrenne was so preoccupied with this anomaly of nature she was barely aware of Randthor handing her the few belongings she had brought along and placing his hand at the small of her back to push her forward, onto the pier. The feel of land under her feet surprised her enough to steal her attention for a moment, and she took a few awkward steps forward, feeling as though she herself were unbalanced and rolling along on such stable and unmoving ground. This inconvenience could not hold her attention as she walked wide eyed up the pier. Her first instinct was to reach out and touch one of the massive roots, by itself thicker than a dozen tree trunks put together, but she threw a questioning look at Randthor first. He could tell she longed to touch the bark, to confirm with her own hand that this tree was actually living and growing still and not some trick of a mind that has wasted many days idle during a long and secluded voyage. He nodded once to assure her that it was okay to investigate and then turned to greet the guards standing on the pier.

Vaguely, she could hear his low voice behind her, but did not bother listening as she stepped toward the root closest to her. It twisted up out of the water surrounding Teldrassil, rising in a wide hump and then sloping upwards. Her eyes followed it until all she looked at was a wall of bark, curving around the buildings of Teldrassil. She bent her head back and followed the wall of bark up and up, until it disappeared into the clouded sky. Branches that seemed miles long bent downward, reaching out over the water so that on the water's surface there floated leaves that had fallen from the branches during stormy or windy weather. Wrenne ran her hand over the rough prickly bark of the tree, staring in awe, trying to figure out how a tree of this size could exist. It was as if the tree sprung right from the sea, as if only the sea itself could provide enough water to nurture this giant. She desperately wanted to take a cutting from one of the branches hanging down over her head, but the elves standing on the pier watched her with narrow-eyed suspicion. She drew her hand back and returned to Randthor's side.

"It's like the whole world is a plant pot, just for this tree to grow in," she said to him and he smiled down at her wide eyed wonder.

"Come," he tugged her hand briefly, pulling her toward a small dome that she could tell was also carved from the pulp of the tree. Two guards stood at attention as they passed by, not speaking to either of them. Inside the dome an odd, dim pink light swirled and waved, playing tricks on Wrenne's eyes as she tried to determine what the substance was. Randthor took her hand again and walked into the dome, pulling her along with him. The pink light, once in it's midst, was blinding. Wrenne shut her eyes, feeling an odd sense in her stomach like she was free-falling. She clung to Randthor's arm, opening her eyes again in an attempt to see through the pink, opening her mouth to ask him what was going on. Once opened, her eyes were staring out at a view that looked like it had been stolen right out of a book of children's fables. She caught her breath, and one hand fluttered to her throat.

Darnassus sprawled before them, quiet and clean, white bridges spanning across a large lake, tiered wood plank buildings on all sides. Vibrant greens, blues and purples met Wrenne's eyes and she moved them slowly across the view, from the buildings and the dress of the locals, to the plants that grew everywhere she turned. For a long time she felt unable to move, taking in as much detail as she could, from the intricate gold patterns circling up the white marble columns to the bursts of yellow water lily covering the service of the big lake that ran through the center of the city.

"It's breath-taking," Wrenne whispered. "I wish I could stay here forever," she took a deep breath and even the air had a sweet, flower scent. Wrenne took a hesitant step, and reached out her small fingers to a bush that stood near the portal they had just arrived through. The blossoms were bright pink, small flowers with petals that curled under at the tips. They looked so much like velvet Wrenne could not keep herself from touching one. She fingered the soft petal first then ran her hand along the skinny sickle-like leaves that drooped around the bottom of the plant like a skirt. "I wonder what it is…" she mumbled. Randthor coaxed her away with one hand on her arm.

"Let's not loiter, we will make the locals nervous," Wrenne looked down into the town and saw that Randthor was right. Several elves, all much taller than she, stood staring cautiously in their direction. Like ghosts, they moved silently along the marble bridges and stone pathways, all dressed in similar flowing silk shirts or dresses. Their skin had the appearance of polished porcelain, and was not a peachy tone like her own or Randthor's, but varied from elf to elf, some had skin of a bluish cast, others gray like the soft tips of a pussy willow plant and still others had skin that was pinkish, not like her sunburned cheeks, but a very pale and subtle pink. All of them had eyes that glowed so bright Wrenne could not see their irises or pupils, but only two circles of bluish light, beaming out from each of the perfectly oval, long nosed elegant faces. They moved with an almost animalistic grace, and reminded Wrenne of the deer in Northshire, quiet and slender-limbed. In comparison, she felt rather short and stubby, her face dark from the days on the ocean, a few freckles sprinkling across the bridge of her nose. Her hair fell heavily around her shoulders in thick tangled waves; the elves had very straight, light hair that floated the way silk did as they moved.

Wrenne walked silently behind Randthor, trying to remember that she had the graces of a priestess and had also been trained to move quietly along as though her feet hovered a few inches from the ground. She focused on walking now, but even at her most careful, she felt like a clumsy oaf as she passed by the elves. More than anything she desired to turn towards the hills to the west of Darnassus, to go searching for unfamiliar flowers and herbs in the elven hills and take as many samples as she could get her hands on. She wanted to lie on the forest floor of the great city and stare up at the long gnarled branches of the Teldrassil tree, so huge the limbs stretched over the city of Darnassus. Randthor stopped short and she bumped into him. She couldn't help but notice that an elven woman standing near by put the back of her hand up to her mouth to disguise a giggle.

"I feel like as awkward as an elephant," Wrenne whispered and Randthor chuckled.

"Aye, you are, in comparison. But you will become accustom to it. And believe me, you do not resemble an elephant in any way," he tossed her a warm smile and she felt a blush rise on her already reddened cheeks.

Elorra knelt on the wooden floor in her mother's home, a large basin of blue dye before her. She dropped several strips of white silk into the dye and stirred them vigorously, then stood wiping her hands on a tan apron she had tied around her waist. A knock on the door startled her, a knock so loud it could only belong to the heavy hand of a human. Hesitantly, she grabbed a small dagger she had left lying on the kitchen table and silently approached the door. After opening it only a little and peering out, she sighed and swung it fully open, the dagger still clutched in her hand.

