Westfall is full of dust devils. And buzzards. And crazed golems. And pirates. Why does anyone live here?

Anonymous shaman during a Hearthstone game

A Legacy of Dust

Westfall, Bo Enoch reflected, had seen better days.

Granted, it had seen worse days as well. Decades from two decades prior, when the orcs had rampaged through these lands. As when faced with the impregnable walls of Stormwind City, they'd instead secured their dominance over the fiefdoms around it, before finally laying siege to the capital itself. A boy of twelve at the time, he hadn't been old enough to fight, but he had been old enough to see, and comprehend, what was happening around him.

The city burning. The world ending. His father among the corpses of its defenders, while he'd tearfully guided his mother to the docks, and set sail upon the Great Sea, under the leadership of Anduin Lothar.

Dark days, and ones he would never forget. The First War had come and gone, as had the Second. And over a decade after that, the Third. A conflict more devastating than the first two combined, yet one that had spared the southernmost human kingdom its fire. In an ideal world, the dark days that Westfall had seen, that all the Kingdom of Stormwind had seen, would be long gone.

Alas, that wasn't the case. Because as he marched along the brown grass, as he swatted away yet another fly, as the stench of death and decay filled his nostrils, Bo Enoch of the People's Militia of Westfall reflected on the old maxim – 'hard times make strong men, and weak men make hard times.'

"Light help me, I've had it with this."

And women, Bo reflected.

"Let's just say we couldn't find them, eh?" His partner asked, looking at him through puppy-dog eyes. "We did our best, we did our duty, we return in the knowledge that we're still proud, upstanding members of the People's Militia."

Bo remained silent.

"Come on…" Annad whined. "It's late, my feet are hurting, my back's breaking me, and I'm so sick of sleeping under the stars."

He glanced at her. "We sleep under the stars anyway."

"Heh, maybe you do."

"Pardon?"

"Heather lets me stay in her inn."

"Inn," Bo scoffed, as he rolled his eyes. "If Heather's pet project is an inn, then one wall and no roof make a house."

"I-"

"Besides, the answer is no," the militiaman said, as he looked at his subordinate. "We have a job to do, and we're no returning to Sentinel Hill until it's done."

"Or dead," Annad pointed out.

Shifting his eyes to the Dagger Hills in the distance, Bo silently conceded the point.

Five days, he reflected. Five days since the Defias had attacked Sentinel Hill directly under cover of night. While they hadn't taken any lives, they had made off with everything from bread, to iron, to even a feather from one of Thor's griffins. How and why they'd done that, and how Thor could spot the difference, were questions that Bo hadn't asked come the morrow, as he and every other resident of Sentinel Hill listened to Gryan Stoutmantle speak.

The Defias knew they were here, their leader had said. They knew what Sentinel Hill stood for, and it terrified them. Sentinel Hill was a reminder that the gang of thugs who called themselves the Defias Brotherhood could not take this land unchallenged. If the People's Militia would not flee Westfall as so many others had, then the Defias had to scare them into doing so.

"And they haven't," Stoutmantle had declared. "Which is why they shall be followed. Be it on the road, the grass, or in whatever den these thieves call home, we shall follow them, we shall capture them, and we shall make them rue the day they took the red."

"Or just kill them," Captain Danuvin had added.

Stoutmantle had cast his second a look, but had pressed on. He needed trackers to go after the Defias who'd come to the last bastion of civilization in this fiefdom. If they could bring back a Defias for questioning, great. If not, well, the watchtower had plenty of spare pikes that needed heads attached.

"So who then shall take up this quest?" Stoutmantle had asked. "Who among you will do us proud?"

No-one had answered.

"I nominate him," Danuvin had said, looking at Bo, smirking, as if aware of the chill that ran down the man's spine. "Thank you for volunteering."

So caught off-guard by the 'voluntary' assignment, Bo had paid little heed when Danuvin had similarly 'volunteered' Annad Weaver to join him. A girl of 18, and therefore 13 years his junior, she'd followed him across the ruins of Westfall, however reluctantly.

