Chapter 2

The Exilee


X Ranger X

He couldn't stop moving. The forest betrayed him, whispered secrets about him to the rangers. Watch the ground. No snapping twigs, no compressing grass, no crunching leaves. Cannot leave a trail. Eyes up, movement. At his side, the wind rustling leaves. Now left! Nothing.

There was a sound. Thomas compressed the shadows tighter around him, backing away even before checking back. A large bush, growing towards the trunk of a heavy tree. Was it an animal in there? The wind? A ranger trap? He crouched and watched the ground, holding his breath. The shadows did not distort, the branches did not bend unnaturally to hide. He watched for the compression, waiting anxiously.

A moment passed, and another. He silently released his air and drew in another breath. Unthinking, he lightly pressed against the soil with his boot, then stepped back and pivoted his weight, smashing a few blades of grass, before turning forward and stepping just hard enough to leave an impossibly light path. Only a ranger would be able to pick it up.

A fox trail. It was time to hunt.

Thomas left the trail short and broke free of it, pacing to the nearest tree and crouching among its roots, melded perfectly into the shadows. Even light traveled through his visage, like a mage's invisibility. He his hand upon the smooth trunk, feeling the cool bark under his palm. The forest hummed with excitement at the presence of the elves, rejoiced at their gentle touch upon it.

Thomas waited, reading the tree. He couldn't manipulate it with magic like elves could, to hide him or tell him where others were, but he could observe. The forest was alive, had ancient emotions, and he had learned how to tell them apart.

There! The tree's branches swayed with a breeze, the leaves hissing with so much noise, but Thomas noticed its buzz. The young races were so quick and hasty, so unlike the trees, and it riled up their slow responses. It responded to the presence of a nearby elf. Thomas let go of the tree and worked at completely removing his presence, then studied the ground with a critical eye.

A shadow touched the ground at the right. Thomas knew the sun, high to the left, and found the source of the mark. A slender silhouette, colored as the trees were. A wind came and swayed the leaves, and with the movement of color, the shape vanished. Holding his breath, Thomas watched the ground yet again, knowing the elf must come down to better read his trail.

Like a snake, he remained coiled with tension, ready to strike with all ferocity. His eyes watched the whole floor, looking for any step, any mark. It came down the front, the slightest jounce of a long grass – a single mistake.

Thomas struck, hurling a smooth rock from the ground toward the grass. It passed through the air harmlessly, but there was a sudden dodge, a hint of a shape as the elf stumbled aside, and it turned to face the landing of the rock with the sudden noise. Too late it realized to be looking at the source first, and there was a hitch of breath when Thomas thumped the shoulder with his hand.

The woman breathed out, falling into full visibility. It was Sarrine, who had proposed the game, breathing hard with her tension leaving now. With wide eyes she beheld his shadow, and she whispered in Thalassian, "A fox trail... I knew you were human, so I didn't..." She laughed, softly in respect to not alert others.

So Thomas first thought. His ear cocked, then he turned and sprinted forward, to his tree, and hissed at a shadow, "I see you!" An elf pealed itself from the shrub, grinning – Loraeoth, her friend. A team, Thomas realized. The concept was foreign, from his years in a game of only two.

They saluted each other, then hid themselves and sprinted apart. Thomas left Sarrine to find her own way out.

Hiding in the small branches, Thomas managed to catch one more ranger, until succumbing to a blunted arrow. Picked at thirty yards away, completely unaware of his hunter. Hefting the arrow, Thomas nodded at the shooter, letting go of his shadows entirely. The man nodded back, threw his bow over his shoulder, then sprinted away, falling from sight again in the first step.

Back at his perch, Thomas found the rangers abuzz with whispers. He heard from snippets that each was discussing him. He paid the conversations no mind though, thinking only of his success in the game. Against ten real rangers – more had decided to come at his inclusion – he had caught three and spotted two others, even in a forest. He hadn't a lick of ranger ability, yet he had avoided their hunts and lost only in a step of recklessness, a mistake made due his years away from the game.

He would like to play again with his old friend.

"-ask him. Ask him!" a sharp voice was demanding, in the song of the elven tongue. All the others had fallen silent, listening in, as Thomas finally sat again on his branch and folded his arms.