"Welcome," she said to Randthor with a small nod of her head.

"It is good to see you again, Elorra," he responded, taking her hand and squeezing it in his own. She stood back, gesturing for him to enter the kitchen and noticed the young woman he was with. She wore the garb of a priestess, which made Elorra cringe inwardly. Her expression was nervous as she followed Randthor into the small room. "You are Wrenne, then?" Elorra asked, offering the girl her hand. Wrenne offered a small, pale hand and Elorra shook it heartily.

"Yes, I am,' the girl said softly. Elorra turned back to Randthor.

"Training in staves, eh?" she asked with a lopsided smile. He shrugged.

"She is skilled in healing and protecting, but she can not defend herself."

"It will take a lot of work," Elorra cautioned.

"Aye, but I feel that both you and she are fully capable of the challenge." Wrenne's mouth twisted in annoyance.

"You need not talk about me as if I am not standing right her," she said quietly. Elorra turned her brilliant glowing gaze to the young woman.

"Let's go then," she said simply, and left the kitchen, thick with the scent of the dye, and hopped easily down to the stone pathway outside the door of the house. She looked back at Wrenne, expectantly. The priestess was shifting her gaze back and forth, from Randthor to Elorra and the elf bounced on the balls of her feet with impatience. Randthor gave Wrenne a push.

"Go along. I have other business to attend to here in the city." Swallowing, Wrenne followed Elorra.

She found it difficult to keep up with the quick footed elf, who obviously knew the city well. Elorra led her along one winding pathway after another with a fast easy step Wrenne almost had to jog to keep up with her. The woman led Wrenne out of the city, keeping up the quick pace until they reached a small grove of trees. When Elorra finally stopped and turned, she found Wrenne staring wide-eyed at the foliage surrounding them. Trees shaded the grove with long boughs, heavy with green leaves. Bushes crowded the trunks of the trees and vines had fought their way up through the shrubbery to wrap tightly around the bark of the trees. Bursts of red and orange wildflowers dotted the ground the stood upon.

"It's very beautiful here," Wrenne commented, finally looking at Elorra. The woman scoffed, remembering the orc that had lain dead on the beautiful marble bridge recently. They had not been able to determine where the orc had come from or if the orc had been sent by someone. A quarrel had broken out right on the bridge, over the dead beasts body, Elorra arguing that the beast should not have been beheaded but should've been taken captive and tortured for information. The guards argued that such a foul beast should not be kept alive to contaminate the city with evil or put its inhabitants in danger. It had been argued that they did not know what the orc was capable of, if he was a spell caster in any way, and thus keeping him prisoner could prove an unpredictable danger. Elorra had lost the argument in the end, when the druid Archbishop had arrived and intervened, crossly telling the quarreling group to clear the bridge of the stinky body and have done with it.

She could remember when she felt the same sense of awe about the city. Even though she'd been raised here, its beauty never ceased to amaze her. In recent years, with the constant threat of destruction breaching the city from every angle, she felt the city's beauty was like a trap, drawing you in and trapping you with its serene and safe atmosphere when really the boundaries were more insecure and unguarded then Elorra would have liked to admit.

She snatched up a long gnarled stick and threw it to Wrenne. Not expecting the toss, Wrenne stumbled backwards as the stick smacked into her forearm and shoulder and clattered to the forest floor. The girl looked accusingly at Elorra, who tilted her head to the side in irritation.

"You have never even held a staff?" the elf asked and the woman shook her head. Elorra sighed, her shoulders drooping.

"Randthor might have thought to mention that to me," she said dryly and gestured at the stick.

"Pick it up."

"This is a staff?" Wrenne asked curiously, running her hand over the rough bark. Elorra bit back a snappy remark and tried to maintain her limited patience.

"No, of course not. It's a stick," she said shortly. "You can use a real staff when you actually know what you're doing," she added acidly. Wrenne did not respond.

Elorra worked with Wrenne until dusk began to fall and pushed the young priestess to continue practicing until it was so dark all Wrenne could see of Elorra was her dark silhouette and the two gleaming eyes eerily piercing the darkness. Wrenne flailed helplessly with the stick, her attempts to stave off Elorra's mock attacks were pitiful. More often then not she found she was knocking herself in the head with her pretend staff, or tripping over it as she tried to get out of Elorra's destructive path. As the elfs impatience mounted her attacks became more and more harsh, and when she finally landed a blow to Wrenne's face that her sprawling to the forest floor; the young priestess threw the stick down.

"This is useless!" Wrenne cried hopelessly.

"I agree," Elorra snapped. She turned her back to Wrenne, trying with all her willpower to control the urge to turn around and slap the girl's face. Both were silent for a long moment, then, with her back still turned, Elorra said, "Get up, let's try again."

"No! Why? My arms are burning with the strain, I can't see anything and I am awkward and clumsy even with a stick! How can I be expected to defend myself with a real staff? I will more than likely deal a blow to my own head that will leave my unconscious on the ground, ripe for the killing." Wrenne staggered to her feet, brushing dirt angrily from her sleeves and then rubbing the side of her jaw where Elorra had hit her. Elorra whirled, her long hair flying out behind her as she did so.

"Then what is your plan, human? Give up? Don't bother? Do you really think you will survive even a day on a battlefield with nothing but your silly spells? What do you intend to do, heal the enemy to death?" Elorra's mocking tone made Wrenne's face and neck burn with fury.

"I never asked for this!" she retorted and suddenly without a sound Elorra was towering over her, so close Wrenne could smell the sweet scent of her sweat and feel the soft breath on her face in the dim light.

