It was a cold, wet night.
A family in a single cabin was making preparations for dinner, as they always did. Calmly, a mother and her daughter set the table, and filled it with meager foods, but today with a special treat—A young rooster that was roasted over the open fire recently. A man and his son were in a separate room, changing from their wet clothes, to a warmer, new set for dinner.
In the distance, the slow, staggered steps of a stranger was sloshing in the mud.
As the family sat down, none of them noticed glowing, yellow eyes coming towards their house, slowly, but surely. They were already eating before they heard a steady, heavy hand knock on the door.
None of them were sure that they would make it through the night as the third knock rang.
"Who should get the door?" whispered the mother. She was heavy with child, with blonde hair, and a worried look constantly on her face.
The father, a stronger, brown-headed farmer, stood up as three more knocks rang through the house. Giving a look to his precious wife, he started towards the door, with a dagger in hand. As he reached for the door handle, a strong voice called in common tongue, "Is anyone there?"
The father froze up, but summoned the courage he had to wrestle down a troll, and opened the door. There, in tattered, wet armor, stood a night elf. The elf was leaning heavily on a staff, and had blood dripping from a wound on his cheek. A hungry, purple face looked down onto the poor farmer, breathing heavily.
"Hello, stranger," the father said, breaking the ice. "Is there anything you need from this poor establishment?" he asked.
The elf did not answer, but fell to his knees. "Thank Elune," he said, as he pulled out a small purse from his belt. "I wish accomodations for sleep and rest," the elf said. "I am…" he stopped midsentence, and fell to the floor, exhausted.
"Cen!" the father yelled to his son. "Help me with this man—he seems injured."
The young boy named Cen rushed quickly to help his father, and saw the elf collapsed on the floor. His mother and sister quickly followed him, staring at the stranger. "He needs aid," the mother said, quickly fetching an old first aid kit she kept for injuries on the farm.
Cen and his father lifted the man up and placed him in a chair a bit too small for a night elf, and quickly began to strip the stranger of his armor. The mother and daughter came in soon after, holding bandages, antivenoms, and aids of the sort.
"Nania, this is not a sight for you to see," the father said to his daughter, stripping the elf of his shirt.
"I'm sixteen, father; I can help," Nania said to her father as she started dressing the elf's wounds with clean bandages.
Just then, the elf moved, and his eyes blinked his eyes. He looked at the father, who was dressing a wound on the elf's arm. The elf's lips moved slightly, as if he were talking.
"What is it, stranger?" the father asked, but the elf ignored the father and began to mutter.
"It's Darnassian," Nania said. "I heard some people talking about elves and their languages in town earlier this week."
Continuing, the elf rose and continued to mutter. Pulling off the bandages, the elf let his hand hover over all his wounds, and slowly, they began to disappear. The family stood back, watching the elf as his concentration went from each wound, healing them as his hand passed over them. Finally, the elf's work was done, and his attention went to the family. "I require soup. I will pay for anything you offer," he said, reaching for his purse, but not finding it. The elf's eyes looked dumbfounded. "Where is my purse?" he muttered, looking for his belt.
Slowly, the father walked to the threshold of the doorframe, and pulled up the small bag that the elf had dropped on the floor. "I think this is it," the father said, handing it to the elf.
The elf nodded, and pulled out a few coins. "I hope this will pay for any soup that you waste on me," he said.
The mother shook her head. "We have no soup for you, sir. We have a bit of peas, bread, and a little wine for your consumption, though."
The elf shook his head. "I will consume none of that, if you will. I'd prefer not to take from your rations," he said to the mother. Going to a small bag he had on the ground, next to the rest of his armor, he pulled out a small vial with a blue liquid in it. Drinking it, the elf's eyes seemed to recover some lost glow and his muscles tightened with energy. The elf sat once more in the chair, only to find it somewhat uncomfortable, and sat on the ground instead. He sighed, and relaxed. "Now, I would be pleased to know your names," he said, taking out his ponytail in his long, blue hair.
The father spoke up first. "I am Dean, son of Welliam. My wife, Rebecca, my son Cen, and my daughter Nania," he said, motioning to each of his family members. "And you are?"
The elf looked at Dean, as if he had forgotten his own name. Finally, the elf said, "I am Roane. I am a lonely traveler on the road looking for something I have lost. That is all you should know about me right now. Nothing more, nothing less." The elf got up, only to fall down again. Roane groaned, and leaned back on his hands. "Damn," he muttered, and sighed.
Rebecca shuffled in place. "Um, sir. We would be honored if you joined us for dinner. It's getting cold, and we would enjoy someone as yourself to accompany us, seeing that the night is too travel."
Roane nodded. "Though I find it perfect for travelling, I am too weak. I will join you," he said. As the family cleared the room, Roane looked off to the North. Somewhere… out there… his brother was alive.