Note: Greetings and salutations, friends. This little piece was construed from a group effort to obtain RP gear from Ahn'Qiraj, for the upcoming transmogrification feature. While attempting to keep entertained by the ruthless slaughter of Qiraji forces, an impromptu RP event occurred. Please note while attempts have been made to keep lore as accurate as possible, this story is based wholly upon our plots and interactions.

Cast:

Dievas

Balaen

Myself

Maldormu - Also featuring separately as my mate

Rhoana

Warning: This story contains mild homosexuality (nothing explicit, not main plot), Violence, and foul language


What hell is this? Mind blazing with agony, the prone figure lay completely still as consciousness beckoned. Every inch of skin seemed to spark with enflamed nerves, straining, as she steadfastly refused to twitch a muscle. The hard packed earth beneath her was bearable, save a rock digging into the base of her spine. The searing rays of the sun playing against her face, stifling in its directness. Still, she refused to move; instincts honed from so many months and years of subterfuge screaming that something had gone horribly wrong with her trip to Stranglethorn Vale.

Scrambling past the migraine, she struggled to recall clues as to her current predicament. The last traces of thought were elusive, however, a quiet groan some feet away finally made her twitch. Sitting up a bit too fast, an arm sprang to hold her midsection. Nausea made her head swim, and sunlight caused renewed pain as she forced her eyes open. Squinting, she stared warily at the mass of fur and leather not far from her.

The gold colored tauren was doing a rather impressive impression of a hangover victim. Hand pressed to his forehead, he let out another miserable moan, squinting up at the sky. After a long moment, some memories sprang to the fore of her thoughts, though muddled with confusion. The being next to her was no tauren at all. He was a bronze drake named Bal, and he was hers. Yet to her knowledge, he had been firmly orcish in guise while in the jungle. With that revelation, and the settling of her stomach, she scowled. None too gently, she kicked out at the lump, prompting a startled bay of pain as her booted foot connected with his side.

"When I tell you to shut the hell up, you listen! Now when are we?"

Ignoring the look of pure hurt directed at her, she teetered to her feet, stumbling as her balance refused the motion. First noticed was the earth. Cracked and dehydrated, it contained an orange hue in the midday sun, which filled her heart with dread. There were only two places in Azeroth that she knew to possess such sand. Slowly glancing up, she winced, taking in their surroundings. Most notable, a tall pillar rose in the distance, a swarm of black obscuring the air around it. Grotesque structures could be likewise glimpsed through the heat haze on the horizon. She knew these landmarks all too well.

Attentions quickly turning, she took stock of her supplies. Her daggers and sword were still in place, but her bags were absent. A canteen of water was secured to her belt, along with her pouch of reagents. The water provided little comfort, as she grimly took stock of Bal's supplies. The oaf carried no bags, and his only visible weapons were a sturdy club and shield. Dredging up water with his faux shaman abilities would be nigh on impossible in the arid landscape. Any water supplied beneath the earth would require too much energy to summon in the heat.

Containing little sympathy at the moment, she turned a fierce glare at him, quietly repeating her question. The seven and a half foot tall bovine cowered before her five foot-six frame as she stalked forward to block the sun from his face. He looked as if he would dearly prefer the sun scorching his fur. Tapping into their bond ruthlessly, she forced calm upon him, imposing her demand for him to focus on the potentially dire situation they now found themselves in. In response, he jammed his eyes shut and fidgeted in place even as he gained a look of intense concentration. Several long moment passed, but she let him be, stalking away to attempt to call her powers to her.

While draining, she was pleased when shadow and flame came to her palms as beckoned. Letting the magic disperse, an ugly frown toiled across her lips as attempts to call her minions fell short. Either she was being blocked from summoning them, or her fears were reality. Reaching to her throat in a near panic, she calmed when fingers ghosted over gold chain and cool stone. Her distress rose anew as attempts to tap into the small gem failed. A deep ache resonated behind her eyes at the attempt, causing her temper to flare. Something, or someone, was blocking her bonds and ties, save to Bal.