There was a sigh. It was silver haired woman that asked finally, "So you are a master of the bow and forest, can overcome the average rangers at their own game, speak Thalassian, and hold secret to your past of training. What else can we assume other than a trained human? If you had the magic to use our abilities, it is no question you would be a Ranger Lord."

"I was never taught," Thomas repeated, but he held up his hand haltingly when both the silverhead and redhead opened their mouths. "Not even the tongue we speak in now. I once had a friend though, indeed a high elven ranger, but he strictly adhered to the code against training humans, especially me who had no talent for magic."

They waited in silence for him to continue. Thomas picked out another ranger approaching, defeated, leaving only two still left. "I was young, and we would play games. Always, I would watch him, study him, and later I would try to imitate him. I picked up a loose grasp of Thalassian from listening to him, and it was later that we switched to speaking it and he cleaned up my speech. Our games in the forest were always impossible though. To shoot targets, to play a game of touch, to hunt down fox trails. He would win each time, but I would watch what he did, and over time I learned.

"I have no doubt he meant for me to learn, but he was oath-bound not to teach me, so he didn't. Everything I know is from observing him, what I learned from my Rogue Master, and my years of experience after. He broke no oaths, and I was never trained."

The light-hearted blond male was in the midst of pulling himself higher up the tree, and as he climbed, he said, "Well frankly, Swiftblade, I say fuck the oaths. If you had the mana, I would train you the rest myself. To me, and to the Sunfury, you are a ranger."

The redhead seemed a traditional girl, Thomas noticed, and the proposal clearly riled her up. With her green eyes glaring, she started, "Farron, you swore-"

"High elven oaths," he interrupted, waving her back. "Ranger-General Windrunner would not waste such fantastic potential regarding Nathanos Marris. You're telling me you would simply on the pride of a nation in which we are no longer even a species of? You saw the children, Meyanna. They were born blood elf."

The name sent a strange pulse through Thomas. Nathanos, the human Ranger Lord. The man had been the envy of his youth. Trained by Sylvanas Windrunner herself, born with fantastic potential and magic – simply handed everything that Thomas worked himself to tears for. Older now, Thomas was no longer bothered by the thought of the man. Perhaps he had matured or maybe it was that all his effort had paid off.

"He was killed you know, in the Scourge attack," Thomas told them.

The silver haired girl blinked owlishly, before straightening in realization. "Then that means..."

"Yes, he was raised undead," he continued, voice flat. "Nathanos Blightcaller. Of course, his mentor returned for him. He champions Sylvanas now, for the Forsaken – your allies, mind you, if you rejoin your people."

One man, long black hair and high up, muttered, "They would not accept the Sunfury, after what we have done."

Thomas glanced up at him, as the other rangers turned sullen. "Your people have been split by civil war and lay devastated, and since then Sylvanas forced the remnants north to slay the Lich King. The assault was successful, but the blood elves are so hurt, they would welcome this force gladly."

The elves remained silent, contemplating their choices and future. Thomas had told himself not to get involved, but the conversation, with the rangers at least, relieved him. Too many years alone. A life of killing and subtly shaping the future, changed now to a bringer of hope and deliverance for a whole people. They called him "Deliverer" now? He didn't know what to think of it, but he was now clearly involved.

"Swiftblade, forgive my curiosity, but is that high elf you knew the reason why you came back for us? I am still wondering why you would save us, your enemies, while in the end we might just bolster the ranks of Horde – also your enemy," Farron asked cautiously. All eyes set upon him, even the two that were just returning from the Game of Foxes, having just caught the question.

Thomas' lip turned up at the sight of the winner. The one that had shot him. The blood elf, with his long blond hair, was one of the only ones to still sport a beard after the journey began. It was an odd look on one of the regal elves, but he carried the wiry mass gladly, grooming and waxing it. Noticing his eye upon him, the man nodded up at Thomas, and Thomas nodded back.

Remembering the question, he mentioned absently, in Common, "That is part of it, yes." He left it there, and as the rangers began to clamor up further questions, he slipped from his branch and began making his way down. "Go back to... Return to the feast; eat until your strength returns and sing until your spirits match. We'll stay here for a few days, before the long march all the way back."

