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Chapter II

Where Zek'jaf assumed she would rise with a bang, she awoke with no more than a whimper.

Effectively entangled would accurately describe her situation. She'd obviously tossed and turned in the first few moments of consciousness, and as a result, the blankets and sheets had twisted about her limbs. The cotton shirt she wore pulled too short in the waist, as most of Zul-kraa's garments were wont to do, and it bothered him on wholly different levels that one, he'd recognized it belonged to Zul-kraa, and two, that he hadn't even realized she'd been given the article last night. When she shifted again, the shirt moved so as to expose much more of her bare torso, but he pointedly ignored it. Instead he focused on dressing before she fully woke, taking his dirty chest-piece and cleaning the dried blood from it.

He'd slept disturbingly well last night considering the circumstances, and had really even forgotten the human's presence when he'd first woken. The subtle shifting just beside his bed had reminded him that, yes, there was still a human paladin lying on his creaky wooden floorboards, and it had renewed the feelings of trepidation and anxiety within him. He was going to go bald at this rate, worrying so much over something that he could so easily take care of.

He slipped the leather armor over his head and secured it tight over the thin black shirt beneath it. He put his belt on and strapped his daggers to his thighs, staring at the half-conscious girl with thinly veiled disdain. If he were smart, he'd kill her now and dump her body somewhere. If he were smart, he'd throw her on her ass outside Orgrimmar for the scavengers to feast upon. If he were smart, he would never have picked her up in the first place, but if was the operative word, and it didn't do him much good to focus on the ifs anyway.

Feeling all of the anger that had mysteriously gone missing the previous night, he toed her injured side with the tip of his boot. She gasped and curled away from the offending boot, and then looked up at him with heavy, sleep-laden eyes. The realization didn't seem to hit her all at once, but in tiny, quick proportions, and the horror on her face increased with each passing second, mixing with the dull aches from her newly mended wounds.

"You almost died at the base 'a the Stonetalon Mountains," he explained curtly, coldly. "I saved you, an' you'll stay here 'til you're fit enough to walk." He surprised himself by how much Common he had maintained.

Recognizing her own language, she squinted at him, making valiant attempts to bring herself to a sitting position. "Why?"

He struggled for an answer. Upset once again with himself and unable to find a viable response to her question, he turned in a huff and opened his cabinets, taking his anger out on a questionably aged loaf of bread. He dug his fingers into it, shifting his tusks back and forth. He knew why he'd saved her, and it wasn't just something he could sum up in a few words. Even so, he had a hard time coming to terms with the justification, and he sure as hell wasn't going to tell the human.

When he turned back around, having successfully calmed his rising ire and mangling the tough bread, the girl had managed to sit up, and she clutched her side. It was presumably still sore from either a previous broken bone or a deep cut. He tossed the bread to her, and it landed on the floor somewhere to her left. She alternated between staring at the bread and him in open contempt.

"I'm bein' generous, mon. You best eat that bread 'fore I take it away."

Perhaps feeling too weak to talk, she turned her head away from him and his offer. He could see faint scars on her neck, and she kept her arms folded over her belly, no doubt trying to keep the shirt from showing too much. Her act of defiance aggravated him, but even more so was her desperation for modesty. He suddenly felt the urge to let her know in no uncertain terms just how much of her body he had seen, but finding it largely unnecessary, he dismissed the thought.

"You're hungry. Eat."

She kept faced away from him, her entire body stiff. He'd never understand this. He had rescued her from the cold grip of death; this she had to at least be aware of. But there she sat, coiled in his extra blankets and sheets, refusing to acknowledge his presence, his kindness, and the favor he had done her.

When it looked as though she wasn't going to relent, he snapped up the loaf of bread and shoved half into his mouth. She may not have wanted to eat, but he sure did, and stale though it was, it did wonders to soothe his rumbling stomach. He greedily finished it off, informing her that it had been his last loaf, and now she was going to have to wait until he felt like buying more food. He took a water jug down from the same cabinet, and she immediately began to stare at it.

Understanding washed over him as he watched her glance from the jug to his lips and then back to the jug. She had to have been dying of thirst. There was no telling how long she'd been lost under the blinding heat of central Kalimdor. "Thirsty?" he questioned, and though she did not answer, her focused look told him all he needed to know.