As if on cue, the young drake let out a keening cry of anguish, drawing her attention once more. He stared at her with mournful eyes, looking as if he carried a death sentence. At his words, she thought the description apt.

"I... they... I don't know. I can't find anything."

No rifts. No dragons. No clue. Finally relenting, she tore the water skein from her belt and offered it to the shaking bronze in silent apology. It was his fault they were where they were, from the snippets slowly returning to her. However abusing him in such a way would help neither of them. Turning a slow circuit once the offer was accepted, she weighed their options. It was difficult to tell where they were in relation to the swarming pillar. After a long moment, she squinted at the rising spires she could make out.

"If that's Hive'Regal... Southwind is to our north. If it's Hive'Zora..." She wisely chose not to finish her thought aloud. If the western most hive was visible, they would die of dehydration long before they reached Cenarion Hold... If it even existed. Well, she mentally amended, she would die, and Bal would be killed or tormented for eternity by her mate if he ever found his way back to the 'present'. Rejecting such thoughts as irrelevant, she turned to urge the tauren to his feet. Pleased, and surprised, she took the canteen back from him, noting no great difference in weight. Good. He realized the need for conservation.

"Come on. Keep moving towards the pillar, and keep an eye out."

The long march felt entirely too reminiscent of her very first trip to Hellfire Peninsula, companion aside. The harsh terrain gave even the drake room for complaint. However, to her satisfaction, he maintained his silence unless required otherwise. They walked until fatigue took its toll, and slept in the unnatural quiet of the desert, using their cloaks to shield exposed skin from the sun. At twilight, they would sip from the ever depleted water supply, before continuing on in the equally harsh cold of the night.

A notion had been toying about her head for the past four days, as the pillar taunted them from afar. The only sign of life in the desolate landscape was the cloud surrounding the tall mound. Teaming with life in their own time, this Silithus seemed devoid of it. Watchful as she had been, she had yet to even so much as glimpse an air mote, or scorpid. They had happened upon lotus flowers, and sparse saw grass, which told her it was inhabitable. Everything was simply... gone. Dread coiled with every step they took towards the mound. Lack of wildlife meant big predators were on the move.

The first vestiges of civilization appeared on the horizon on the fifth day, bolstering their spirits as they ignored aching bellies and parched throats. Still, the ill feeling seemed to simply grow with every step they took forward. Even from such a distance the purple roofs of the buildings stood stark against the bleached sand. They were nearing Southwind Village, a settlement of night elves, in their past. She only hoped her strength would hold out long enough to ensure their continued life and freedom should it be inhabited. Night elven slave traders would have a field day with a 'high' elf.

On the sixth day, the village stood clearly on the horizon, yet with such a vision came grim tidings. Scaling a small ridge, they were met with the sight of a dozen corpses, bloated from the sun. A gust of wind brought the ripe scent of slaughter to their noses. Bal gagged, but stared at the bodies with longing. She could not blame him, as even the decomposition would not dampen the loud grumble of her stomach at the knowledge that there was meat laid out below. Clamping a hand on his arm before he could move forward, she shook her head in warning. Even in her weakness she refused to leave their asses exposed to ambush.

Carefully observing the layout of the corpses, she figured they had themselves, been ambushed. She had witnessed such scenes on back trails before. They were sprawled out in a loose formation, but only a couple swords lay bare. They bore savage wounds, as if cut down by animals, but the strikes were precise. Hearts pierced through, or heads split open. Their armor was that of the Sentinels. Only two mounts were apparent, dead with the rest. If there had been more, they had fled once their riders were slain.

Motioning silently for Bal to follow, she slid down the small hill, keeping low to the ground. Stealth was not a tauren's strong suit. She winced and let out a hiss of breath to keep from snapping at her drake, as every hoof step made a tiny avalanche of sand and pebbles. Reaching the bottom, she immediately called fire to incinerate the nearest corpses. As suspected, the action prompted an unearthly series of shrieks to arise. The corpses burst with enough force to send gore across her clothing, but she did not flinch.

