More than any of my previous projects, this story seems to speak for itself. When I set to write notes for the opening and closing of each scene, I often find myself at a loss for what to say.

Perhaps that is a good sign. Perhaps that means that I have truly hit upon what I want from this tale of mine. Of course, it could just as easily be a bad sign, but I figure it's safer to err on the side of optimism.

Especially since events seem to be so bleak in this place.

Dawn broke over the three travelers without pity, and showed them the desolation of their surroundings in all its stark relief; the light from the sun, filtered and discolored by the thick miasma that hung about the air, reminded them that they were in a place where even the earth itself was an enemy.

Far from the sickly waif that was their chief concern, both elf and dwarf were heavy, and their boots sank into the ground as they walked, and made sick squelching sounds as they lifted them to take each successive step. Both were too wreathed in discipline to comment on this—not that Sythius would have spoken in any case—but it was clear by the expressions on both weathered faces that they were none too pleased with the added pressure and resistance; hard enough to travel without a destination when the road was hard and well-tracked. When there was no road to speak of, aimless wandering became the height of torturous exercises.

One night, as the small band gathered about a pitiful fire, the child woke.

His bright eyes were blurred, his face wrought with pain, but he seemed more aware than he had been. The boy began to writhe about in panic until those eyes found the object of the druid. Sythius's own amber gaze drank this in, and he endeavored to smile; far from lurching away in fear, the boy seemed much interested in this.

His cracked lips opened, and he tried to speak.

"By the Light, lad," Olrec murmured breathlessly. "Ye think 'e might be gettin' healthy?"

Sythius seemed not to hear. He scooped up the child and lifted him close to his face, the better to hear. The druid growled soothingly, and Big Olrec—who knew just enough Darnassian to get by—knew that Sythius was telling the boy to be calm.

The child asked something. The lilt was strained, the accent foreign, and Olrec guessed that he must be speaking Thalassian, the derivative language borne of the night elves' tongue that was so prominent on this continent. Sythius frowned, and the shaman thought it must be quite difficult for the young shapeshifter to bend his faculties toward deciphering what these words meant.

"…Doral…ana'diel?" Sythius asked with difficulty.

The boy responded.

Strained conversation followed, and all the while Olrec watched, entranced in spite of the fact that he could only make out one word in thirty—he had difficulty enough understanding the voices of fluent elves; these two knew so little that he may as well have been listening to schoolchildren trying to practice without the benefit of a teacher.

Despite this, they seemed to understand each other. There was a connection between them, something primal, something that ran deeper than words. Sythius Sil'nathin was a brutal warrior, with a temper to match, and to watch him in combat was to fear for the future of the world. But with this boy, and indeed with anything of which he was fond, this druid from the wastelands of the north was as tender and docile as any young mother, and for once the smile playing at his lips did not bring out the animal in him.

Strength came to the child as he engaged with his protector, and an exuberance Olrec would not have thought possible, considering his pitiful constitution. The voice was tiny, and cracked, but the sick boy was as animated as his condition would allow; and the more he talked, the more he seemed able to talk.

The old dwarf was not nearly as devout as Vant Lingham, who might have been a paladin if he'd been born with the virtue of patience, but Olrec still believed in providence, and here was his proof. He thought that if there was any justice in Heaven, this would not be an isolated incident, some cruel trick of health right before death took this boy forever. Or, he thought, if it had to be, then let it would continue. For here, in this land of death and desperation, both elves seemed more at peace, and indeed happier, than Big Olrec had ever seen them. And that was a blessing all its own, even to someone bearing simple witness to it.

After a while, Olrec decided to do his part to ensure that this conversation would not be interrupted. He drew out his hammers and stalked off to patrol. For he felt no fatigue this night—the boy's improved condition had livened him—and thought he might as well do some good. As he slumped and stomped his way through the marsh-like farmstead where they camped, Olrec looked about himself with something resembling appreciation. He thought that if it weren't for just how depressing and dank this forsaken muck-bowl was, the sheer joyblossoming in his chest at seeing two elves carry on meaningless talk would have never been possible.

That was his silver lining, and he took it with a stranglehold.

He met no plagued as he made rounds; no walking things that had no business walking nor biting things that had no business biting, and he was glad for it. Yet he couldn't deny that the quiet solitude of their sojourn had him on edge. Still, Olrec did not fret on this. The edge was where he worked best.

The traumas and ill effects of war had that effect on people.

Sythius welcomed his compatriot with a hearty greeting when Big Olrec returned to camp, and his eyes were sparkling. Damned if it didn't send an old soldier for a loop to see the elfling sitting upright in the druid's lap, looking around with sick but alert eyes. The tiny blood elf set them on Olrec, and looked puzzled. He tilted his head back to regard his master, who beamed down at him and murmured something.

"Well met, laddie," said Olrec softly, grinning and holding up a thick hand in greeting.

Sythius whispered.

The boy said, "Sinu a'manore" in a quiet, cracking, halting kind of voice. Olrec knew this to be a greeting, a friendly one, and he bowed his head in acknowledgment. This seemed to please the child, who smiled.

Before it is forgotten, to be sure the little one still looked a right mess, bare sticks in a sack of skin as he was, and the smile did little for the haggard tautness of his pale skin. Still, the meaning behind that smile made him lovely, and Olrec felt tears burning the backs of his crinkled eyes.

"What's yer name, child?" he asked.

Bright green eyes blinked at him.

Sythius rumbled.

Still, there was confusion set in the boy's face, and he seemed to sink into deep thought, as though trying to remember. His lips began to move silently, and bare fractions of words could be made out in his ghost of a voice.

"…K-K…Ki…n…?"

Sythius entreated to help his charge. "Kin?" he prompted.

"Kin," the boy repeated, looking up. "Kin."

Whether that was a name, a word, or a mere part of either, made no difference in that dingy camp. From then on, until the end of days, the elfling's name was Kin.

"Doral ana'diel" can be translated as "How fare you?" in the Thalassian language.

"Sinu a'manore" means "Well met."

The character of Kin was the true genesis of Sythius's story; I have always seen him (Sythius, that is, not the boy) first and foremost as a guardian. Not a father, or a mentor, but a protector. My days in raiding put me into the role of feral meat-shield, and thus Sythius's role has become the same.

It doesn't seem, though, that he minds it much.