"Nobody asked for this," Elorra hissed. "Nobody asked for our realm to be pillaged by evil, for the earth that sustains us to be raped and destroyed. Nobody asked to run out into danger and certain death, to leave our homes and our families to live the life of a soldier! Do you think I enjoy never knowing where my next meal will come from? Do you think I enjoy not knowing how many days will pass before I can wash my body or change my clothing?" Elorra whirled again, stalking to the edge of the grove. "If you would rather give up then I will not try to stop you. You're fate is your own and your death will be nobody's fault but your own. But don't you dare tag along with warriors that expect you to give your all just as they do. Nobody has the time or the resources to baby sit a healer that is not interested in defending herself. This is not a fairy tale and you will not be rescued by a handsome man on horse back. This is war. This entire realm is at war and you are part of it whether you wish or no." Wrenne struggled to keep the tears in her eyes from falling down her cheeks. Elorra both frightened and awed her and though she did not bother to say so, she knew Elorra was correct. Were her aunt here right now, she would probably have said the same. Wrenne gripped the staff once more in her scraped and blistered hands, bending her knees and widening her stance.

"Fine," she growled under her breath. In the darkness, Wrenne saw Elorra's silhouette change in an instant, from tall and lanky to a dark low shadow. A feline growl issued in the dark and Wrenne's breath flew out in a gust as two mighty paws landed on her chest and she was sent flying backwards with such force she skidded into the dirt where she landed. The stick she had been clutched fell from her shocked hand as she lay on her back on the ground, gasping for air. Randthor had explained to her the druid's ability to shape-shifted and she had listened with fascination, but had never quite been able to grasp the concept. Elorra towered over her body now, where she lay on the ground and Wrenne found herself staring up into the same gleaming eyes, looking at the same magenta face markings that made slashes on either side of Elorra's face, but the head these eyes and markings were set upon was the head of a huge cat; a cat whose ears were laid back on her head and whose jaw was full of sharp, terrifyingly big teeth. Wrenne's heart pounded in her chest as she tried desperately to tell herself this was Elorra, not a predator, and this was just practice. She would not be dinner for the beast glowering down at her. In an instant Elorra was back in her own body, still growling a bit and stepping away from Wrenne.

"What was that?" Wrenne's voice was thin and high with fear and she reached for her stick with a violently trembling hand.

"You have to be prepared for anything. I thought it would be good practice to alter the situation," Elorra sounded bored and Wrenne scrambled to her feet.

"Alter the situation?" her tone held a note of frantic panic that made Elorra glance back at her. "You nearly stopped my heart in my chest!" the priestess cried. "I am starting to believe that if I do die it will be because you have frightened me to death and not because of any random villain at all! I shall be dead before I ever even face a battle!" The loud angry tone made Elorra clench her teeth with displeasure. Wrenne's furious voice sounded strange in the still darkness of the forest.

"I am done here. I can handle no more of your pitiful whining tonight. We will continue tomorrow, if you can manage it." Elorra did not wait for Wrenne's response, she shifted into travel form and darted off through the forest, not bothering to wait for the priestess, who hurried along behind her for fear of being lost in the woods.

Elorra went back to her own homestead without bothering to show Wrenne the way to the inn she and Randthor were to occupy during their stay in Darnassus. Wrenne wandered through the uneven stone pathways of the craftmen's terrace where all of the buildings were open on four sides to the elements, built on big flat squares of wood. Big square lanterns hung from wooden posts along the pathway, nothing like the wrought iron lamp posts of Stormwind. These lampposts curled like shephard's staves, as if they had grown naturally from the ground, and all along the wooden post runes had been painted in a shade just slightly lighter than the wood itself. The muscles in her arms and across her shoulders burned and ached. At one point she reached to brush a strand of hair from her face and when she drew her fingertips away found that they were streaked with fresh blood. Too worn to care or to even try a healing spell on herself, Wrenne continued to stumble along until she at least saw the big oak sign hanging high beside the doorway of the inn.

Before she even entered, Wrenne could hear Randthor's deep laugh drifting from an open window. She pushed the heavy door open and stepped slowly into the inn. Randthor, seated at a low table with several other elves, all of whom wore bright smiles and held chalices of wine turned at once when he heard the door and she saw his eyebrows jerk upwards in surprise.

"By the Holy Light! What happened to you?" Her robes were caked in dirt and small twigs and leaves were caught in the long layers of her hair. Blood from the cuts on her hands dotted her sleeves and gown where she had unthinkingly brushed her hands upon them. Wrenne did not answer Randthor. Raising her chin high, she stalked past him and up the stairs, finding a room that had been prepared for her and where her belongings had been laid carefully on the bed. The room was beautiful, far surpassing her home in Stormwind. In the center stood an ornate four poster bed, the posts carved delicately with little wooden animals and trees, winding all the way up to the top where the bed was draped with a thin deep blue veil. Wrenne glanced over her bruised shoulder as Randthor appeared in the doorway.

"Not speaking to me?" he asked with a frown.

"I can not go with you on your campaign to Westfall," Wrenne's voice had reverted to the practiced control she had learned while training in the Cathedral. Her eyes held little emotion and no trace of tears could be found on her solemn face. She did not acknowledge the painful cuts on her palms as she stripped her outer robe off and let it drop to the floor where she stood, so that she wore only a white silk shirt and brown leather riding pants.

"Why not?" Randthor demanded, suddenly irritable. With learned patience, Wrenne slowly poured water from a crystal ewer into a large stone basin and dipped her hands into it. The water cooled and soothed her chafed hands, and a red tint slowly spread in the water as the blood was washed from her injuries.

"I am a healer," Wrenne spoke carefully, staring into the water, watching the ripples as she moved her hands in it. "I am not a fighter. And I never will be a fighter. I can not do it." She looked directly at Randthor. "I acknowledge and accept this weakness of mine. I am simply not meant to fight the wars of men."

"And what exactly are you fit to do?" The volume of Randthor's voice increased a bit. His gaze bore into her, lines of annoyance appeared on either side of his mouth as he grimaced. She kept her own dirt streaked, blood spattered face serene as she dried her hands on her cloak and looked levelly at him.

"I shall return to the Cathedral of Light and ask them to let me go back to Northshire Abbey. I want to work in the abbey as a priestess." Randthor laughed and the sound was cold.