The sight was all too familiar, from her wanderings of the area in her real time. Flying silithid were coldly dispatched before they could orient themselves from chest cavities. Ignoring a quiet whimper from behind her, she summoned the last traces of energy to a concentrated inferno covering the area of carnage. More silithid shrieked from beneath the very sand as they were cooked alive by the heat. Sweat beaded between her shoulder blades at the effort of maintaining such a powerful and focused spell, however she kept it up until the last echos were dispersed on the wind.

She would have fallen from pure exhaustion was it not for a strong, furry, arm gripping around her waist. Glancing up, a worried snout nosed her hair as Bal helped her sit, offering her the canteen, as well as forcing energy through their bond. The action from the normally contrary being made her gasp, but tentatively she accepted the offered support. The effort to eradicate the ambush had left her magic depleted, but she knew that Bal held a vast enough store of power to not miss the small amount she required to ensure her strength.

They sat in yet more silence, before the dragon felt safe enough to carefully move to poke at the charred remains. One nightsaber had escaped the purge, only half its body crumbling to ash as Bal nudged it with a hoof. The furry bulk shuddered a bit, but eventually moved to haul the carcass over to her feet. A quiet whimper escaped him as he brushed the ashes and sand off on his leggings. For the first time since they found themselves here, she felt stirrings of sympathy.

Bal was extremely young, by dragon standards. Too young, in her opinion, to have been gifted to her service. The youth betrayed him, normally, in the form of rebellion, and over-excitable manners. From her understanding, he had never experienced the harshest of realities, before. She knew quite well that he had killed, and even cannibalized humanoids. But this was different. Even his form trembled from lack of nutrition, and overexertion. They were not eating the half-rotten corpse of a nightsaber because they wished to, but because it was required for their survival.

The one small blessing, was the fact that the fire had burnt away the fur, and the rot was covered by the taste of ash. She dug into the 'meal' without hesitation, only pausing between bites to ensure it stayed down. The tauren took a bit of convincing from his stomach, before he so much as touched the flank she had carved for him. Chomping down on the bile-inducing meal, she thought he would simply be sick-up from it. To her ever increasing pride, he set his jaw in a grim line and mimicked her methods, pausing after every bite for a moment to let it settle.

Once she stomached all she could, restless paranoia set in. Climbing to her feet, she ignored Bal's concerned looks as she scavenged for anything useful that may have escaped the inferno. Most of the steel was melted into useless scrap, however a fallen shield had escaped intact. Along with such, she found a saddle half buried in the sand. The exposed leather was useless, however quick work with a dagger salvaged the concealed cloth and harness buckles.

Offering the faux shaman the shield, she set to work on the cloth, thankful that she kept her needles and thread in with her reagents. A crude sack provided a means of taking some of the left over meat with them. While she hoped that Southwind would provide fresh food and water, she dared not rely on the notion. If they were not hostile, then they were dead, if the patrol's fate was an indication. Urging Bal to his feet, they shared the last traces of water from the canteen, before setting off once again.

They arrived at the village well after nightfall. The darkness provided little hindrance to her sight, however Bal struggled to maintain footing on uncertain ground. The fact that the buildings lay in complete darkness told her all she needed to know about what awaited them inside. Night elves were nocturnal, drawing energy and power from the moon. That not a soul seemed to stir assured her that the denizens were dead, or had fled. She kept a firm hand on Bal's arm, guiding him while darting wary glances around, as they cleared the first structure.

Lips curling into an ugly scowl, she caught sight of the central square. A mix of night elf sentries, and Qiraji battle-tanks cluttered the ground. Without a doubt, she knew that there would be stragglers from the silithid, however she would need to take more care in dispatching them. The village would hold fresh stores of water and food, unless the qiraji forces had befouled it. Nostrils flaring, Bal scented the air and let out a quiet snort, the sharp scent of death easily detectible even without full sight.