He handed this to her, and she gingerly took it from him. After assessing it, assumedly making sure it wasn't poisoned or tainted in any way—he snorted at this—she brought it to her mouth and finished off the contents in five big gulps. She handed it back to him carefully, giving him the flask as someone would give a peace offering to a beast. He rolled his eyes and took it, setting it inside a cupboard.

"Where is the closest Alliance settlement?" he asked, knowing it was something of a longshot. Even if she knew where the Alliance was hiding among the sprawling deserts of Durotar and The Barrens, she would never tell him. Their safety depended on it. If the situation had been reversed, he would have done the same. When no answer came, he sighed and continued. "I won't tell anyone where they be. Unless you rather I let you loose ta fend for yourself?"

"I don't know where any are." Her reply was clipped, with an edge of some emotion that he couldn't quite pinpoint. Desperation, maybe, or helplessness. Shame, however, remained predominant, and he almost felt bad for her.

"I can take you ta Ratchet," he mused, mostly to himself. "Alliance have boats there." He was deluding himself, of course, but it reassured him to think about. Since the day he'd first traveled there, Ratchet had almost been exclusively controlled by Horde. The goblins had no say in anything, and the trade princes that kept it afloat, so to speak, didn't care either way who controlled it—as long as goods flowed in and out. Any Alliance who stepped foot there made quick work of their business, usually either going straight from the entrance to the docks or vice versa. And if anyone caught him fraternizing with her, let alone escorting her, he'd have some difficult questions to answer.

Still, he figured, she wasn't his problem anymore once she was in Ratchet. He contemplated this, entertaining himself with thoughts of what he would treat himself to once she was rightfully out of his hair, flagons of ale and unending feasts clouding his thoughts. He deserved it, after all.

"I don't know of Ratchet," the girl said carefully and quietly, and when he glanced at her, he found she was studying him carefully, watching for any sign that he would suddenly change his mind and jump upon her.

"It's a neutral town," he said, somewhat shocked by her change in demeanor: Where before she'd been stubborn and more or less silent, she now seemed entirely open to talking to him. Her shoulders slumped, and she no longer made an effort to pull the cotton shirt to cover her bare skin. Any human—any person—who gave up this easily, he figured, was well not worth his time. It was no wonder that she had come so close to death.

She turned her eyes from him, staring instead at the floorboards. "Neutral," she said slowly, as if to test the word on her tongue. "There is no such thing."

Perhaps she was not as naïve as he thought, then.

Regardless, he could not stay and converse with her all day. He had errands to attend to, including retrieving his leathers from the keep, restocking on foodstuffs, and visiting his mother. His mother could wait, but all of the events of yesterday had painfully reminded him of how long it had been since he'd last seen her. There were reasons he stayed away from her. He never left her in anything but a sour mood, though this was no fault of her own.

Annoyed with the negative thoughts creeping upon him, he approached the girl and stood over her. She backed into the side of his bed, wincing when her sore muscles and bones saw use. "I'll be leaving for a bit. You should be gettin' some rest. The more you sleep, the faster you'll be recoverin'." And the faster he'd be rid of her. He left this part out, though, in lieu of gathering her up, blankets and all, and setting her gently on his bed.

Like the table in the apothecary shop, his bed made her seem much smaller than she actually was. Her eyes were wide with fear, surprise, caution, or some combination of the three. He realized a bit belatedly that she was actually trembling. Even after all he'd done for her—saved her life, let her into his home, offered her food and drink—she was still frightened for her life. In this case it might have been understandable, having come so close to death's cold fingers once before, but the look she gave him was completely unwarranted.

Mercy. She wanted mercy.

He hadn't noticed that he'd put one knee to the mattress after setting her down, hovering above her. It hit him how she must have interpreted it, and he pulled back immediately, equal parts disgusted and embarrassed. The thought had never even crossed his mind, and now that it had, his mood dampened considerably.

"Sleep," he instructed sternly, though she did not move from her position, and he could see that her body remained stiff and tense. "I'll be back soon ta give you food. Now, do I need ta tie you up, or are you gonna stay put?"