So they'd departed on the same day. Dressed light, marched light, followed the footsteps that the Defias had left. Past abandoned farmhouses, with their harvest golems still running, past the corpses of goretusks, and the carrion birds that fed upon them. Onwards, southwards, and forward, ever approaching the sight of the Dagger Hills. Their names reminding Bo of the shortsword carried in his belt, and the two dirks at Annad's.

Much as he resented this assignment, he couldn't deny the thrill of possibly using them. Especially now, as he knelt down in the dirt, smiling grimly.

"Bo?"

The smile remained. Footprints.

"Bo, what is it?"

He glanced back at Annad, and gestured to the impressions in the dirt. "We're still onto them." He got to his feet. "The jackboot of the Defias still weighs upon this land."

"That's very poetic Bo."

"Thank you."

"But…" Annad trailed off.

"But?"

She gestured to the west. "The sun's setting."

Bo's first instinct was to retort that it didn't matter. To accuse her of shirking her duties. That yes, the sun was setting, and that she was obviously relishing the chance to rest for the night. That unlike her, he was hardworking, loyal, and all that other stuff.

And yet, the sun was setting. They could attempt to follow the Defias through the night if they wanted, but at best, they'd lose the trail. At worst, they'd stumble into more Defias and have their bodies feed the flies.

Or worse.

"Bo?" Annad asked. "Are we going to stop?"

Bo sighed. "Let's get a fire going."

They'd got a fire going, but it barely counted as one.

Small embers that did their pitiful dance amidst the kindling. It provided enough light for Bo and Annad to see each other's faces, but no warmth. No light beyond the little circle they'd made between themselves, under the shelter of a withered tree. Some of its branches had been cut to provide fuel, but they did not good.

Westfall was dying. And no fire could rejuvenate it, in a world long turned cold.

"We set off at first light," Bo said, as he warmed his hands as best he could. "I don't expect the Defias to march through this gloom, but they're in just as much of a hurry as we are."

Annad, too busy removing her boots, said nothing.

"Are you listening to me?"

"We find them, we get their heads, pikes, spikes, the works," she said, as she took off her second boot. "Fully understood."

Bo doubted that.

"Oh my poor pinkie," Annad whispered, as she presented her hole-filled sock for the world to see. "Want to smell?"

"No, I do not want to smell your feet, thank you."

"You sure? Couldn't be worse than the smell of that murloc."

Bo grit his teeth. "Positive."

Truth was, the murloc they'd killed two days ago had probably smelt worse. Certainly talked more than Annad at least, even if it couldn't' say anything beyond "murgurgleal." And while slaying that overgrown frog had provided some catharsis, it didn't answer the question as to why a murloc was this far inland. There were whispers of the toads having taken up residence at Longshore, and even in the streams and rivers of Elwynn.

But then, Bo told himself, it didn't matter. As far as murlocs went, they were on the lower tier of "things that want to kill us and destroy the kingdom." Sandwiched somewhere between kobolds and gnolls by his estimate, all of which were below the Defias, and all of whom were below the Horde.

Or so some people said. Way he understood it, the Horde had buggered off across the Great Sea five years ago, sans some undead monstrosities in the far north of the Eastern Kingdoms. Far as he was concerned, they could stay there. The Defias, however, were threats in the here and now. Even if the kingdom refused to recognize it.

So he sat there, in frustration, at the fire. Chewing on some beef jerky. Salted and preserved from Old Daisy, bless her. All the other cows in Westfall had fled with their owners, or been slaughtered by the Defias to fill their own bellies. It hardly counted as a meal, but it provided him something, if not everything.

A full belly, he thought, as he continued to chew. Wouldn't that be nice.

"Thinking and eating?" Annad asked.

Bo looked at her.

"You've just been chewing for a good two minutes."