Eyes darting to take in the shadowed buildings, she spied the largest. It would either be the inn, or the communal hall. In either case it would be most logical to check first. Wound tight from nerves, she guided them as silently as possible towards the entrance. Peering inside provided a grizzly scene. No one in the village had been spared. Civilian corpses littered the space, intermittent with smaller silithid drones. The sentries had urged the infirm to seek shelter in this building, but had only served to trap them like cattle.

Nothing stirred within, and the bodies did not appear bloated. But she knew quite well that looks were deceiving. Not moving from the doorway, she darted her gaze around, searching for any visible sign of what she sought. A long counter separated the main room from a cooking area. There. Stacked neatly against the back wall were kegs. Some had been toppled during the invasion, but others looked untouched. She murmured quietly for Bal to stay as he was near door, before creeping across the room on silent treads.

Craning to glimpse the other side of the counter, she let out a quiet breath as not even bodies were present. Beneath the counter itself were kegs already tapped. Not pausing to figure out what they contained, she made quick work of filling the canteen, wincing as every trickle sounded deafening in the unnatural stillness. Glancing around, she snagged a woven sack from a grain crate near the stove, sweat rolling over her skin as she became hyper aware of every second of leaving Bal sightless. A darted look over the counter assured her that he was well, looking alert and impatient where she had left him.

Shoving the canteen into the sack, she ran a finger over the nozzle of the tap, bringing the liquid to her nose for a sniff. A quick taste provided the information that it was morning glory dew. While she failed to complain, her nose crinkled as she considered it a perfectly good waste for the keg. Scavenging for empty bottles, she found two for wine. Wincing as she slowly eased the corks free, she filled each bottle. A nagging of thought prompted her to crawl over to the food supplies, biting her lip to bleeding as she took pains to shift through the contents without a sound.

Stale bread, apples, and dried meat were added to the sack, before she carefully padded the glass bottles with her own cloak. Feeling well past exposed, she hurried as much as she dared, back to the doorway. Through out the process, the only sounds had been caused by herself, or the drake's nervous shifting. As they exited the building, a sudden surge of urgency overtook her, as she surveyed the night. Handing the sack over to Bal, she readied for attack as she caught glimpses of movement from the corner of her eye.

Tapping Bal's arm she tugged sharply at his hand, as a hulking figure lumbered from between two buildings across the square. Fear jolted through her belly as she immediately recognized the form. Insectoid legs carried a towering abdomen and thorax; flaring dramatically with skeletal ridges which protected powerful wings. Beady black eyes pierced through the darkness to spear them with intelligent malice, mandibles flexing and clattering the grating language of the Qiraji Prophets.

Getting her message loud and clear, as well as hearing the terror inspiring speech; they turned as one to flee, only to fall short as the darkness itself seemed to writhe with sudden, terrible, life. Buzzing filled the air, as the chattering mantra of the Swarmguard set their heads aching. The thrum of dozens of wings surrounded them, setting her heart racing and fire sparking in her hands unbidden. They were completely surrounded. The Qiraji forces had obviously been laying in wait on the other side of the village.

Even despite dire circumstances, she could not help but laugh -bordering on hysterical- as sudden realization hit. The war of the shifting sands. They had stumbled into Southwind Village either just after, or just before, Staghelm's forces had been ambushed and decimated. Her noise of mirth seemed to shock the insect-like beings, as for a pause, the buzzing and chittering ceased. She felt Bal tremble beside her, but forced her focus away from the crushing fear radiating from her link with him.

The noise began anew, sharp, angry notes apparent even without knowing the language. The towering prophet stopped just shy the square, regarding them with obvious anger. "Yyyou daare tryyy to trick ussss? Yyyou will die!"

Even reflexes honed from years of experience could barely compete with the speed at which the first swarm attacked. Somewhere above and behind her Bal bayed with rage and agony as he moved too slow. She winced, but spared no thought for him, as she drew deep from her stores of power to ignite the area with fel flame. The swarmguard screamed in agony as entire groups fell, not expecting such powerful and swift retaliation. For the victory, there was a score more who dodged high into the air, merely singed.

