A Note: If you have read some of my other WoW stuff, you know my main is Damaris Satinsun. This is not Damaris; not even the same race as Damaris, though they are related. If you want to know what the hell is going on, you can find the World of Warcraft lore at their website. The relevant thing is that the Highbourne/High Elves/sin'dorei are addicted to magic, and their source was taken away. Also, ffn totally ruined the formatting, so if you want to see it as I intended it, go to my livejournal. The link is somewhere on my profile.
I. She stares at the body of the night elf with disdain, bordering on hatred. The constant ache behind her stomach is now only bothersome, like a new bruise. The kaldorei's magic satisfied her need, at least for a while.

Her darker kin had been beautiful in life, with royal purple locks that fell over slim shoulders. It looks like a marionette with cut strings, now, dark blue skin against vibrant green grass. She spits on the corpse, and steps over it as if it were nothing more than a log.


II. She tops a rise and looks down, seeing multiple forms of glowing blue. Calculating eyes thin in consideration, and she picks a target. She spins a thread of mana out of herself, ignoring the pain behind her stomach as it begins to sting, then throb. Fire gathers around her hands, and she hurls it at the creature, who notices it just a bit too late to dodge. It comes for her, singed and angry, and this time the air around her delicate, fine-boned hands sparkles, ice crystals throwing little rainbows in the light. This too catches her enemy straight on, slowing it down.

The creature comes within staff-range, and she wastes no time in finishing it off. It disappears in a burst of light, and she salvages a pile of dust from the grass. Her hands ache, echoing the steady pulse behind her stomach. She closes her eyes, forcing her mind to twist in that way she learned, and the pain recedes.

When her eyes open, she is smiling humorlessly. She chooses a second victim, and draws out a bit more magic.

She thinks, as the fireball flies towards her target, that she was crazy to become a mage.


III. While others might call her work of the day a last mercy, she thinks of it as a culling of the weak. All sin'dorei feel the pain of their addiction; only some are weak enough to be consumed by it, as the Wreched are. She feels no remorse as her fire burns their sallow skin, no pity as her staff strikes hard enough to break bone. They deserve what punishment she gives.

She was strong enough to master her body, her inborn need. They should have been strong enough too.