Bo swallowed the meat.

"Not one for conversation, are you?" Annad asked.

Bo shrugged.

"Light, you're impossible. I bet you're a bookworm."

"A what?"

"A bookworm. One who goes in for that high and mighty stuff. Fancy books and tomes? Waste of bloody time as far as I'm concerned."

Bo didn't agree, but hoped that the conversation would move on.

"Besides," Annad continued. "All the proclamations these days say 'Alliance, blah-blah, Horde, blah-blah, duty and honour, blah-blah…" She chuckled. "You know what I'm saying?"

"Yes," Bo murmured, giving her a hard look. "And I know how to read."

"Oh. Really?"

At least she had the sense to look abashed.

"Yes, I know how to read," Bo repeated. "That's why, when the Defias turned up at my farm a year ago with a list of demands, I could read it and tell them to piss off."

"And…" Shadows of the fire danced on Annad's face. "Did they…?"

Bo gave a weary smile. "Why do you think I'm in the People's Militia?"

Annad remained silent. Perhaps she knew that the Defias had come back, and burnt his small plot of land when he refused to hand over his grain. Perhaps she knew how they'd held him down, and forced him to watch. Perhaps she knew how they'd let him go, laughing as he stumbled through the gloom, the fires in his back, and tears in his eyes. Perhaps she knew how he'd literally fallen at Gryan Stoutmantle's feet, and pledged his service, while so many continued the long trek to Elwynn.

Or, more likely, she didn't. But then, he knew little about Annad Weaver, only that she wasn't from Westfall, and had volunteered a month ago. And while the People's Militia didn't have a set chain of command, age and experience carried the day. And in that department, he had more of that that his companion in spades.

He shivered in the gloom, and began to remove his leather armour.

"Undressing in front of me? Shame!" Annad said.

Bo ignored the jibe and removed his blade from his belt. Annad had made the same joke five nights in a row, and it had become old by the second one. Maybe that was why she was now doing the same. How, like him, she made her bed by the fire. A satchel serving as a pillow, fraying wool as a blanket.

"Five nights," Annad whispered. "You realize that if we find the Defias tomorrow, that's still a six day march back at minimum?"

Bo remained silent.

"Still," she added. "Goretusk meat, Westfall stew…maybe a good, proper pie. Like fish pie. Have you ever had fish pie?"

"A few times," he grunted.

"Oh, really? Because I haven't. I've had rabbit's pie, and beef pie, and pork pie, and bacon pie, which is odd, because bacon and pork are the same thing, and-"

"Annad?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

She fell silent immediately, much to his relief. He knew the girl meant no harm in it, but sometimes she just wouldn't…stop…talking.

But she'd made her mark, he reflected, as his mind turned to pie. Beef pie, with asparagus. Served by his mother, back on the farm. Usually twice a year, three if he was lucky, but a relief from the same old porridge that he had for breakfast, dinner, and the occasional lunch. They'd been poor, and most of their produce had gone to the Crown, but they'd been happy. Westfall was the breadbasket of the kingdom, and its people were happy to serve.

And even if the Defias were defeated, he reflected, this land would never been the same. Westfall had been destroyed twice over. Once by the orcs, once by the Defias, both times allowed by neglect from Stormwind Keep. It hadn't been the hand of the king that this land had fallen into ruin, but neither the hands of Llane or Anduin Wrynn had done anything to stop it. He'd lost his home, returned, lost his home again, and now, here he was. Sleeping on barren ground, under a dead tree, beside the flickering glow of a fire, with a woman too young to give any comfort in good conscience.

He glanced to the figure opposite the fire. Annad's sleeping arrangements were naught different than his, but while he'd been resting on his side, her gaze was ever upward. Looking at the moon, if not the stars.

"See anything interesting?" Bo murmured.

Annad remained silent.

"I imagine that if you're staying in Heather's inn, you don't get to see sights like this often."

"Oh, I do. There's enough holes in the ceiling."