The prophet roared, spearing a leg towards her. Agony exploded in her left shoulder as a spell hit, disrupting her concentration. At once the flying insects dove in for the kill, she scrambled to grasp the flow of magic once more, but failed as another spell forced her to roll out of the way. Growling savagely as razor sharp pincers raked her back, she spared little thought as she exploded in waves of hellfire, gritting her teeth at the self inflicted pain. The swarmguard scattered at seeing their fellows go down attempting to spear her. Past the agony she noted separate flashes of light from across the square. Molten magma spattered through the air as her furred drake recovered from his own wounds, fighting back with a fierceness which dimly startled her.

Shuddering with the effort, she gathered power into her hands swiftly before cutting off the channel of hellfire. Eyes narrowing with dangerous intent, she hurled the magic at the obvious leader, grinning as she manipulated the shadows, directing a wicked lance at the prophet's eyes. A sudden silence speared through the attackers, as all watched in disbelief as the mighty being wavered, mandibles scrabbling weakly at the embodied shadow of the spike. Curling her fingers with grim satisfaction, she sent another spell, causing green flame to erupt from the wound. At last, the beast toppled as the fire quickly consumed the soft tissue beneath the exoskeleton.

Climbing painfully to her feet, she watched carefully as the swarmguard wavered. The lull in battle allowed Bal to scramble to her side, heavily favoring his left arm even while still gripping his shield. He looked exhausted and worn as he stared down the lingering insects. A sudden noise from behind startled them. Whipping around, she felt faint with horror as a smaller, but no less sizable figure detached from the swarm gathering on the road. Utter silence followed in his wake, and the qiraji soldiers parted from his path respectfully. Pincered hands snapped in a mimicry of applause.

"Imagine my surprise, when the scouts informed me that a battle had broken out after the pitiful rats of this place had been extinguished."

General Rajaxx paused a dozen meters from them, just shy the flickering light afforded by lingering flames. She felt weak with fear, but stood all the straighter for it, focusing a waspish glare on him. While she was aware of what he was capable of, she refused to succumb to such frivolity. The Qiraji battlemaster had nothing compared to Lord Illidan. The silent thought gave her pause, but after a long moment, she began to smirk. Her mate was inspiring in his own loyalty to their former leader.

"You will not feel so smug, once I am through with you, mortal scum. You will not die peacefully, for the disruption of my plans."

With a gesture, the swarm moved forward as one, the numbers far too vast for her wavering strength to push back. They were nearly upon the two companions when a horn blast sounded over the clamor. Eyes widening, she hurled herself at Bal, toppling them both and startling the charging insects. Hissing as the hard landing pulled her wounds, she growled out an order that sent the tauren scrambling towards the nearest building. The attack halted as a great force disrupted the rear guard, sending battle-tanks and warriors into the swarmguard ranks as pure chaos erupted with the arrival of Valstann's contingent of soldiers.

Attentions divided, the General shouted a command which caused their pursuers to break away, focusing on the greater threat. Taking the chance, she rose to her feet once inside, pulling Bal with her as much as physically possible. Comprehending the urgency, he followed swiftly as she ran to the secondary exit opposite them. Night elf architecture was unsecured, and not for the first time, she praised their foolishness. With the battle raging in the square, and spanning the road, the northern wastes just outside the village were devoid of Qiraji as they sprinted over uneven terrain.

They did not pause until the village was well beyond sight, and the landscape too perilous for Bal's hooves in the darkness. Collapsing behind a ridge, they panted from exertion, leaning against each other for support. Head swimming, she nearly hyperventilated, until a familiar canteen was shoved into her hand. Sparing an unseen grin at the drake, she gulped the sweet liquid, cracked lips burning at the sudden moisture. A second, calmer, sip helped set her breathing to rights, as an apple was offered to her. Passing the flask to Bal, she accepted the morsel, shivering almost too much to hold it as adrenalin trickled away to weak muscle and searing flesh.