"No," she said quickly. "I can't move anyway."

There was enough truth in this statement for him to be assured, and he left the room feeling rather cross, already making plans to return her to Alliance hands come tomorrow.

The orc was insufferable, and he smelled of ass

Zul-kraa was annoyed.

He pounded his massive fist atop her counter once, making jars of medicine wrapped in brown paper wobble. He lowed himself so that he was nose-to-nose with Zul-kraa. He was obviously using intimidation measures, but she was thoroughly unimpressed, and she crossed her arms tightly, narrowing her eyes.

"If there is a blood elf with a highly contagious disease, they need to be quarantined."

"I already told ya I don' got no records of no diseased blood elf," she bit, mentally damning Zek'jaf to the most painful of deaths possible. And yet, even as this orc guard stood spitting on her in all of his green-faced frustration, she couldn't help but feel worried about him. It wasn't as if he blended particularly well with the crowd, with his light skin and too-small tusks. He was going to be in real trouble if this orc guard, or any of them, for that matter, caught up with him.

"My duty is to protect the citizens," he tried to reason, standing to his full height, "whether from enemy attacks or the spread of a disease." When it was apparent that Zul-kraa would not release any information, the guard glanced at the backroom door. "Where is your superior? I would like to ask her some questions about the nature of this shop."

She bristled at the subtle insult. Did he think she looked unskilled, or that she and Neetya's shop lacked legitimacy? She was a fine apothecary, despite being an apprentice, and this was a damn fine shop. She wanted very desperately to make sure he knew this. She glanced only for a moment at the changing elixirs to her left, staring invitingly at her from the wall-mounted cupboard, her fingers itching to turn him into a frog that she could sweep out of the shop and into the streets. "I'll go fetch Neetya for ya," she answered, not attempting to hide her disdain.

Luckily—for Zul-kraa's benefit or the orc's, she wasn't sure—Neetya was in a particularly good mood. She had been, in fact, since the arrival of the human girl the previous night. The forsaken woman drifted into the anteroom, smiling benevolently at the guard.

"Are you—?" he began, but Neetya cut him off as kindly as possible.

"I am the proprietor of this shop, yes. I understand you have questions for me to answer?"

The orc straightened regally, eyeing her from his head's high perch. In stilted response, Neetya curtsied.

"My name is Lieutenant Dreng. We received complaints of an infected blood elf in the city. Upon further investigation carried out by myself and a small team of city guards, the last known place the blood elf was sighted was exiting your shop, accompanied by a male troll."

Neetya's smile never faltered. Twice, though, Zul-kraa noticed the aggravated twitch of her bony fingers, obscured from the lieutenant's view behind the counter. Zek'jaf was going to have hell to pay for this one, and Zul-kraa reminded herself to be well within earshot when his just rewards were given to him.

"We have not treated any blood elves as of late," Neetya responded coolly, walking out from behind the counter so that she could see all of the lieutenant. Scars crisscrossed his face in faint, angry gashes, and a v-shaped section on the left side of his upper lip had been lost, giving him a sneer to wear perennially. He watched Neetya circle him, his eyes small and set deep into his skull, but focused. The weapons at his belt rattled when he moved.

"Our shop," Neetya continued, propping one of her hips and settling her folded arms across her waist, "is not equipped to treat blood elves. My and my apprentice's knowledge, regrettably, does not extend to the complex makeup of blood elf physiology." She'd always lied beautifully.

"I understand," the orc said, unaffected by the callous gaze Neetya had been sending him. "However, I am under orders to investigate this shop and discover the whereabouts of this blood elf."

The forsaken stepped aside, allowing him into the back of the shop. She followed him, motioning for Zul-kraa to stay in the front. Whether this was to tend to any potential customers or to allow Neetya to handle the investigation, she wasn't certain, but she strained her ears to hear bits of the conversation through the thick drape separating the sections of the shop.

She only caught bits and pieces of Neetya explaining articles to him, and faintly heard the orc sorting none too politely through assortments of flasks, bottles, and jars. Moments passed, possibly ten or more, before the two of them emerged. The orc seemed frustrated, with a line of barely maintained anger wrinkling his brow.