Bo supposed there was.

"But," Annad continued, "the beds are better. And warmer."

Bo could imagine. Though what bed, he wondered, had Annad slept in prior to joining the militia?

"Goodnight, Bo Enoch."

He watched as the girl turned over and closed her eyes. Maybe tomorrow, he supposed, she could tell him.

Either that, or he could expect lectures about pie.

"Weaver," said Annad. "Weaver. What do you think my family did?"

Alright, Bo thought, as he continued his march. You don't need to rub it in.

"Weaver," Annad repeated. "My ma was a weaver, and her da was a weaver, and his ma and his da were weavers, and their ma or da was a weaver, and-"

"Alright," Bo said, through clenched teeth. "I get it."

Truth was, he just wanted Annad to be quiet. He'd asked her about pie, and somehow the conversation had turned to her family, and that had become a lecture about surnames, and six days from Sentinel Hill, he was honestly starting to consider just heading back. Because the footsteps were there, the Defias were still ahead of them, and while six days' march wasn't palatable, it sure as Hell beat seven.

And that was even assuming they could take them. In his experience, it wasn't too hard to get Defias vagabonds roaming around on their own, but if the raiding party hadn't scattered to the four winds…

"Weaver," Annad repeated, not helping matters. "Yeah, that was my ma's job."

Bo rolled his eyes. But, now that he heard it again…

"What about your father?" he asked. "What was his name? His profession? Wasn't he a weaver?"

"Oh, him," Annad said, a shadow falling over his eyes. "Well, dunno his name, and his profession was soldier."

Bo remained silent. He had a feeling where this was going.

"Yeah, my da came from up north. Lordaeron, I think. My ma managed to stay hidden in the kingdom even after everyone had fled, but then this great big man in fancy armour comes as part of a whole big army of fancy people, driving the Horde away, and, well, when a village girl and a soldier love each other very much…"

Bo almost retorted that lust, not love, was the more likely emotion at play, but decided against it. If Annad was 18, and the Second War had ended 19 years ago…

Timing checks out. As does the story.

"Then he goes and gets himself killed on Draenor," Annad continued, brushing something aside. "Least that's what my ma told me."

"And…" Bo chose his words carefully, before asking, "do you believe her?"

She shrugged. "He's dead either way. Either he died on Draenor, or died in Lordaeron, or he's undead in Lordaeron. Point is, he's long gone."

Bo nodded. "I know the feeling."

"Do you?"

He frowned, and returned his gaze to the impressions in the dirt. He'd lost his father to war, but at least he'd known him. Been raised by him. In the generation that had followed his, not everyone had that luxury.

He knew Annad's story, because he'd heard it countless times. The Second War had involved tens of thousands of men fighting their way from Lordaeron to Stormwind, to every kingdom in-between. So when you had a lot of men in places that had been emptied of them, as every husband and son were sent off to war, leaving wives and daughters behind…well, things happened. And when those same men often fell in battle later, or returned to their homelands, the result was an entire generation of children that grew up sans a parent.

War orphans, some called them. And while Bo didn't know if the name was all that accurate, since children who'd lost both their parents filled the orphanages in Stormwind City to breaking point, the name had stuck.

What had also stuck was them, on this trail. Like flies caught in wax, or a candle to a kobold's head. Or a corpse in dirt. Dirt that he knelt down to inspect.

"Interesting," he murmured.

"Interesting?" Annad asked. "I wouldn't say Northshire was interesting. I mean, I left home to join the People's Militia, because all you got in Northshire was kobolds, and, well, not much else, really, but-"

"Light's sake woman, zip it." Annad must have kept rambling, and he'd ignored her. "Look at the ground."

The girl beside him thankfully followed both commands.

"Don't see anything," she whispered.