"And when the horde destroy Northshire you shall find yourself dead anyway, so what is the difference, my girl?" the endearment sounded more like a taunt now. She stood like a stone, her face emotionless as his voice rose to a shout. "Sometimes I am tempted to think your brain is full of cotton! You gaze through such a narrow spectrum you make the deadly mistake of assuming there is a place you can hide from this war. Wake up, Wrenne! This war is all around you, even here even now. There is no place you will ever be able to travel to again that you will be safe! You can hide in a cloister until they come for you, or you can do something about it while there is still time! You told me yourself Northshire Abbey has orcs imprisoned in its dungeons. The mark of the horde's evil is everywhere; there is no spot in this realm that is cleansed of it. If you return to Northshire you will be standing idle and though it may take many years, you will see Northshire fall. And then you, if you are still alive after that, you will see Goldshire fall and you will even see Stormwind fall." His face was dark with fury as he raged at her. Finally, her cool demeanor crumbled and when she answered him, her own voice rose to a holler.

"Then what is the point of living at all? You tell me if I go back Northshire will fall! Will it not fall just the same if I am not there? How dare you place this burden on me, as if the entire war revolves around my decision?"

"It isn't just your decision you selfish fool! Do you presume you are the only person that has shirked the responsibility of making this realm safe once again? I do not just lecture you, though your ears alone may hear my words tonight,"

"I doubt that, you are yelling so loudly," Wrenne muttered. Randthor looked as if he were ready to strike her, but ignored her comment and continued. "It is those that are like you that I address these words to. Those that would rather hide and await death in their homes then strive to change their fate. If you want to return to Stormwind then go! I will not come with you on your journey back to safety and I wish to never see your pitiful face again. Go, and do not waste anymore of my time with your pathetic self-pity," he stepped close to her, lowering his face and staring hard into her eyes. "Individuals like you are the reason we will lose this war. You can be sure there are no such beings among the Burning Legions. Every single one of them is caught up in bloodlust. Every single one of them will fight to the death to take what they want. But you, one of the Alliance, and the fool-headed beings like you, that wish to cower in fear or pretend that nothing is amiss…you are our weakest link and our ultimate downfall." Randthor turned on his heels and stomped from the room. She heard the door of the room beside hers slam shut with such violence it rattled the glass in the pane of her window.

The following morning after she had washed and dressed, Wrenne dragged her sore body through the craftmen's terrace to the tailoring shop, searching for Elorra. She found the elf outside the shop, hanging strips of blue silk cloth from a line she had strung between two trees. She glanced up in surprise as Wrenne marched determinedly toward her. Amused, Elorra tilted her head to the side and waited for the priestess to speak. Wrenne carried in her right hand the stick they had been using yesterday to practice with, and Elorra noticed that she had wrapped the palms of her hands with strips of linen and pulled her hair back from her face, clipping it at the nape of her neck.

"I need you to teach me how to fight."

The two spent the entire day grappling in the sun dappled forest grove. Elorra delivered one mock attack after another, in both cat form and bear form and also in her own form, until the grass and plants of the grove were trampled and torn from their scuffles. Wrenne still proved a poor combatant, but spoke not a word, nor uttered a single cry of pain as time after time Elorra landed blows that sent her tumbling to the ground. Elorra was a harsh teacher, not letting up on Wrenne for an instant and not able to deny the fact that she took pleasure in causing her pupil pain. Wrenne, fueled by the constant smirk the elf wore struck out with the stick at every opportunity. Elorra shape shifted to dodge the flying stick, lashing out with one paw and grabbing Wrenne around the ankle, landing her on her backside and then darting back and shaking her feline head smartly.

"Are you certain returning to an abbey is not the correct path for you, human?" she taunted. Wrenne scowled, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of dirt there. "It may be that you are right and that is where you really belong, not out here in the world of warcraft!" After several hours of training Elorra could not longer stifle the constant stream of laughter that had been bubbling in her throat all day. A giggle escaped her as Wrenne struggled to her feet after another fall, but was cut off short as a defiant shriek sounded from Wrenne's throat and a spectacular burst of light exploded in a dome around the girl, knocking Elorra off all four feet. Shocked, Elorra struggled upright and stared. Wrenne was still dirty, sweating and bloodied, but no longer looked like a bedraggled weakling. She stood at her full height, looking tall even to the elf from her spot on the ground. Wrenne's arms were stretched to the sides, her palms upward. Her chin was raised and her eyes flashed angrily. Brilliant energy, so bright it made Elorra squint, circled Wrenne, swirling around her body in smooth waves. Her gray eyes burned with rage as she stared at Elorra.

"What I am certain of," Wrenne snapped, "whether my skill in staves be poor or not, is my ability to keep myself in tact and unharmed long enough to tire you out. So go ahead, Elorra, rake my skin with your claws, tear at my body and humble me by throwing me to the ground. You will find that though I may be weak at arms, I am a tireless opponent," as she said this she raised her face and her arms to the sky and a tunnel of light formed where her hands reached, trailing up into the clouds. Wrenne's robes lashed in waves around her glowing body, the limbs of the nearby trees whipped as if caught in a great windstorm. With another shriek, Wrenne channeled the enormous pillar of energy directly at Elorra, who leapt to the side, rolling to get out of the way, as the holy fire created a blackened crater in the earth where Elorra had been standing. She immediately went on the defensive, ears laid back on her head, claws ready, drawing on the energy of the plants and bushes around her, and even the trampled grass to quicken her pace and then darting in towards Wrenne who answered the attack by flinging her arms up to enclose herself in a bubble of light that Elorra found she could not penetrate.

"This is not what you are here to learn!" Elorra protested shape shifting back into her elven form to draw what life healing she could from the trampled greenery and in response, Wrenne grabbed the stick and smacked the feline smartly right across the face. Infuriated, Elorra hurled a burning ball of light through the open space between them and then screeched as it bounced harmlessly off of the force field Wrenne had created. The last straw was the smile she saw playing on Wrenne's pert little mouth.

"We're done here," she muttered and turned abruptly, stalking back through the forest towards Darnassus. When Elorra was out of sight and out of earshot, Wrenne allowed herself to giggle childishly. Then she sighed, casting the stick to the ground beside her and leaning heavily against the sturdy trunk of a tree. For a long time she did not move, waiting for her body to recover from the fight. She grabbed a small animal hide flask full of water and dumped it greedily down her parched throat, then splashed some on her dirty face, wiping it off with the hem of her robe, which was not much cleaner. The triumph of her battle with Elorra was short-lived. They were both supposedly on the same side, after all, and Randthor would probably have more harsh words for her when he learned that she had used spell casting to defend herself, if he even bothered to speak to her. A rustle in the bushes made her start and she grabbed the stick, a pitiful weapon, but the only one she had.