"Expect a return visit in the future," Lieutenant Dreng said stiffly, looking from an unruffled Neetya to Zul-kraa, hands crossed over her chest. "I will report my findings today—" here he paused to correct himself, "—or lack thereof—to my superiors."

Neetya smiled.

He looked only at Zul-kraa now, his eyes seeming hawkish. He snorted as he spoke. "Your friend, the fool troll, should expect a visit as well."

He seemed to linger, waiting for a blistering response from Zul-kraa or a biting remark from Neetya, but neither spoke. Zul-kraa certainly felt her muscles tense and her lips tighten, ready to shout at the orc and defend Zek'jaf, but she kept herself motionless. From behind the counter, Neetya grabbed Zul-kraa's wrist as a bid to keep quiet.

After nothing was spoken and no nervous moves were made by either woman, he exited the shop, turning sideways to fit his large build through the small, rounded frame. He lingered ever longer, just outside of the shop and around its corner, waiting to catch morsels of any muted conversation to follow. Moments passed in slow drips. Only when Neetya released her wrist did Zul-kraa exhale.

Neetya wore a grave, stern expression. "Show me to the dwelling of your troll friend."

Zek'jaf's mother lived in a carved-out cavity in the side of a red-streaked plateau, not a mile outside of Orgrimmar. Her residence was more of a home than a cave, but more of a hole than a home, and she never seemed to mind it. She had painted the inner walls in the colors of sunset and soft blues, illustrating the bustling city life of Orgrimmar that she had once known. Her furniture was made mostly from white, gnarled wood of the desert trees, but she owned a rocking chair and an end-table made from the dark and porous driftwood of northwestern shores. His father had made the driftwood furnishings for her before he'd died. If he closed his eyes and thought hard enough, Zek'jaf could remember sitting in a too-big rocking chair, atop an overstuffed lavender cushion, rocking back and forth as hard as he could manage.

Now, of course, if he tried to do the same, the rocker would likely crumble. It still supported his mother's weight, though, despite the plumpness of her old age, and this he attributed to his father's master handiwork.

He ducked inside of her home, not immediately seeing her in the living area. The old rocker sat alone, the lavender cushion having been replaced by a sea-foam-blue one, and the end-table beside it held several photographs. Most prominent among these was a large sepia-toned picture of his father, holding a hunter's bow and standing beside a massive wolf, looking imperially at some point beyond the camera's scope. His father's broad shoulders, dark hair, and long, thick tusks painted a picture of a healthy, attractive Darkspear troll. The elegant, intricate, sturdy armor he wore denoted his wealth, and the sheer size and ferocity of his hunting animal told of his skill.

In front of the picture of his father, in a frame too plain and rigid to be native of Kalimdor, was a faintly colored photograph of his mother, father, himself, and the blond man of his childhood. Zek'jaf picked it up inquisitively, studying the man standing between his mother and father, an affectionate arm around the both of them. His height nearly matched his mother's, though his father towered over the man. Even so, he could see that this human man was taller than was average for his race. He wore no armor, but Zek'jaf could plainly see the holsters of daggers at his thighs. And lower still, clutching to the human man's knees, was Zek'jaf, small and vulnerable, his ears limp and floppy and his nose a stubby stump.

"Zek'jaf?" his mother called him, and he set down the picture quickly. "I didn't hear ya come in." She emerged from around a support beam, smiling broadly. Her spectacles made her eyes seem much larger than they were. "Ya got light feet, like always."

Zek'jaf smiled only halfway. "Yeah. Got to, doin' the things I do."

She hummed at him as she hustled into the living room, tidying up by straightening pictures and dusting sand from the squishy rubicund loveseat. "Best not be gettin' into no trouble, Zekky."

He cringed inwardly at the nickname. The human had called him it once, and it had stuck with his family ever since. "I'm not, ma," he promised, taking a seat on the loveseat. "I got somethin' for ya." He handed her a wrapped bundle, brown paper tied with yellow twine. Inside of it was a set of candles, Darkspear insignias and Zandali proverbs painted on the glass. His mother was still violently proud of her tribe, and she showcased this more often than was necessary. She was also unwaveringly allegiant to Thrall and the Horde, with the scenes on her walls illustrating this fact. He took the time to study the paintings as she exclaimed that he didn't need to buy her anything and took her time opening the bundle.