Unfortunately, her tracking skills weren't up to par. But then, that was Northshire for you. Bunch of coddled twats, safely in the bosom of Stormwind, never having to worry about anything beyond their borders. It was a sign of how desperate things had become that since the Stormwind Army had been dispatched to far-off lands, it was Northshire of all bloody places that the kingdom was turning to for recruits. Everything from aspiring warriors to would-be mages, to, well, less savoury sorts.

"Bo?"

He shook his head and gestured to the dirt. "Tracks stop here," he whispered.

"Um, okay," Annad said. "Frankly, I'm surprised you can make out tracks at all."

"Oh, you look for impressions in the dirt, and grass." He glanced at her. "I grew up here, remember. You live in Westfall long enough, you pick up tells."

Annad didn't look convinced.

"And besides," Bo said, as he returned his gaze to the ground. "I had to track the odd farm animal or child who'd wandered off. Here, however, the tracks stop." He gestured to the dry grass, how it had been flattened. "Here, a body was dragged."

"The Defias?" Annad asked.

Bo got to their feet.

"Are they the ones doing the dragging, or are they the ones being dragged?"

Bo tapped his shortsword. "Let's find out."

It took them a good ten minutes to find the bodies. And a good ten seconds for one of them to speak.

"Light's arse," Annad whispered.

No-one said that their speech had to be eloquent, Bo reflected. But even so, he doubted the Light very much cared what happened to humanity these days. Entire kingdoms wiped off the face of Azeroth, and in the ruins of Westfall, now humans were at each others' throats.

But seeing half a dozen Defias bodies just lying there…well, that made him feel all warm and fuzzy.

Mostly.

He kept moving, ignoring the bite of the wind, and the way the dust started to swirl in its wake. Instead, he knelt by one of the bodies.

A man. About the same age as him. His red mask had been ripped off, and something about his mouth was just…off. But it wasn't his mouth that caught the majority of Bo's attention, but rather, his eyes.

Eyes wide open. Eyes looking up to the sky. Eyes that betrayed the man's terror in his final moments.

"They're dead," Annad whispered.

"No, really?" Bo murmured. "What gave you the idea?"

"The bodies," she whispered.

"Bodies being dead? I'm shocked."

"Bodies that don't have any wounds on them, Bo."

The militiaman bit back a retort, as he got to his feet. Quickly moving from one body to the next, he silently conceded the point. Half a dozen corpses, and not a single wound among them.

Bruises, yes. Even broken bones, judging by the angle of one of the bastards' arms. But no blood. No damage that could be attributed to sword, spear, or arrow.

"Six," Annad whispered. "Where are the others?"

"Fled?" Bo suggested. "Defias don't care about their own."

"You don't know that."

"Course I do. They've taken over Westfall, they burnt down my farm, they're criminals. Don't give a shit about their countrymen, don't give a shit about each other, no matter what they say."

Annad remained silent for a moment. But her eyes spoke volumes, even as dust swirled before them.

"What?" Bo asked.

"Like I said," she whispered, "you don't know that."

Bo rolled his eyes. That was women for you. Soft hearts and soft minds.

Annad knelt down, surveying the unbloody scene. "What happened here?" she whispered.

"Don't know, don't care," Bo said.

"Five of them have their red masks, but this one doesn't," Annad said, as she examined one of the bodies. "Why?"

"Does it matter?"

"I think he…wait…wait a minute…"

"Annad, let's just-"

Annad screamed. And to his shame, so did he.

She'd turned the man's head to his side and opened his mouth. As if to check if he'd drowned. Call it chance or insight, what followed was a macabre parody of someone who'd drowned.

Dust. Pouring out of his mouth.

Enough dust to drown a man.

To drown six men.

"Bo?" Annad whispered.

He stared at the scene, enraptured. Watched as the dust accumulated on the ground.

Ignored the dust swirling around both of them.

"Bo, what did this?" Annad whispered.

Bo forced a chuckle. "Well, we're on the Dust Plains of South Westfall." He looked towards the Dagger Hills to the south. "I grew up here. Not that it was called the Dust Plains then, but…"

He trailed off, as he watched the dust.