As he touched the ground, Thomas tensed when a burst of bright light enveloped him. It cleared nearly instantly, but his body was reluctant to ease itself. The ache of his burns was gone though, and his other unspoken wounds too. He looked up to see the girl with the blond ponytail smiling. She said, "Next time, we'll play without you handicapped."

XxX

The watchmen had orders to wake him in five hours to cover the rest of the night. Thomas relaxed himself once he was inside his tent. His cloak was unbuckled and tossed to his bag, and he set upon divesting the rest of his armor. Five hours of sleep again; he was pushing himself hard for these elves, to keep the weary from further burden.

When he was down to just his pants, he let himself fall onto his bed roll and gathered his blankets around him. He recalled the names he had heard today: Loraeoth and Sarrine from the trio of friends, the cheerful Farron and stoic, traditional Meyanna, and bearded Jerath who won the Game of Foxes. Five of the thirteen rangers, and one of which hadn't bothered showing up to try and meet him. He would keep his guard up for her, just in case.

Sighing, Thomas realized his mind was still too riled to sleep just yet. During his return to camp, he had been met with cheers and praise from the elves, calling out his new titles that none seemed to wholly agree on. Swiftblade, the Shadow, Deliverer, King – he heard it all. However, disregarding his introductory words – or perhaps not caring in their high spirits – they had approached him, asking what banner they should raise as they marched in his name.

Once the shock had passed, Thomas told them not to march in his name, but in their own. The Sunfury, with their allegiance to Kael'thas, were no more, so they were to take those sigils down and raise empty white ones. They marched not as an army now, but a peaceful force – so forfeit conflict with the banner – but also, they are to have a blank slate. At the end of the exodus, they could decide what they wanted to become.

Sober salutes. Thomas had expected mindless cheering, perhaps a dampening of their cheer after the day's victory, but not the way those gathered around him had saluted with fists to their chests and bowed their heads. Yes, they were soldiers, but... The blood elves immediately dispersed, presumably to get out those banners that very night.

After a short dinner alone, Thomas had passed his word to the volunteers for night watch, and now he lied in bed, still with the day's events in his head. The forest was fairly long too. When they finally marched again, they could camp for a night at the edge, just before the actual push back into rugged and exotic terrain.

Turning on his side in search of a more comfortable position, Thomas listened to the buzz of the camp still going on out there. He couldn't help his ears, picking up whispers from dozens of yards away, or the quiet moans of those coupling in the night. He wasn't surprised to see after so long isolated, many of the trapped elves had taken up relationships with their close comrades. Footsteps stampeded up and down the camp, even if just four friends at fifty yards, and some sporadic steps he could tell to be the stumble of drunks.

He enjoyed the sounds, of renewed life in the lost elves.

It wasn't long before his muscles ached at being turned on his side, and he laid back again, still listening. It was because of this he heard the soft padding so close to his tent, and getting closer. Just outside the flap, then slowed to a stop there. Tension crept back over him then as he realized, and his eyes watched the lining. Fingers tucked behind the edge, pulling it aside for a slender shape to step inside.

A woman dressed in a wispy gown didn't make the most resourceful assassin, leaving him to wonder at other possibilities. As she stood there watching, green eyes gleaming faintly yet clearly in the dark, he decided against waiting for her to get close before striking out. He pulled himself up and let the blankets fall to his lip, meeting her stare with one of his own.

"I heard you spoke our tongue," she whispered.

Oh dear, Thomas thought, nearly shivering. Her voice was sweet and feminine, accented perfectly by the smooth song of Thalassian. It invoked thoughts, suggestion, just by the sound, to any man that would hear its seduction. It was no help he had always admired the immortal elven women.

"Indeed I can," he returned in kind, ensuring he didn't struggle over his own tongue at the rush of thoughts. "Who are you though? Why have you come?"

Staring at him with her curiously illuminated eyes, she continued softly, "I am a woman carrying thanks. My name or identity is of no importance to tonight."

"And your reason for coming?"

"To give thanks." There was a whisper of cloth, and Thomas' eyes caught the gown on its way down as it slid from her body. Shy in tone but earnest in resolve, she added, "If you'll have me."