She painted quite well, mimicking that of both ancient cave paintings and contemporary artists. A large mural above three lit lanterns depicted the busy markets of Orgrimmar, and another displayed a group of orc guards in full armor drinking ale. Still another had goblin caravans travelling along with shamanic tauren, bumbling down a path that led to the city.

It was strikingly apparent that she missed living in Orgrimmar. She drew these paintings to surround herself with a feeling of belonging, though it was clear she did not belong at all. The citizens and guards had made this abundantly clear. Anger that he had felt innumerable amounts of time boiled in the bottom of his stomach, but his mother's voice calmed it considerably.

"Lovely, jus' lovely. An' I know where I can put dem." Without rising from her side, Zek'jaf's mother placed two of the candles between the pictures on the end-table. Zek'jaf stared at the placement, looking squarely at the picture of his family and their blond friend.

His mother seemed to catch him, and she stroked the smooth glass of the remaining candles idly. "I miss him sometimes, too, Zek."

He looked away from the picture, slightly embarrassed. "I don't remember him much."

"He was a good human," she sighed, struggling with the word "human." "He did right by us. All the time he be bringin' us food from his home, tellin' us stories of when he first met your papa."

Zek'jaf started to grow impatient, feeling angry at the loss of the blond man's presence and angry at the seclusion of his mother. "When did he visit us last?" he asked, shifting uncomfortably.

His mother took a long time to answer, looking down at the candles. Behind her spectacles, she seemed sad, her eyes heavy with grief. "Ages ago." Her voice was very quiet. "Right after your papa passed. Maybe he still alive somewhere."

The last statement shocked Zek'jaf more than it should've, and his heart leapt into his throat. "Pa—my dad?"

She chuckled good-naturedly. "No, silly boy. Your papa be long gone. I be talkin' about da human. I t'ink he went home, ta his continent, when Viljami died." As if for emphasis, she glanced longingly at the picture of his father.

"I should get back," Zek'jaf said, just as quietly as his mother. The sour feelings were welling up in him again, and it took all he had in him to push them down.

"T'ank ya for da candles, Zek," she said lovingly, and stood to nuzzle her wrinkled cheek against his tusk. He indulged her affection, and then bid a hasty adieu, walking back to Orgrimmar. The sand he kicked up in his wake floated on the hot air of The Barrens, making a trail behind him. He was being a very poor rogue, but with no threat to his person about, he felt it was acceptable.

Upon walking through the winding passage to Orgrimmar's main thoroughfare, a guard with a face marked with long gashes stopped in his tracks to watch Zek'jaf. The hair on the back of Zek'jaf's neck stood on end, and he quickened toward the crowds. The guard walked a few dozen paces behind him, his pace hurrying as throngs of people surrounded Zek'jaf.

The auction house came into view, and Zek'jaf broke into a swift jog, darting from crowd to crowd and behind stacks of crates and barrels. One glance behind him saw the guard pulling a large battleaxe from his back, running in Zek'jaf's direction, shoving people out of the way as he did.

Zek'jaf began to sprint now, sliding into thin alleys. He wedged himself between two buildings, the small space pressing against his ribcage. It was difficult to breathe, and he struggled to keep his panting quiet. The guard ran a few quick steps past his hiding spot, stopped and then doubled back at a sluggish walk. He stood very near Zek'jaf, now, but seemed not to notice him. Zek'jaf pushed himself further between the buildings.

"Lieutenant?" Another orc came into view, though he was not a guard. He wore leather armor and had no visible weapons. "The colonel has sent for you. He says it is urgent."

The axe-wielding guard brushed him off with a curse. "It's always urgent," he muttered, taking a few last looks around the crowds. He replace the axe at his back and, along with the messenger, disappeared.

Zek'jaf took rapid breaths, breathing out slowly. He waited nearly five minutes to wriggle out from between the buildings, stepping back into the sunlight with a gasp. He placed a hand on his sore ribs and leaned against a lamppost, taking a moment to regain and steady his breathing.