The dust from the man's gullet. It was rising. Merging with the dust that had been swirling around them all this time.

Dust coalescing between them.

Forming a shape that resembled a mini-tornado.

Annad took out her blades, and he couldn't blame her.

Because as the creature appeared before them, as it looked out at the two mortals with two blazing yellow eyes…it attacked.

Bo swung his sword, but it was to no avail – the blade passed through the dust creature's arm, as if it were naught but air, but the arm itself struck him. Sent him flying. Pain seized his chest with the blow, and pierced his black when he hit the ground.

Annad fared little better, as she brought her blades to bear. Every blow, the iron passed through the dust, and for a moment, the dust creature seemed amused. The way it hovered there, the way its narrow eyes shifted. But it was amusement that did not translate into mercy, as it brought both its hands up, and slammed them against the girl's head.

"Annad!" Bo cried. She tumbled into the dirt. If not dead, then unconscious. The creature, not wasting a moment, extended a hand to her throat. Like a succubus, reaching in for its prey.

"Get…away…from her…"

Bo struggled to his feet. And was knocked back down to them as the creature's free arm extended outward, striking him.

"Away…away…"

Bo watched, as the creature began filling Annad's mouth with dust. Watched as she squirmed. Tried to scream. Unable to breathe. Despite what its earlier blow had done, she, at least, was alive.

If not for much longer.

Bo tried to get up, but it did him no good. And even if it did, what good would it do her? Their blades couldn't harm the creature. It, however, could harm them.

Still he tried…reached out…locked his eyes in on Annad's. Saw the life leaving them, replaced with terror, as dust filled her lungs…and-

The creature let out an unnatural cry, as shards of ice impacted it.

What in the world?

More ice. More strikes. More screams. Enough to drive it back. To give Annad time to breathe, however shallowly.

Bo looked to the source of the ice, and found it. There. Thirty metres away. Two figures. One bearing greatsword and mail, another staff and robe. A woman of magic, a man of might, wearing no sigil, and carrying no banner. And yet, Bo knew who, or rather what, they were.

Mercenaries. Adventurers. Opportunists, according to some. People who'd go out into the world, lend a hand, and loot the spoils.

People from Northshire.

And yet, he was grateful for their presence. Because whether their attack against the dust creature succeeded or not, it gave him time to crawl over to his companion.

"Annad," he whispered. "Annad!"

There was no response. Not until he turned her over and opened her mouth, letting the dust fall out of it, as if it were water.

"Come on," he whispered. "Breathe."

More cries, more screeches, more shouts, as the mage and her companion engaged with the creature.

"Annad, wake up."

More dust. More silence from her.

"Please, you have to-"

She obeyed his command. Retched. Coughed, the dust falling out of her mouth as if water or blood.

If the danger had passed, he would have offered her comfort. Made a joke even. But alas, it hadn't. The dust creature was still there. While the mage was still pummelling it with ice, and her companion standing at her side, the element of surprise had been lost. Where once the shards of ice had given the creature pause, now it was using its arms to take the blows.

Bo got to his feet. "Hoi!" He said. "What can I do to hope?"

The mage looked at him, as if only just noticing his presence. "You want to help?"

"That's…kind of the idea?"

She ducked as a clod of dirt came her way. "Distract it!"

There were ten things that Bo didn't like about this plan, and he was tempted list them all off. But then, dust, magic, murder…one had priorities in this world.

He had no idea what the mage's companion was doing. But with a cry, he charged at the creature.

If I'm going to die, he thought to himself, please don't let it be stupidly.

Death, he could deal with. Death, he'd seen all his life. His father had died in this land, his mother to a land far to the north, never again seeing her home after they'd fled. He'd escaped death, dealt death, and soon or late, death would take him to whatever afterlife awaited him, if any.