The dark cloaked much of the details, even to his eyes, but still he stared with surprised eyes at her pale body. His tongued seemed to turn into cotton in his mouth. Not trusting himself to speak with it, he pulled the blankets from his waist and stood up, watching her eyes follow his movements until she was looking upward to see his face.

Those glowing orbs called him in, until he was just before her, and he slowly took one of her small hands in his. Calluses on the palm – smooth, no tear lines, in the pattern of bow at finger tips and hilt at the palms. He wasn't surprised to find her a warrior though; all of these blood elves were. It was with the hand that he led to the bed, her eyes never leaving his.

His hand came to her waist to guide her down, but he stopped at the contact with her skin. Freshly cleaned and bathed, soft and warm. Her body was lean. He found his hand tracing around, craving the touch, and her muscles twitched as his hand passed over them. The slightest fragrance surrounded her, something exotic as the elves were. Even on this blasted planet, leagues from civilization, and in an army's march, he was sure her hair would be like silk, if he were to touch it too.

Her back came to his sheets, and she arched her chest against him as he followed her down. He couldn't look away from her intoxicating eyes. His hand left her back and fell upon her taut stomach, sliding up until the inevitable swell of her bosom. The elf allowed no hesitation, taking his hand in hers and pressing it to her slender breast. Warm and soft, with a firm pebble centered against his palm.

Their lips met, hers moist and full and his dry and chapped. The imperfection rang against Thomas' mind, and he turned away, feeling inadequate. Elves were more than he was worthy of. But then with a soft touch to his cheek, she turned his head back and kissed him, gleaming eyes locked onto his, with her hand dragging against his back. Guilty desire swelled, until he was kissing her back again.

A time came when she rolled him to his back and pushed him down, and he watched in the dark as she leaned over his pants and worked getting them open, her eyes fixed upon the task. The green orbs were the only thing clear inside the tent, the only thing with color, and something in his mind itched at it. Was it a gleam, like the reflection of a cat's... or was it a glow?

His mind split with a memory, torn away from the present with this woman in his bed, and he saw his friend and mentor. The high elf, readying himself to demonstrate ranger magic. The man had a playful smirk, standing a full foot taller than young Thomas. With a wink of his blue eye, he asked in the Common tongue, "Would you say you know this forest well, Young Jack? You have the identifiers all mapped out?"

Thomas, staring curiously with his head tilted slightly, gave a reluctant nod. "Aye, sir. Well enough to never lose my place."

The elf laughed and muttered something in Thalassian, the fascinating elf tongue – where words were like lyrics of a song. Turning to the forest beyond Thomas, the ranger commanded a phrase, something rougher than an elf tongue which he recognized as magic, like the sorceresses used, and the clear elven blue eyes took in a sudden bright light, glowing with magical power. Thomas watched the show in awe, hearing the rustle of wind through trees and a vague sense of something happening in the forest. Green light danced upon the elf's upturned hand, vanishing back inside his two fingertips.

With a smile and eyes still glowing, his friend said, "Then look around you, Young Jack, and tell me you know this forest." So Thomas looked, only to find the trees all wrong! The oak was left of the fir, and the twin trunk was now yards away from the flat boulder. His markers, his guidance, were changed and moved; would the root hole of the fallen ancient still be a hundred paces left of the oak? Or the sapling cluster still that way from the fir?

Thomas felt such doubt then in the forest – his forest, which he loved and knew so well. It would be later that he was taught how to overcome the displacement trick, with movement and spotting of other markers, and years still from when he no longer needed markers at all, able to dive into any unknown wood like it was his old home. But what he remembered most starkly was the glow of his friend's eyes after the magical display, where they would stay illuminated with faint light up to hours after, depending on the power of the spell.

The memory ended with the sudden recollection of the present, like waking from a dream, and Thomas saw the woman finally open his pants, where his hardness was waiting eagerly. Taking in a breath, his hand stopped hers from invading inside the opening, and with the other tilted her chin up to look at him. He saw the green eyes again, and on closer study detected it as a glow.

And knowing these blood elves that he was rescuing, he knew the reason for it too. "Bloodgem," he grunted, and the flinch confirmed it. She had doped herself up on the mana gem, hence the green glow from her feeding. "You are here on bloodgem lust." A side-effect of the crystals.

