Yukale sat herself down gingerly, in what appeared to be a relatively safe cubbyhole among the northern hills of Lordareon's Eastern Plaguelands. There was something vaguely familiar about the place though she couldn't place the image. Her head still ached from when Balnazzar had forced himself into her mind, though her memories of that fight were fuzzy at best, entirely gone at worse. In the end the demon lay defeated and she and her friends stood alive and whole. Well mostly whole. There was still that black spot in her mind, and a few new scars spread among them all.
So she wasn't entirely certain why she had returned here alone, after a brief stop farther south to resupply and send a letter off to the druid Kiska. Maybe she wanted to think (though she reminded herself there were far more pleasant locales to do so) or maybe she thought to find something.
Reaching into her pack, her fingers closed around the soft cloth of some recently acquired robes. Twice now, in recent months, had she recieved a parcel from an unknown source, addressed to her and from a person claiming to be her mother. Her mother whom she hadn't seen in some six centuries.
The first of the robes was very old, of the Highborne make and style, and had set her mind to some very unpleasent thoughts. It reeked of magic, but not as much, or as darkly, as the one she'd recieved the day before. It was Dreadmist, of the sort warlocks (and certain mages and priests) wore. The rogue didn't even know why she'd kept them. Some obligation to family perhaps, or maybe just a tenious thread to her father. He had just vanished after Hyjal, and her only guess had been to look for his wife. Her only clue had been the words of her grandmother, who she had found many months ago.
The only comfort in that encounter had been that she'd been told her parents were alive. She'd found the woman in Azshara, and had engaged in combat with her - She'd been a Blood Elf, and Yukale didn't even find out she was kin until her opponent lay mortally wounded on the ground. Even near death she'd been arrogant, as condescending as her mother had told her the Highborne had been, though her gaze and her words softened as she spoke with her granddaughter.
Despite that, the rogue maintained a nagging sense that she hadn't been told the whole story, and as she examined the robes, she wondered just what her mother was trying to tell her. Or rather, she was desperately hoping that her conclusions were horrifically wrong and she was merely being paranoid.
Suddenly wishing the comfort and warmth of Kiska's arms, she opted to beat her letter (how mail ever reached the other woman, Yukale could never figure out, with both their wandering habits) and stood, swinging her pack over her back. Her ears caught a sound behind her and she whirled, both daggers drawn, feet spreading out as she readied herself for combat. An almost feral, cheshire grin began to form in the thrill of sudden combat.
"And here I had been hoping to see that brilliant smile of yours, daughter mine."
Yukale froze, her whole body going numb, her weapons slipping out of her fingers as her eyes widened. The grin faltered, her mouth forming a wordless question. And then something very heavy and entirely too solid struck the back of her head.
"I bonked her on ze head! Bonky bonky bonk!" Or that is how the woman's orcish would be roughly translated if Yukale could understand it. That voice was entirely too cheerful, and somehow made her headache worse.
The other voice, the one that had addressed her just before she'd blacked out, responded in orcish as well. The orcish sounded halting, as though the speaker were disgusted to even be speaking in it, "That is..very good, Faette. Thank you. You can...go now."
"I bonked her, no? And she fell over! And she fell like a leaf in ze wind, and then she crumpled, foomph!" This is accompanied by what sounded like hands clapping together, "Oh! She is ze adorable, no?"
There were a few vaguely muttered words that Yukale recognized as High Elvish. They sounded like they might be vulgarities, but she wasn't sure. Between the pounding in her skull and the fact that her hands were bound by something metal and heavy, the only thing she was sure about was that the owner of that voice was in fact her mother.
"Can you...leave? Please?"
"Might I bonk her again?" That bit of orcish sounded hopeful. Yukale was beginning to suspect the speaker was undead, from the sound of her voice. She really hoped she wasn't on the menu. The next question was; Forsaken or Scourge.
"No! Out out out!" There was a door slamming, and then the undead woman's voice, "Would you like me to bring you ze cookies?"
"NO!"
Yukale attempted to open her eyes, wincing and closing them immediatly, her head protesting at the brightness.
"You are awake," Her mother said, the Darnassian sounding as rusty as the Orcish sounded disgusted.
Yukale said nothing. What was there to say? She'd been assaulted and held prisoner by her own mother, and was still trying to come to terms with that fact. Her hands were bound behind her back. She began to work her fingers, pushing at the palm of her gloves. Hah!
She'd often been heard to boast that no lock or bond on earth could hold her.
Lockpick my friend, don't fail me now.
Now to see if fact met boast.