"I came to congratulate the victor," a soft soothing male voice spoke and Wrenne watched as the elven man broke through the underbrush and into the clearing. She slowly took in his dark hair, such a deep shade of blue it was almost black, and the sharp lines of his face. He had the same glowing eyes as Elorra but smiled kindly at her. "I am Culain. Elorra came back looking as angry as a disturbed hive of bees. You must have done well." Wrenne shook her head and blushed.

"I'm not so sure. She angered me and I cast spells at her…" she glanced to where the earth still smoldered from the holy fire pillar she had executed. "I was supposed to be using this," she held out the worthless stick, splintered and breaking from such rough usage. Culain took the stick, inspecting it carefully and shrugged, dropping it to the ground.

"If you ever have to face a true enemy, it will not matter by which means you battle. If you are powerful in your spell casting, use that strength against the horde," he said simply. Then he reached out a hand to her. "Come," he commanded gently. She placed her hand into his and let him lead her back down into the city.

He took her to the weaponry in Darnassus, and waited as she carefully inspected the staves they had available there. Wrenne did not choose in haste, but asked to hold each staff, testing its weight in her palms, running her hands over the smooth wood and gazing at the runes carved along their lengths. She finally chose a very simple staff, bound on each end with thick white linen. The shop keeper showed her how to strap the weapon to her back for travel and she bowed graciously as they left the shop. She also bowed her head to Culain.

"I must part from you now," she explained. "I have something important to do." Culain shrugged and bid her goodbye and she turned toward the inn resolutely.

She knew she would find Randthor down here, and she heard his deep boisterous voice before she spotted him, shouting orders to a group of young elves that had been instructed to help him stock provisions for the journey to Westfall. His back was to her, and as soon as she caught sight of him she felt a flare of anger at the way he had yelled at her the night before. Staff in hand, she marched up behind him, raised the staff high and dealt him a swift blow on the backside. Randthor stumbled forward then whirled on her, his expression changing quickly from rage to shock, one hand on his buttocks. He opened his mouth to demand an explanation but she cut him off.

"You should know better than to raise your voice to a priestess of the Holy Light," she said acidly. The young night elves stood staring, bright eyes wide. "It is not wrong for me to cherish my life and wish to live it happily and in peace. It is not a crime for me to want to shirk the responsibility of a lifetime at war. I will not let you chastise me for wishing I had another option and I will not allow you to belittle those that choose to stay in their safe havens rather than train for a war they fear we will not win in any case. You have me now, and I am sworn to do whatever I am able to help restore order to the realm. But if you so dare to condescend to me again, I am sure I can find any number of campaigns to join and you shall ride to Westfall without a healer." Randthor had never heard her use this icy, indignant tone, and though his buttocks ached where she had smacked him he found he was fighting the urge to smile at her. Keeping his expression grave he nodded once.

"I understand," he said in the most serious tone he could muster. She turned quickly, her robes flowing out behind her as she went into the inn and once she could no longer see him, he felt the wide smile creeping slowly across his face. He turned to see a few of the night elves snickering behind their hands and his expression became stormy.

"Why do you stand idle? There is much to do! Move!"

Silvermoon City

"anything can catch fire while under my gaze."

Alamma lay nude across a large oval shaped bed that had sheer blue curtains hanging all around it. The curtains were pushed to one side and he looked through the opening, watching with a lazy half smile the beautiful naked elf that lounged in a gold gilt tub on the other side of the room. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of bathing oils and crushed flower petals and the steam from the hot water in the basin billowed around the elf's perfect heart shaped face. As he watched she rose, slowly, knowing that his eyes lingered on the curve of her firm breast and the smooth skin of her buttocks, pink from the heat of the bath. She stepped from the tub, one long slender leg after the other, but made no move to pick up the purple satin robe that lay on the lush violet carpet by her feet.

She stood by a tall thin window, looking through blue curtains similar to those that hung around the bed, completely unabashed at her nakedness, and then glanced slowly at him over the curve of her shoulder, raking one hand through the brilliantly shining locks of her deep copper toned hair.

"You are a gorgeous creature to behold," Alamma said admiringly and she smirked in response.

"Save your flowery speeches for doting handmaidens," she had a sweet high voice, so musically when she spoke it reminded him of a pan flute. Feeling scorned by her comment, he self-conciously moved to cover his nakedness with the thick blanket that lay crumpled across the foot of the bed but paused when she began to saunter across the room towards him. He watched, at once captivated by her beauty and intimidated, though he would deny this until death, by her sure footed step and the determined look in her gleaming emerald eyes. She lifted the corners of her mouth into a seductive smile, completely aware of his longing gaze and kneeling on the edge of the bed, by his feet. As though he had been struck mute, Alamma could say nothing as she moved her hands up his legs and chest, slithering slowly up until their bodies, hers warm and sweet scented, his still damp with the sweat of love making, were pressed one to the other. She pushed one hand through his tangled mass of golden hair, pulling his face to meet hers, and without a word spoken, he took her.

Shortly afterwards she dismissed him under the pretense of needing to dress and be about her business. He left the room slowly, too slowly, moping almost like a puppy that has been kicked, but she held her impatience in check and bit her tongue lest she snap at him. Finally he was gone, and she reached for the purple robe on the floor, tying it around her slender waist. She sat down at a small vanity made of polished wood and edged in gold gilt, picking up a silver handled brush and pulling it through the lengths of her drying hair before yanking the mass of shimmering locks up into a high ponytail. This she secured with a silver circlet. She then adorned her long tapered ears with large golden hoop earrings, and painted her lips a deep red. For a moment she sat staring at her reflection in the small oval mirror that hung over the vanity, aware of her own devastating beauty, of the perfect arch of her red eyebrows and the thin aquiline nose, the way her lower lip pouted just enough to make her sweetest expression convincing even when it was a façade…

Akanah was fully aware that her face and body were two of her most valuable assets, especially now, when the time for her to take her place in this world was so close at hand. She must always keep her emotions in check, however. She could not let Alamma know that for her, their secret romance was less about love and more so about gaining support for the campaign she intended to make. She turned her head to the window, staring out for a moment without really looking at any one thing, considering Alamma in her mind.