Near the end, Kael'thas had gone mad once he was a part of the Legion. To ensure the continued loyalty of his broken people, he began to reward them with bloodgems, a euphoric red crystal native to the present Netherstorm that they could feed on to sate their mana-lust (only to inspire another). Highly addictive, many blood elves found themselves deep into its snare, leaving them unwilling to leave even if they wanted. Not all of the remaining Sunfury had left with this current exodus, away from the bloodgem rich lands, and Thomas had been sure some of them that had come would have stocked up a supply before following.

The pale haired woman lifted herself from his lap to lay atop him, where their eyes were level. Touching his cheek with her palm, she said, "That is irrelevant to why I am here, Deliverer. Will it spoil my thanks?" In a lower, sultry tone, she continued in smooth Thalassian, "Or shall we continue?" Her other hand came to his stomach and set to dragging downward, daring him to stop her.

Thomas wanted to, having an especial loathing for bloodgems and their effects, but as his mind hesitated in a decision, waiting anxiously for her hand to meet its destination, he found his answer too long in coming. Her hand entered his pants and a moment later encircled his hardness. As it did, her lips met his once again, sealing the decision.

XxX

Everyday they played the Game of Foxes, with Thomas and the elves improving each time as they fixed their mistakes and refamiliarized themselves with their trade. Again the ranger abilities put Thomas at a disadvantage, and again he recalled his techniques for overcoming them, even winning the third match. As their skills sharpened, the game grew longer, the fifth one lasting eight hours.

A certain comradeship formed between them, especially as Thomas finally accepted the treacherous way of teams. Only one could stand as victorious, but two together could get further before competing against each other. When the faux teams broke apart was always dangerous; losing constant track of your partner was the quickest way to a loss. But it also taught him about the individual elves he teamed with – which honored their partnership until the end and which back-stabbed at the first opportunity.

The thirteenth ranger joined them starting at the second game. A woman that reminded Thomas strongly of the one that had visited his tent. Her clear bloodgem addiction was the first hint, but he found himself often comparing her shape against his mind, her features, and despite himself, he was often left staring at her. Genveera, the Swan, was her name, short in stature and pale for a blood elf, with golden hair and persistently illuminated eyes from her addiction.

He came to know the rest of the rangers too. There was Velanee, who was she with silver hair. Saela, the ponytail sporting blond, who mastered the healing ways of the Light. The three close friends were the spiked blond Loraeoth, Sarrine, and lastly Jaden, with black hair and friendly disposition. The mischievous blond Farron, who fought tradition, with the redhead Meyanna, who spoke so ardently for it. The bearded Jerath, most skilled in ranger ways, and black haired Dor'rath with his quick tongue and quick hands, closest among them to a fellow rogue. Flaerie was a quiet and reserved woman, refused any teams despite her many loses, though she was a kind of cute with her short brown hair. Deynora, a curly haired redhead who was also a magister, and finally Jon'ah, a rather selfish seeming man who made his treachery in the game far too obvious.

Velanee, Meyanna, Farron, Jerath, and Genveera had each been part of the Bloodwarders, and the leadership and ability showed in their decisions and actions. They had been among the first to volunteer to work under him in leading the march. The others bowed deference to them too – so Thomas had thought, but he later found that some behaved very independently from the rest, like Deynora the magister and Flaerie.

While Thomas formed a close circle with the rangers and the demand on the blood elves was little, most of the other officers were generally ignored. There were several Arch-Mages, two surviving Blood Knights, many standard Bloodwarders, and a captain that had managed to keep his company alive through the genocide that followed the Alliance and Horde's victories through Netherstorm. They kept him updated of their increasing supply of provisions, the repairs that the tailors were making to the tents, blankets, and clothing, and the generally raised condition of their people.

Craftsmen offered to build carts and wagons to ease the carrying burdens and let the travel-wounded and weary have a place to rest. Thomas had first disagreed to it, wanting to be quick and mobile – especially thinking of how bogged they would be in Zangarmarsh without the use of roads. He was reminded though of how ingrained the arcane was with blood elves, and the craftsmen demonstrated near weightless wagons that needed no driver. The man who offered himself as the senior craftsman promised that he could bridge any Zangarmarsh gap without any delay for them; he had experience there from marching under Kael'thas.