Voice wavering, she looked him over, "Are you hurt?" A shake of the head was his only response, as he finally lowered his shield to the ground. No blood was obvious, save that of the Qiraji. It was his arm which troubled him, however he could still move it. It was inevitably bruised from the forceful deflections. His side of the bond was disconcertingly 'silent', causing worry. But there was little for it at the moment.

Wincing as her shoulder twinged, she finally spared a thought to her own injuries. Bruised and bloody, she could feel every pull over her back, sparking with pain to indicate the swarmguard's accuracy. The heat of her flames had provided a crude cauterization, however her acrobatics had worsened the wounds. A glance at her shoulder made her grimace and look away. The flesh at the joint had been ripped open by the prophet's spell. Already the wound festered with infection. Her outlook was grim, but knowing exactly where and when they were provided some comfort.

Staghelm's army would be barricaded two days north, at Valor's Rest. If they could reach the encampment without being picked off by silithid, she would gladly face imprisonment for healing and real sleep. Considering the time line, she felt safe in quietly murmuring her plan to Bal.

"We need to move soon. The night elf army is at Un'goro Pass. If we stay on the move, we'll get there before the Qiraji catch up."

Again, the tauren simply nodded. Frowning, she finally forced the issue. "You've killed before. This is no different, save setting."

He cringed a bit, a quiet whimper escaping as he finally looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot, and obviously fighting to hold back tears. She shifted uncomfortably at the sight, but forced calm down the bond.

"I... No... I defended myself... N-never... I've never seen so many innocent..." He cut off with a shaky breath, obviously feeling the effects of her calm aura. At his words, she let out a quiet sigh, finally reaching out to grip his good shoulder. She gave it a light squeeze, unsure of whether it would actually provide comfort or not.

"The best thing you can do, is not think about it. There were no people in that village. There were only rocks, and rubble, and Qiraji."

Her strong words took a moment to digest. With another shudder, he nodded slowly. A pause, and he voiced quiet agreement. For now, she knew that he would be alright, as she finally sensed more traces of emotion from him. There would be time to deal with post traumatic stress when they were not on the run for their lives. Taking a moment to calculate, she figured that a couple hours sleep could be had come dawn, but not much more, without risking being overtaken by the insect army.

From the time line she could recall from history books, it took the Qiraji three days after the capture of Valstann to reach the main host of night elves. Unsympathetic, she saw the Staghelm's misfortune as a blessing, as it ensured General Rajaxx would not move his troops until the next day. Spurred by the thought, she stood and urged Bal to his feet. Her body protested the movements, but she forced past the bursts of discomfort. Ruefully, she was used to the near constant ache of post-battle wounds. Less so, in recent years, but the familiarity sparked old instincts to distance herself.

They made good time in their urgency, stumbling across the first signs of all out war before the sun even broke the horizon. The sand was trampled and packed with blood, bodies and debris littering the field. Thankful for Bal's hindered sight in the darkness, she steered him carefully through the carnage. He could no doubt scent the rot, but he remained quiet, and upon looking at him, she realized that he had closed his eyes against any glimpse. The behavior was acceptable to her, if it ensured he keep a level head.

The field of bodies persisted throughout the rest of their journey. The crater wall was a welcome sight to them both, the next day. Pressing on, she noted signs of more recent movement in the area. Freshly disturbed silithid burrows housed insect corpses, and later in the day, they discovered the site of a camp. The more unwelcome side-effect of drawing nearer their destination was the risk of being picked off by jumpy sentries or straggling Qiraji. Thankfully, it was the former that found them.

Nearing dusk the day after, a patrol spotted them from an outcropping. The grim-faced soldiers were a welcome sight, despite their obvious hostility. Riding up on nightsabers, they blocked their path with drawn weapons. She fought every fiber of her being that wished to simply incinerate them and steal their mounts. Loath though she was, dropping to her knees in genuine surrender seemed to ease their intent, as they took in her array of colorful bruises, and oozing wounds. A disturbance beside her assured that Bal was following her example.