He, like most male elves, was elegant and attractive. But unlike the others, he was trained in the dark arts of shadow magic like she herself. He had tutored her as a child, mentored her in the ways of a warlock and together they had kept to the outskirts of civilization, knowing that warlocks were held constantly in wary suspicion because of their immense magical abilities. Knowing that many of the citizens of Silvermoon City simultaneously feared and admired her was amusing. In her mind, they were nothing more than toys for her to play with in the idle moments, to convince to do her bidding by flashing a cunning smile with her mouth full of perfect white teeth or, for those wise enough to care little for physical appearance, with the dark warning glower that made her intimidating despite her overwhelming beauty. A tap at her door startled her out of her thoughts and she went silently to the door and opened it. A young male guardian stood outside the door. His eyes widened as she stood before him, clad only in sleeping robe that was loosely tied around her body. His eyes stealthed to the neck of the robe and then back to her face and he swallowed, slowly regaining his composure.

"Lady Akanah, Lord Lor'themar requests your presence in his chambers, I am to take you there at once," he said quickly. Chagrined at being ordered by the Regent Lord, Akanah turned away from the elf to hide the irritated expression that crossed her face. As far as she was concerned, Lor'themar had no business being on the throne of Silvermoon, and no business forcing her to come to his chambers under pretense of an escort. She began to shut the door behind her, but the guardian put out a hesitant hand to stop it.

"Lady? Do you refuse his request?" he asked worriedly. Akanah swallowed hard, lifting her chin and breathing deeply to keep calm.

"Do you wish me to see him in this?" she gestured down at the robe and then looked back up at him, smooth eyebrows raised high. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering longer than was necessary and then shook his head uncertainly. "Then please, allow me to shut my door so I may dress myself," she said softly. The guard nodded and stepped away from the door, but remained waiting for her as she closed it in his nervous face. She shook her head in annoyance.

Lor'themar, sitting high on the throne of Silvermoon, haughty with power, wished to see her, eh? She rummaged in a large wooden armoire until she had found a suitable gown a rich scarlet velvet, cut low at the neck line and embroidered with black trim. The skirt had black slashing as well. Around her neck she clasped a thin gold chain that held a large clear stone pendant in the shape of a dagger, it's tip pointing suggestively down toward the neck of the gown. Slowly, she slid rings on to her fingers, first a fine ruby and beside that a simple gold band with elven runes inscribed upon it, and at last a silver band with a large black stone set in the center. She surveyed herself briefly in the mirror over her vanity and, satisfied that she looked fine enough to be mistaken for royalty, opened the door and followed the nervous youth out into the streets of Silvermoon.

Akanah did not look at her surroundings, but stared straight ahead as they passed through the causeway leading into the heart of the city. All around her rose tall cylindrical buildings made of smooth white stone. Every window pane and archway was trimmed with glittering, shining gold. Heavy violet banners hung on either side of the causeway, lush green plants, trimmed into spiraling towers and set in golden basins filled with soil levitated from the ground as they walked. Akanah side stepped a small broom that swept along the causeway, unmanned. The city of Silvermoon held more arcane magic than any other city in the realm.

The city, in opposition to its name, was an ornate masterpiece of white stone, lush scarlet and gold. Anywhere one looked gold met the eyes, from the trimming on the buildings to the intricately carved benches in its courtyards. Even the trees that grew here looked as though caught in a perpetual state of fall, their leaves golden and orange, many of them growing up through or around the cylindrical buildings. The city had been built around the flora of the region, and the buildings echoed the shapes of the trees, stretching up like tall trunks and then blossoming out into hundreds of tiers and terraces. The largest buildings were organically shaped, neither cylindrical nor square, but built to look as though they had grown like plants directly out of the ground upon which they stood.

Akanah followed her escort as he led her past a large round fountain in the courtyard before the Sunfury Spire, a building she was loathe to enter. It had been constructed upon the ruins the Sunstrider Spire, the palace where the royal line of Sunstriders had lived for centuries, where Kael'thas himself had lived until he had abandoned them…

She felt a hardening in her chest as she thought of their errant king, a king that had once been so glorious they called him the Sun King. The entire empire seemed built to reflect the rule of the Sunstriders, bright, glittering and bold, filled with the most intense arcane magic, so powerful she could almost sense it moving around her as she moved through the streets.

The inside of Sunfury Spire was a dark contrast to its exterior, similar to most of the other buildings in the kingdom. The walls were a dark magenta and dusty grayish blue. Floating lanterns cast eerie blue light upon the winding ramps and balconies built off the higher floors overlooked the main chamber, railed with gold filigree. The ceiling was a high dome above their heads, busy with twisting geometrical bronze patterns. She could see that the guard had been told to lead her to the inner sanctum and in spite of herself, felt her heart thump in her chest.

He stopped just outside the door and bid her wait as he stepped into the room. A moment later he returned and held the door open, motioning for her to step through. She did so, saying nothing to the youth as the door closed behind her. She stood at the front of a long, dark chamber. Blue light gleamed eerily from the lanterns hovering about the edges of the room. At the head of a long rectangular table sat Lor'themar, regent of Silvermoon City. Bile rose in Akanah's stomach as she stared down the length of the table at this man that presumed to control Silvermoon in the absence of the city's hereditary leader. To Lor'themar's left sat Halduron Brightwing, the ranger general of Silvermoon. To his right sat Grand Magister Rommath, the leader of the blood elf magi, scowling behind the red and gold patterned armor that covered most of his face. The threesome stared at her in silence for a long moment. She did not move to take a seat but stood at the end of the table, shoulders thrown back, stiff backed and with her chin lifted impertinently. Her blood red mouth was pursed in a hard line. She waited, her demeanor cool though her heart still beat quickly beneath her gown.