Otherwise, Thomas remained apart from the camp or with the rangers. He noticed without comment the raised, empty banners and the way most elves had scrubbed their uniforms clean and wore them proudly again. His concerns were of the forest and the rangers during the rest, second only to the safety and rejuvenation of the blood elves, not their regard for him.

For the final day, they played variations of the Game of Foxes. Favorited was Little War, where the rangers split into two set teams to compete for an objective. Victory was determined through assassination of the enemy leader (the Shadow or the Swan), acquisition of the enemy's marker, or the complete annihilation of a team under the Game of Foxes rule.

It was a game of ranger warfare, guerrilla by nature, stylized after their usage in combat – similar to a spar between warriors or a theft game for rogues. Immediately Thomas came to love the variation, and he wished that they were in a time of peace and could play on. Played against Genveera, Thomas learned just what kind of highly tactical mind she possessed, as well as the honorable stance she employed in the game. His tent visit and suspicions were not forgotten either.

At early nightfall the final game of Little War ended, in Thomas' favor. He had performed the assassination of the Swan, dropping the rogue shadow-stealth behind her with his dagger at her throat. In that moment of triumph though, he had caught her scent, the very same perfume as the one from the tent. He made no comment of the revelation, but when they all retired for the night, the thought wouldn't leave his mind the whole walk back.

The blood elves within the camp saluted him and bowed their heads, many at least. Thomas paid the reactions no mind, merely finding the wagon they had loaded all the spare food on and taking from it a hearty meal. It had been a long, active day. He found many of the other rangers doing the same, joking as they made their ways to the fires.

One did not follow the rest, instead stepping after him. "Swiftblade," she called, hesitant. He knew the voice to belong to Velanee and turned to find her holding a similar leaf wrapping to his, standing alone now. "I was wondering if we could talk."

They settled for a low branch at the outskirts of the camp, away from the bright fires and loud noise. Although it was an Outland night, with brilliant lights and whole planets lit like moons above them, the spot was still dark with the tree canopy above them blocking the light. Beams of nightlight speared through whatever gaps it could, illuminating various motes and dust in long shafts.

Thomas enjoyed spots like this, out of sight from the crowds he was responsible for. As a ranger, Velanee clearly did not mind – in fact preferred – a seat in a tree, rather than on the flat ground. As they worked at opening their leaf wraps, he considered the silver haired woman. She had been one of the Bloodwarders to immediately volunteer to assist in leading the hundreds of elves that followed him, back then emaciated and dead-eyed as the rest. Only a few days since then, the sickly frame remained on her and most other elves, but they were improving both in shape and vitality.

On the ridge behind Forge Camp: Anger, when he had asked for rangers to serve as the distraction, she had boldly stood and stripped away her plate armor and volunteered there too, before the others like Jerath and Meyanna followed suit. He found her dependable. In the Game of Foxes, she preferred traps and hiding over active seeking, and in Little War under his command, she was second to Dor'rath in stealing the objective but best served in defense.

He had no idea of her opinion on his abilities, other than showing no prejudice to his race, but like Genveera, he saw her as honorable in conduct.

She spoke finally: "There are whispers among the camp of taking you as Ranger-General, at least until we are reunited with our people at Silvermoon City. I'm inclined to agree."

Thomas had suspected it, from the way the blood elves were starting to regard him. The news that he spoke fluent Thalassian had spread like a wildfire too, and with it changed the general opinion of him as if he were one of their own. Even when they had been high elves allied with the humans, none but the closest friends bothered learning the elven tongue.

"You would be wrong to do it," he told her, also in Common. She looked over and began to say something, but his hand stopped her. "Listen first." Just a quick Thalassian phrase, then, "The Ranger-General is the military leader of the you elves. I'm a soldier, I can fight and kill and do so very well, but I haven't studied war. I don't have all the strategies of large combat or a mind that knows how to handle the logistics and needs of an army. I can lead a band of rangers, but not any large force."

The dark skinned woman thought his words over, then returned softly, "You are all we have. All of our leaders were killed in the war. The Bloodwarders, the Arch-Mages, we were senior to the common footmen and officer at most. Even the Blood Knights, the elite among us Bloodwarders, reported to Commander Sarannis."