He ducked inside the auction house to remove himself from any further danger, finally feeling relieved among the crowd of people. He wasn't sure why the guard—lieutenant guard—had been following him, but he could guess. The human girl at his house probably had something to do with it. Even so, the reason for the guard to have followed him was irrelevant; he'd rather not have any run-ins with Orgrimmar's officials. Especially not today. No, today had not been a good day.

The auction house, as it usually was, bustled with activity and life. Nobody paid him a second glance as they sorted their wares or bid on items. It had always been his favorite building of the city, allowing him to melt unseen into the crowd. He checked on his leathers while he was there, adjusting the price and grumbling under his breath when he saw that he'd been severely undercut by another brazen seller.

His next stop was the bread shop, avoiding guards like they would lop his head off if he was sighted. Perhaps, he mused, thinking back to the way the lieutenant had taken his axe in hand, they would. He gathered enough food to last him and his unplanned ward at least a week, holding two paper bags in each hand, and mapped a route home that would take him away from heavily patrolled areas.

He surveyed the perimeter of his home first, half expecting it to be sanctioned off and guarded by a posse of ill-tempered orcs. Seeing this was not the case, he walked carefully up the stairs, looking in a rather paranoid fashion for anybody waiting to pounce on him and then try him for treason. Bringing a member of the Alliance unbidden into Orgrimmar? To the stocks with you! Bringing a human unbidden into Orgrimmar? Have him hanged!

The thoughts occupied him unpleasantly as he opened the door to his room, cursing and spitting under his breath. The door gave way with suspiciously little force, and he saw Zul-kraa on the other side of it, one hand on the opposite doorknob that he had grasped.

"Zuly? What are you doin' here?" He looked around the room, expecting a trap, setting the bags down.

"Get in here," she said with a roll of her eyes. "'Less you want ta showcase your new pet?"

He snorted derisively, crinkling his nose, which Zul-kraa seemed to more or less approve of. "Should kick this 'pet' 'a mine out onto the streets."

"Not too late," Zul-kraa sang, helping Zek'jaf unload the bags into his cupboard.

"I'm afraid it is," said a decidedly sultry voice from the vicinity of his bed, and Neetya stepped away from his window, closing the brown patchwork curtains. "Letting the human onto the streets would be a poor decision."

Zek'jaf put two apples slowly in a bowl, watching her move from the window to the bed. He looked sidelong at Zul-kraa, who was wrapping an extra loaf of bread in brown paper to keep it fresh. "You let her into my house?" he hissed in Zandali, and Zul-kraa shoved him.

"Shut up, ya fool! Ya don' even know why we've come yet."

To Neetya and the half-awake human, the Zandali language must have sounded like a mass of smoothly spoken grunts and rolled consonants.

"I would prefer if I were to be included in the conversation," Neetya said, cutting off Zek'jaf and Zul-kraa's spat. "Unless you two are discussing matters not pertaining to the human. If that's the case," she cooed, gesturing to all of Zek'jaf's room, "I can return at a later time."

"Zek'jaf was jus' bein' an idiot," Zul-kraa reassured, joining Neetya in the living area.

Zek'jaf ran his tongue over his teeth in agitation, but Neetya didn't seem to notice.

Neetya sat at the edge of Zek'jaf's bed, putting a small, bony hand on the human girl's shoulder. The human had just barely begun to rouse from sleep, and had been sitting up for mere moments.

"I would like to know your name," Neetya said in flawless Common, smiling sweetly, "so that I may address you correctly."

The girl eyed Neetya with disdain, arching away from her touch. She seemed to recognize her predicament, though, and said something softly that Zek'jaf could not hear.

"Lara," Neetya whispered, though loud enough for Zek'jaf to catch. He rolled the name on his tongue silently, trying to grasp the right pronunciation of it in his head, looking sternly at the human.

"You've caused us quite a bit of trouble," Neetya continued, and the good-natured tone she carried never left, though Zek'jaf found it contrived and almost painful to listen to. "Zek'jaf is in danger, and his actions have carried to us, as well."

"I was followed by a lieutenant guard earlier," Zek'jaf added to this, and he felt rather than saw worry on Neetya and Zul-kraa's faces. "I lost him, though." The final statement seemed to relax them somewhat.