"Lady Akanah," Lor'themar inclined his head to her. "Would you care to take a seat?" his swept his arm toward a vacant chair but she shook her head the slightest bit.

"I am content to stand," her tone was icy, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. Lor'themar wore a pleasant smile on his face that Akanah did not trust. Halduron's expression was carefully neutral, and Grand Magister Rommath stared at Akanah with frank disapproval in his gaze.

"How is it with you, Akanah? How goes your jewelcrafting? I hear you are quite skilled with your hands and I should like to witness first hand your craftsmanship," Lor'themar said in a kindly tone.

"What is it I can help you with?" Akanah said shortly in response. Lor'themar's pleasant smile wavered for a second, his eyes became stormy but with practiced diplomacy he was able to master his countenance once more. He cleared his throat.

"All right. The truth of the matter is this. We wish to know what you know of the Shadow Council," he said plainly. Rommath's eyes narrowed still further, he stared at Akanah as though he'd rather snap her neck than hear anything she had to say. Halduron stared down at his hands now, still working to keep his expression from revealing his thoughts. Akanah swallowed under the weight of the title.

"Why would you think I would know anything of the Shadow Council?" she asked slowly, her voice very quiet. Lor'themar sighed as if he wished to have done with the unpleasant topic. When he spoke again his voice held a tone of gravity.

"Akanah…" for a moment he falter, unsure of how to proceed. His glowing gaze met hers levelly. He looked simultaneously suspicious and caring. Akanah did not trust him farther then she could've spit a dead rat. "We are aware," he glanced swiftly between the men on either side of him. "We are aware of your…adept and rather extensive skills in the arcane arts," he paused, waiting, as though this were reason enough for her to tell him anything she knew. She made no move to speak, nor altered her expression in the slightest. She stared at him with empty disinterest until he continued to speak, his voice dropping in volume once more, barely above a whisper as though he were revealing a very dangerous secret. "We know you are one of the most powerful warlocks in Silvermoon, Akanah," now his expression changed into something bordering on distaste. She was not surprised…nobody trusted a warlock, and for good reason.

"And?" she asked hotly. She could feel the energy of her temper amassing in her palms, begging to be unleashed upon the elf who sat in a throne that was not rightfully his. If she only raised her arms, allowed the energy to channel through her body, she could rain burning masses of flame down on the three of them. She could kill Lor'themar where he smugly sat now, staring down the length of the table at her. She clenched her hands into fists against her flowing scarlet gown and forced her expression to remain calm.

"And…almost every powerful warlock in this city has been found to be associated with the Shadow Council."

"So?" she pressed.

"So…this is a very dangerous matter. We can not have Silvermoon's loyalties divided again, our city could not stand another attack like the one that devastated the western side and caused the dead scar. We are…concerned…" he spoke very carefully as he addressed her, as if picking his way through a mine field, "that Silvermoon's warlocks are getting a bit….drunken on their mastery of magic. We are worried that they will lose focus of the needs of this city…that they are only looking to gain as much power as possible for themselves instead of having a care for Silvermoon and its inhabitants." This was not the first accusation that had been made against the warlocks. Always under suspicion, looked at warily by all the citizens of Silvermoon, Akanah and the other warlocks she knew were regarded with stiff acceptance but daily endured suspicious sidelong glances and whispered tones as they walked the streets of the city.

"To re-address my initial question," Lor'themar continued, leaning back in his high-backed seat, "we know that some of the warlocks in the city are associated with the Shadow Council. We seek to remove these individuals from the city, as the Shadow Council has no place here," now his tone was one of firm disapproval. Akanah squeezed her hands even tighter together at her sides.

"And who are you to declare who does and does not have a place in this city?" she asked him curtly and Lor'themar grimaced.

"Do you belong to the Shadow Council, Akanah?" he asked in a tone that had gone from pleasant to warning.

"Do you?" she retorted, no longer able to contain her fury. Lor'themar rose slowly, his hands flat on the table, bracing his temper.

"This is not a matter to take lightly," he growled, all pretense of cordiality cast aside.

"Tell us what you know," Rommath snapped suddenly. Haldruon remained silently, his eyes locked on his hands, twined together on the table in front of him.

"I have nothing to tell you," Akanah answered just as angrily, feeling the heat that rose up her neck and into her cheeks. "Is there something, perhaps, that you are failing to tell me?" she turned the tables back to the three men and Rammoth grimaced, unable to control his temper any longer.

"We're intercepted a warlock traveling through the city with correspondence on his person from the leader of the Burning Blade cultists," he pounded one clenched fist against the table as he spoke.

"And what has that to do with me?" Akanah's own voice raised to match his.

"The correspondence was addressed to you!" Rammoth hollered. Akanah fell silent and struggled to keep her expression composed. In an instance, she had plastered on an expression of confused naivety.

"Why would the Burning Blade leader be trying to contact me? And what has that to do with the Shadow Council? It seems to me that you might be wise to check your facts before tossing out accusations left and right!" Rammoth looked ready to kill, but Lor'themar put out a hand to silence him. Lor'themar was not a stupid leader, and could see they would get nothing from the indignant warlock that stood before them. Not simply by speaking to her, in any case.

"Lady Akanah," he said gently, "we wish only to keep the peace in Silvermoon City. We have already seen far too much death and destruction among our people. My chief concern is to keep Silvermoon safe for its inhabitants. We did not bring you here to accuse you, but to ask what you know…if you know anything, in order to continue to uphold peace within the city walls." His tone was reasonable but Akanah could see through the transparent film of Lor'themar's noble statements. The city was beyond safety, corrupted by its people's insatiable need for arcane magic. She had learned long ago that in Silvermoon City it was every man for himself. The elves had lost their sense of comraderie after years of betrayal by those outside of and also within the city's walls. Now, when even their high King had abandoned them and met his own demise in the process, any sense of unity among the blood elves had all but vanished and Lor'themar could not bring it back despite his best efforts. They needed a ruler on the throne that belonged their rightfully, by blood. Then, and only then, would Silvermoon be brought back under controlled. She knew that as long as Lor'themar held the throne this would not happen. Her eyes moved from Rammoth, whom she would prefer to see dead in any case to Halduron, who had not spoken throughout the conversation. And now it was to him that she appealed; her tone gentle.