As the night elves argued with each other in rapid Darnassian, a slanted glance at her furry companion prompted both worry, and a plan.

"What are you doing out here, Quel'dorei scum? And with a filthy tauren, no less!"

The leader of the patrol finally stepped forward, in all his self-righteous glory. The tone made her grit her teeth with anger. Not bothering to disguise her feelings, she finally glanced up to spear him with a fierce glare. The reaction seemed to shock them, and put them on edge. Fighting to keep the weariness from her voice, she allowed a weeks worth of pent up emotion loose with but a few words.

"Mind your tone, whelp! You dare speak to a servant of Nozdormu in such a manner? Help us at once!" The biting tone of command caused the night elves to bristle indignantly, until the full scope of implication was realized. The leader froze for a moment, before looking her over more carefully. She recognized the second he noticed her physical difference from the 'modern' Quel'dorei, as his eyes grew wide, and he looked as a scolded child.

He actually bowed, gesturing for his follows to help them to their feet. "I apologize for the hostility, my lady. But as you can see, we're currently fighting a war. We can't be too careful of strangers."

Raising a delicate eyebrow at him, she turned down the offered help, and rose to her feet. Despite the agony, she refused to show more weakness before such a pompous ass. "Because being 'careful of strangers' equates to insulting potential offered aid, based on the appearance of race."

The cold assessment made him frown darkly, but rather than argue, he invited them to share the saddles of the nightsabers. After a moment of awkward staring between the seven soldiers, one reluctantly gave up his saddle for Bal. She looked displeased, but impatient, as the leader mentioned taking them directly to Staghelm. The notion of meeting Fandral was less than pleasing, but a look at her own shoulder while mounting up quelled any protest. She was only thankful that she had in fact read the history books. If he required a demonstration of her dragon status, she could just as easily tell him outright. The bronzeflight could mop up their own mess if her interference caused a paradox.

The trip to the main encampment went by swiftly, as both of them dozed in the saddle. Bal nearly unseated himself a time or two from such a thing, but she found that keeping a stranglehold around a night elf waist kept her from the same fate. To the opposite, as Bal got true sleep in short intervals, she found it impossible. Her time was spent in a half-daze of jarring pain, as every movement of the big cat, or the soldier in front of her, jarred her shoulder. Fever was setting in already. Her skin crawled and she felt alternately icy and overly warm. Her shivering did not go unnoticed, and the one sharing the mount with her went so far as to suggest crafting a gurney. A suggestion which she promptly shut down based on their time constraints.

The camp was a sea of small tents, and supply wagons, making her feel claustrophobic as they made their way through towards the center. Battle worn soldiers stared as they passed, expressing disdain, surprise, or confusion as they recognized [or did not], their race. She drew the brunt of angry glares, many assuming, as the leader had, that she was Highborne. The center of camp housed the command tent, and what she recognized as a healer station. The open-air tent was buzzing with activity, as several Sisters of Elune prepared salves, potions, and boiled bandages for the wounded.

The most noticeable commonality of the night elves she saw, was that they all looked just as tired as she felt. It lent credence to the assumption that the priestesses were conserving energy by doing things the 'old fashioned' way. One particularly haggard looking healer rushed over almost before her feet could touch the ground. The priestess turned a disdainful nose up at her, causing irritation to surge. Before she could berate the woman, the leader cut in, wisely.

"Sister, please. You stand in the presence of Nozdormu's servants. They are in need of attention."

At once, the sister's demeanor changed. Turning concerned eyes on them, she merely sniffed at Bal, before her gaze focused solely on the festered wound. Barb on the tip of her tongue, should the sister comment on their race, she was pleasantly surprised at finding herself ushered to a cot beside one of the small campfires. The rough linen aggravated her back, but she could find no complaint, as she was offered warm tea. The sweetly scented liquid was familiar to her as a tranquilizer. Offering Bal a comforting nudge through the bond, she drank deep. There was no force on Azeroth that would keep her awake for the lancing and cleansing of her wounds.