"Yes," Neetya declared, though much more calmly than he had expected. "We were also confronted by a guard. Lieutenant Dreng was his name."

Zul-kraa seemed somewhat lost, having not learned Common at the level that Zek'jaf and Neetya had. Neetya was much better than he, but this was to be expected. She stressed the right syllables, and her words sounded smooth and creamy, as opposed to Zek'jaf's jagged, choppy way of speaking. It was almost something to be envied, her proficiency with languages. Perhaps, he realized with a sharp pinch of unease, she even knew Zandali.

"None of this was my intention," Lara tried to convince them hoarsely, quietly, her throat dry. Zek'jaf brought her a skein of water, which she drank gingerly. She was acting graceful in front of Neetya and Zul-kraa, and he wished she would just swallow it all and get it over with.

"Of course not," Neetya said, "but I'm sure you are grateful to Zek'jaf for saving you."

"Zekjuff?" she struggled, her mouth awkwardly forming his name.

Zul-kraa laughed out loud, and Zek'jaf sighed. Pronunciation of his name didn't matter. He didn't expect her to know how to say troll names, and he would rather she didn't try.

"You will be taken to Ratchet soon." The benevolent affect in Neetya's voice fell away abruptly. She sounded as if she were scolding the human. "Zek'jaf will accompany you. Your presence in Orgrimmar puts my and Zul-kraa's livelihoods in danger, and poses a threat to Zek'jaf's life."

"Orgrimmar?" Lara shouted, her eyes wide. "No, I'll be killed. I have to leave now!" She made a move to get up, but Neetya pushed her back down.

"You haven't been killed yet, but if you attempt to escape on your own, you will be." She looked to Zek'jaf accusingly and then looked away, but Zek'jaf felt the effects of the guilt. He focused instead on picking a frayed string from his right glove.

Conversation milled on stiltedly, awkwardly, even remorsefully until the sun slipped behind the tall city buildings, darkening the streets and blanketing the desert with an exhale of chilly air. Neetya had absconded to the wall nearest Zek'jaf, leaning leisurely against it as she spoke in hushed tones. Zul-kraa sat with Zek'jaf at the table, rolling an apple between her hands and occasionally contributing a few heavily accented words. The discussion, consisting mostly of Neetya laying out the plan for Lara's escape and giving Zek'jaf very clear, concise instructions and directions: How to get to Ratchet (he already knew the way), how to keep suspicion at a minimum (he'd already devised a plan), and how much it would cost to get her home (he hadn't a clue).

Finally, as Neetya peeled herself from the wall like a waifish scroll of paper, she gave Zek'jaf a small note. "It has the exact price of the trip, as well as the address of someone who can help you, if you so desire it. She has little patience for hand-outs, however, so I'd suggest making an earnest attempt to collect some of the fare yourself."

Zek'jaf pocketed the note without even glancing at it. Neetya and Zul-kraa left quietly, closing the door as softly behind them as they could. He heard their footsteps padding down the flights of stairs, and only when he could hear them no more did he turn his attention to the human girl.

"Layr-uh," he said, and found himself frustrated with what he knew to be a mispronunciation. If he'd said it wrong, though, Lara did not correct him. In fact, she avoided looking at him or acknowledging him at all, instead opting for looking out of the small crack in the curtains. The inky blaze of dusk bled desperately through the opening.

Having momentarily forgotten what he was going to tell her, distracted by her fixation on the evening light, he regained his train of thought. "Are your injuries healing?" He knew Neetya had asked her this very same question, but he couldn't remember answer.

She nodded almost imperceptibly, never looking at him, even when he pulled the curtain open to completely reveal his thin glass window. He lingered by the window, watching the same display as she. He didn't find it particularly beautiful, but he figured desert twilight demonstrated quite a difference in comparison to that of the forests'.

When she spoke, her voice was no longer hoarse. It was smoother than that of any troll or orc he'd ever heard, male or female—comparable to a blood elf's, or a young tauren's.

"Thank for save me," she said in that terribly flawed Orcish. He responded to her in Common, retreating from the window.

"You're welcome."