"The corruption upon this city lies not outside of its walls but within. The citizens feel like nobody will fight for them if they do not fight for themselves, and it has caused a rift between them and those that are seen to be in power," her gaze flickered to Lor'themar then back to Halduron, who watched her carefully now as she addressed him. "They feel that the leadership of the city is corrupted already, and so they care very little what they do and who they associate with. They only care to protect their own. They need someone to bring them back together, to give them a reason to fight together for the safety of the city. They need a reason to care," here she paused, returning to the original issue, and looking back to Lor'themar. Now was not the time for her to make herself an outcast or a target, so she spoke with as much earnest as she could muster. "I do not belong to the Shadow Council, nor do I know anything about them. I did not train with them, nor do I intend to," and now to think up a cover for the correspondence they had intercepted. Her brain worked quickly, "Neeru Fireblade is both the leader of the Burning Blade and a member of the Shadow Council. He has been in correspondence with me to try and recruit me; he has heard of my abilities as a warlock. I have not accepted his request and I have not plotted with him against Silvermoon City. I denied his offer to join the Shadow Council. That is all I can tell you. That is all I know." She waited for any one of them to counter her, but aside from Rammoth, they seemed appeased at this explanation. "I care only for the safety of Silvermoon, just as you do Lord Lor'themar," she added softly, casting her eyes down. Rammoth scowled in distrust but Lor'themar nodded.

"I had hoped to hear you say that," he responded agreeably. "You are a valuable asset to us, Akanah. I have no desire to mistrust you, or to punish you because your abilities make you a target for those that seek only power. Thank you, you may go." He sat back down and Halduron rose to escort Akanah from the room. The two exited the Inner Sanctum in silence and Halduron walked at Akanah's side back to the entrance of the Sunfury Spire. She turned to him once they had left the spire, searching his solemn, handsome face, and finally spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.

"How could you? How could you let them bring me in there and interrogate me as though I am little more than a common prisoner?" she demanded, her throat tight. Halduron sighed and shook his head.

"You know I have little say in who Lor'themar speaks with. I am merely a witness to his questioning. I can not stop him from asking questions and besides, what are you doing having couriers sneak correspondence from the Burning Blade into the city? I know just as well as you that they are not seeking your allegiance, more likely it is the other way around. How could you be so careless?"

"Where is the letter now?" she asked urgently, not bothering to answer his inquiries.

"Lor'themar destroyed it. It was written in code, and we were not able to crack the code, so he destroyed the letter," Halduron responded. "And I can not say that I am not glad. You are playing a very dangerous game in very dangerous times, Akanah," he warned.

"I am not playing a game! I am trying to reclaim what is rightfully mine!" he shushed her quickly and she glanced around, lowering her tone and stepping closer to him. "It is all I can do to stand in a room with that fraud and have him condescend to me, when it is I who should be standing at the head of that table. And you know that as well as I." Halduron paused for a moment to take in the violent warlock that stood before him.

"Why don't you just tell him who you are then? The city could hold a council. We could place you rightfully on the throne easily enough…" he tried but she shook her head, cutting him off.

"Do you know how ridiculous you sound? Do you really think if I walk into that room and tell Lor'themar who my father was he will step aside and welcome me to take his throne? He claims the city is drunk on power. He's a hypocrite; he is just as drunk on his own power as everyone in this city. He will not take kindly to having a rival after so many years without one. He will call my claim a lie, he will seek to have it proven, and when he finds out that my mother was nobody, he will use that against me. I have to convince the people of my rightful claim first. And then I will have to take my throne back forcefully and with the support of the city and whatever other allies I can find."

"The Burning Blade? You think that cult will help you? They would just as soon kill you. They are a dangerous group. They wish to overturn the throne of Orgrimmar itself, they would happily see Thrall's head rotting on a post outside the city gates then be peaceable. Have you forgotten that you are dealing with a group that drank demonic blood? A clan of beings that see nothing but red? You will end up dead as before you will ever seat yourself on the throne of Silvermoon." Akanah's eyes flashed and she spoke in a hiss.

"My skills rival Queen Azshara herself," she claimed and could almost see the shiver that ran up Halduron's spine. "And I will have my throne, even if I have to leave a path of death and destruction in my wake," she jabbed one bejeweled finger into his chest. "Don't you forget who I am, Halduron, lest you be one of those left dead in my wake!" Halduron sighed, watching her beautiful face twist into an angry scowl.

"Don't over reach yourself, Akanah. And don't make enemies out of friends," he suddenly took her hand, pulling her behind an empty wagon, away from over-curious eyes. "You know I believe you should be on the throne and not Lor'themar, but it is practically treason to say aloud. I will do what I can to see that you are placed where you belong but you should have a care about your temper. Your greatest ally will be your self-control. If you can not keep your own emotions and actions under your control, you will never succeed here," Akanah remained quiet, knowing he was right, but not admitting it out loud. "Think of Queen Azshara herself. She wasn't just a great queen because she inherited her throne; she was beloved by everyone under her rule. They would have laid down their lives for her. Death and destruction is not the way to your throne, Akanah. You must first get the citizens of Silvermoon to fall in love with you. That is how they will back you in your campaign. And…" Halduron paused, raised a tentative hand and brushed a strand of Akanah's fiery copper hair back from the porcelain skin of her forehead, "you should not have any problem getting anyone to fall in love with you. I am half in love with you myself, despite your disagreeable temper," he tried a half smile and Akanah sighed heavily. It would not be a bad thing to have the ranger general of the city besotted with her. With this in mind she smiled back at him.

"You're right," she said simply. "My father was called the Sun King and he too ruled successfully because he was beloved, until he left…" she trailed off unhappily. If he were here now, she thought for the millionth time and then stopped herself before the thought could go any further, hardening her heart against it.

"And you are the Sun Princess, Akanah Sunstrider. Be patient, be smart and hold your temper. These three things will win you your rightful place," Halduron predicted.