In the middle of everyday life, rarely do heroes realize that an epic story grows around them. Their adventures are muddied with their own humanity. But in truth, legends grow out of these everyday men and women in their fight of good and evil. It is in this very fight for the lives of her people that Sarenda Highweather travels from the broken Outlands of Draenor to the wilds of Kalimador seeking a cure for a new plague, one that twists her own body with undeath. Hunted by a demon, betrayed by those closest, thrown into new worlds; in the end she battles simply for her life, ignorant of the legend that grows around her.

As always the worlds created by Blizzard belong to them alone; my story merely exists within theirs

The smell of burning skin and hair clung to her along with the sweat and blood that had long since dried. Moving among the healers and the severely wounded, no one noticed the stench. Primarily because it emanated from them as much as it did from her own body. Some smelled worse as punctured stomachs leaked the smell of bowels and imminent death. Nothing could be done for them save easing their minds as they passed into the Light. She caught one priest as the pinprick of a body fainted in exhaustion next to her. Cradling the healer as a babe, she lifted the featherweight body picking her way to the outer edges.

"Hark, Moonraven!" Her voice carried authority. It carried their spirits. Instantly those around her perked. It wouldn't last though, she didn't have the energy to keep the call.

One of the druids turned both at his name and at the call. Moving swiftly he reached his branches for the wilted human in her arms. "Not dead?"

"No, just exhausted." Sarenda placed the girl into his waiting embrace with reverence and care. "She did more than her share; make certain her people see to her." Feeling the whisper of power from the tree, the lifeless healer's body glowed momentarily and shifted to a more relaxed sleep. Sarenda made to move out of the glow.

"General. Wait please. You need this as well." Sarenda stopped the druid in mid-incantation.

"No, save your energy for the men. See to me when they are done." The command in her voice directed him, but she felt the whisper of energy circle her even as she turned to leave. "That's a direct order Moonraven."

"Indeed it is general, too bad you told me after I'd started."

Spinning on her boot heel to confront him in his disobedience, she narrowed her eyes at the retreating tree. Damn druids. They always listened to her in battle, but 'with discretion' off the field. But even as others didn't like them, she did. They were versatile warriors and healers, at least if they studied their traditions well. Adjusting her shield and axe on her back, she made back to the trampled grounds, where her able bodied soldiers placed their fallen companions on the pyre, burning those they'd loved, fought with. How things changed. Now they fought for them.

Several paladins stood to the side in continuous prayer for those the spirits of the lost, showering the workers with as much encouragement and spirit as they could.

"Beatrees, report?" The red pigtailed paladin nodded to her, finishing her prayer before joining the general.

"Seventy-five and counting sir. "

Her sigh slipped. Better than the quelled sob hiding at the bottom of her throat. "Anticipated?" When no response came, Sarenda turned the full weight of her gaze from the flames to the dwarf. "Anticipated report Captain?"

"By the Light, sir. I—" an unexpected sob broke from the dwarven woman, "I— I don't know yet, but my initial estimates are well over 300, probably closer to 400."

The general's view swirled, the stench magnifying. Gone. 400 gone. But instead of speaking the truth of her heart, she laid a hand on the healer's shoulder. "From the full brigade our just our contention?" Not that it makes it any better.

"Full brigade sir, but—," the dwarf's words caught on her lips, "—mostly ours."

Sarenda squeezed her friend's shoulder in understanding. Two women: in fact two warrior women, on the field of battle were not usually allowed countenance to mourn. Not usually. But today—"It's okay Beat, I miss him too." Her own tears surprising her face, matching her friend's, "Nystar will be remembered as the master, leader and friend that he was to each of us, to everyone. Pure of heart and faith."

"I loved him." The paladin, freed from the typical modicum, suffered her own sobs until Sarenda, not as the general, but as her friend, pulled the shorter woman into a tight embrace and crying with her, thankful to be free of judgment on a day such as this.

In the moments that passed, another paladin came to take Beatrees from her, and with a brief kiss to the forehead, the warrior human watched her dwarf, only-in-height-not-in-heart, friend be led away for much needed sleep.

"Sir!"

The cry seemed to follow her everywhere, but really, she knew any leader heard it at times such as this. Still didn't mean she liked it. The locks of a blond willowy hunter bounced with him as he bound through the chaos of the death fields. "Here Tingley."

"I know sir, I could find you anywhere." She hadn't decided if his arrogance was cute, warranted or if he needed to be punched.

"Private Tingley?"

"Sorry sir, they want a full war conference," he hesitated for the first time, "Um, you're ranking, now that both—" choking on his own words, he turned in embarrassment that only the young and inexperienced seemed to afford.

Resting her hand on his shoulder, "Be well hunter, it is a time to suffer our lost."

He sputtered in what appeared to be a sob, and she moved up beside him, just as she had moments before with Beatrees. But instead of just tears, she found an angry young man, spitting wordless rage at her.

"Be well? That's what you say? Makes you a coward, you know that? Mourning your friends. A weakness, a—"

"Tingley Scinton Monroe! By the hand that is holy, if you are dressing down our general right now, ye'll be assigned to the stable master for the next year." The reprimand carried on a bellowing voice, and Sarenda couldn't help but grin.

Damien Spitehawk demanded absolute obedience from his rangers. Even the Night Elves couldn't fault him. The boy stiffened, with eyes narrowed, his nod brief to his master before bounding across the field. If he'd had a white tail, Sarenda would have shot him for dinner. Following her gaze, the massive dwarf hunter's body shook with a chuckle that started at his toes.

"I know Sare, he looks like a deer, acts like a deer, but he damn well shoots like me. Gotta keep him around." The mammoth hand on her arm squeezed. "Come Lass, they need you now they do. The Exodar contingent and the Elves are in disagreement. Perhaps someone else you know is stirring the pot in there too. Imagine that." He turned moving with agility that belied his crusty exterior. And in seconds Sarenda found herself following him.

He should be leader, not I.

"Oh stop that missy, trust me you have been escalated appropriately. I watched you the last two days, you were an unstoppable force. My pleasure to fight with you, and surely to serve with you." His slow intentional nod was to no one, and everyone.

Two days. It had only been two days. Casting her eyes back at the pyre that rose in Holy Light's white smoke.

All of them gone in two days.