But he didn't want to die today. So hedging his bets, he kept his blade beyond arm's length. He caught the creature's attention, but wove in and out of its strikes.

A step here. A parry there. The creature had to become solid to attack him, he realized. And in those moments, he could use his sword. Not to any great effect – there was no path to victory through his iron. But it was a path he would walk, provided that the mage pull off her plan.

If she has one.

He hoped so. He really hoped so.

He especially hoped so when the creature struck him, sending him falling to the ground.

"Bo!" Annad called out.

He really, really hoped so, as the creature rose its right fist, apparently intent on not filling his lungs with dust, but with pulverizing his face.

Come on lady, what's your plan?!

The creature brought its fist down. Bo swore, and covered his eyes, not wishing to see oblivion.

Not wishing to see that which never came.

I'm alive.

Cold. Really cold. But alive.

How?

He opened his eyes, and received his answer.

The mage had closed in on the creature. Where once she'd hurled shards of ice at it, now, streams of ice extended from her hands. Freezing the dust monster. Holding it in place. Turing what was once but wispy sand into solid matter.

The mage looked at her companion. "Now!" She cried.

Her companion. The man with the greatsword. The one who, until now, had done nothing but watch the spectacle.

Until now, as he drew his blade. As he let out a chilling cry.

As he leapt, and brought his iron down, cleaving the dust monster into two.

Bo scrambled back, as ice shards went everywhere. As they cut his cheek and arm. Small punishment, compared to what would have happened otherwise, but still…

"Bo!"

Annad helped him to his feet, but beyond her exclamation, nary a word was spoken between them. Instead, their eyes…all eyes…were on the shards of ice before them. Dissipating before their eyes.

"And so to the Elemental Plane it returns," the mage whispered.

Bo stared at her.

"A dust devil," she explained. "A creature of the air, made manifest here."

"H…here?" Bo stammered. "In Westfall?"

The mage gave a weary smile. "Where else would a creature of dust and ruin make itself manifest, if not in this tortured land?"

Truth was, Bo could think of quite a few places. He could also think of more questions he wanted to ask. Questions that involved words such as "how" and "why." Questions that he had no doubt the mage could ask.

But he held his tongue, as she and her companion began rummaging among the remaining shards of ice.

"Thank you," Annad whispered. "Thank you…"

"Don't thank us," the man grunted. "We're just here for the loot."

Not another word was spoken between the four of them. Not as the adventurers took the ice shards with them, or the remaining dust of the creature. Pouring it into small bags, as if it were gold.

Nor did they speak as they rummaged through the bodies of the Defias. Filling their pockets with copper, taking their weapons, even pieces of cloth. The economy of the world dictated that if you had something, you could sell it. And mercenaries like these often made a fortune off the death they dealt.

It was only at the end, when Annad picked up one of the red bandannas of the Defias, that more words were spoken. As the man looked at the item she was carrying, as if ready to demand that it be his, before the mage stopped him.

"You are of the People's Militia?" she asked.

Annad and Bo nodded.

"Take this back to Stoutmantle then," she said. "Tell them of these deaths. I imagine it will please him."

"And you?" Bo asked. "Where's your next destination?"

"Stranglethorn," answered the man proudly.

"Stranglethorn?" Annad exclaimed. "That hellish jungle? Why?"

The mage tapped the purse at her belt. And Bo, at least, understood completely.

"Farewell," said the mage. "I doubt we'll meet again."

That, Bo was not so sure of. Mike, William, Gina…he'd seen them barter with travellers more than once. Who was to say that they wouldn't return to Sentinel Hill?

Who was to say that he wouldn't see them again in this land? Steeped in a legacy of death and dust?

He knew not. But in silence, he watched them depart.

In silence, he nodded to Annad.

And in silence, they began their march back home.

Their footsteps, carrying with them, dust.

A/N

Been playing WoW Classic, still haven't completed Westfall (I find myself alternating it between it and Redridge), grinding my arse off, drabbled this up. Go figure.