Strength.
Azerieh knew everything there was to know about strength. Strength was shown in a lot of ways, and she took great pride in being able to identify strength no matter how it manifested.
Her own strength, and she loved to brag, was considerable. Being a warrior, she'd received training that essentially told one to beat something bloody until the rage simmered down. Her muscles were hefty, having lifted things three times her size, forced in doors and rammed axes through the skulls of her enemies. Strength, she learned from her time with the Orcs, was a coveted quality that required discipline, something few individuals had. It required training, toning one's body and forcing it to adapt to new heights, lifting more, striking harder, more power.
Strength of the body was something she understood very well. Without strength of body, a warrior would not exist. The body was their very weapon, the swords or axes merely a tool the weapon channeled its energies into. It was truly an extension of herself. Her true strength showed when she fought, the sheen of sweat upon her brow, her muscles bulging with effort. The grunt of victory that came before the victory roar.
Indeed. She knew strength of the body.
Strength in numbers, too, she knew. Having fought against the scourge alone, and with company, she could say that it was always easier to do so with someone by her side. The more people that were there to support her, the stronger she was, and by proxy, they were. Having her comrades from her guild assisted in this, fighting stronger enemies and saving Azeroth torment from certain creatures who would otherwise cause devastation.
Their strength was her strength. Her strength was their strength. They fought like an ancient tribe of warriors, attacking as one, and breathing as one. Crying out as one. Cheering as one.
Tenacity too was a strength she knew all too well. Her very sister, having scoured continents in search of their undead sister, had finally been found on Northrend, approaching the vile citadel that Azerieh knew was the cause of her family's heartache.
"You can't keep doing this to yourself, Tristee!" She had said, her voice cracking with the bitter cold. "She is dead. She is gone. She is one of them." She had pointed to the blasted citadel, her breaths heaving, her eyes wide. Trying to convey anything to her. Her sister Xaedrienne stood silently next to Tristee, her eyes trained on the two siblings warily.
"She isn't one of them, she's our sister!" Tristee had argued, her face darkening in rage, her violet eyes flashing dangerously. "You're so high up on your pedestal that you won't accept that a majority of the Death Knights have regained-"
"A majority!" She had scoffed, hands on her hips, clinking against the frosted edges. "Do you even hear yourself? Let it go! Come home, both of you! Stop worrying our parents on a wild goose chase in the middle of scourge territory for a ghost!"
It was then that Azerieh realized how much strength of will Tristee truly had. She steeled herself, planting her feet firmly on the ground, and crossed her arms defiantly, turning up her nose at her sister.
"No." Tristee had said, her tone even with finality. "If you want to give up on our sister, fine. But I won't give up. I will search as long as it takes to find her." She had uncrossed her arms, her violet eyes almost seeming to be ablaze. "But don't you dare try to stop me. I'm not weak. I can more than take care of myself."
Azerieh had been taken aback, but she knew that look. That was the look of a true fighter, someone who was not ready to back down. Would never back down. In that moment, she came to realize that sometimes strength didn't come in a physical form. Sometimes, tenacity would take its place, and form a strength one could stand upon.
Magic had never made sense to Azerieh, but it too had strength.
Blaze looked at Azerieh, his amber eyes burning as he casted a firebolt that completely obliterated a target dummy in Warspear. Orc grunt passersby jumped at the flames and scurried away in a hurry, glancing in shock at the short-stack mage who had destroyed a heavily used training tool. Azerieh shrugged, not as impressed as he had expected. She had seen her Warlock sister case fire spells before. It wasn't like it was new.
The goblin mage scratched his head, his teal mohawk ruffling against his fingers. His eyes became wide with excitement, and he steeled himself for a really blast-worthy display.
That day, Azerieh learned that magic required strength too. And control. Something Blaze had very little of.
At least he'd be getting her some stronger armor.
...
Hello! I'm back again! This time the main focus is Azerieh, Goblin Warrior. This one isn't so much romantic as perhaps the others will be, but Azerieh's story still needs a little work. I picture her as kind of a hard-ass, and haven't focused on too much of her story. But, Blaze can maybe warm up her heart a little. Eh? Alright I'm done with the terrible puns.