"Do you need to be an army?" Thomas asked instead. He bounced his apple in his hand. "The world is a harsh and dangerous place, and I know everyone here was a soldier under Kael'thas, but can't you be done with it? You should be more focused on getting back home, to your people and hopefully remaining family, not who will lead you next. I'm only here to guide you out safely, not take command."

Velanee watched him take a bite, silent. After a moment, she said quietly, "Some need a banner above their head, to take responsibility for their actions and lead them through their lives. Once through the portal, if someone doesn't step into the place of leadership, most won't even know how to cross the thousands of miles back home. They have no sense of survival – only life in the army."

"Don't make it public knowledge, but I've got coin. Enough to buy out a few towns of their carrying gryphons and get most of you home without issue, assuming everyone has zero silver from soldier wages. Otherwise, the money can be pooled to get the rest back too."

"Do not forget why we march now rather than fly, Swiftblade. Remember who we are," Velanee reminded.

"For shame," Thomas huffed in Thalassian. "I'd forgotten you were Sunfury. The Horde windriders would be glad to take the gold off your hands though. They are your allies now."

"You make it sound too good to be true, Thomas," she sighed, briefly smiling for him. "You are far too kind, no matter your reason. What is your plan though? Set your name on our histories with your deliverance, then go back to your human cities and forest to live out in peace? Is there a place for us that are not interested in returning to Silvermoon?"

What is she suggesting? Thomas wondered, speechless. He tried keeping it from showing on his face. Is she asking to continue with me? He hadn't imagined such a scenario beforehand, where this journey had any lasting impact on his life. Why?

Looking back at her finally, this silver haired elf who watched him with eyes of clear green, filled with the inhuman beauty that elves were, he opened his mouth – only to be drown out by another voice: "So here is where you've hidden yourselves! Shadow, Velanee."

Both looked up to see Sarrine staring at them. The whip of a blond was a lively girl, near reckless and wild for an elf, though presently she was absent of her friends Loraeoth and Jaden. Grabbing a hanging branch of a nearby tree, she swung herself up in two jumps and reclined on a thick one with her back to the trunk.

Once settled, she looked down with a sheepish smile and added, "Hopefully I'm not interrupting anything. Just thought I'd hang out before tomorrow's march."

"No, it is fine. I was done anyways," Velanee returned, also in Thalassian, and she dropped the couple feet back to the ground, throwing aside her leaves. With hardly another glance, she began to walk away. 'Stalk' away might be a better description, Thomas thought, watching the deliberate step over step rangers used in forests to minimize their presence. It appeared much like a cat's prowl, and he wondered at her reason for it.

"Velanee," he called out despite himself. She stopped in a pool of nightlight, turning back in an illuminated and radiant way. The green of her eyes was visible, but not like the glow from a lingering feed. "I'll keep it in mind."

He didn't say more. The silver haired woman seemed especially beautiful in that lighting as she regarded him silently for a second, then nodded once and continued away. The image of her and the conversation remained in his mind awhile longer, even as he chatted with the flirty Sarrine. The time with the blond served to remind him just how long it had been since he'd had relations with a woman.

They retired in good humor to their separate tents. However, the last thing Thomas needed the night before the march was endless thoughts plaguing him between Genveera, Velanee, and Sarrine. It was hours before he managed to push them out enough to sleep.

XxX

The force of over five hundred blood elves that marched out of the forest of Jagged Ridge was not the same ragtag band of survivors that had marched into it. They moved with purpose, organization – taking and giving orders in a still forming chain of command. Thomas held the lead position, but it was not with a faint hope that they looked to him, but respect and deference. No longer walking shambling along like refuges, they formed ranks and marched around the supply wagons.

White banners waved in the wind, raised high by the once again proud elves. Proud even of the banner that conceded defeat to any combat – because it was what Thomas told them to bear, because it was his banner for them. The rangers that Thomas came to know took the place of an unnamed honor guard, without his permission, and stood separately from the officers that he had for commanding the force. Meyanna, Farron, Genveera, Velanee, and Jerath took the position of both.

At the southern edge of the forest, they stopped to consider the path around the mountain range that separated Blade's Edge from Zangarmarsh. The two options were over or through, but while the later was easiest for their wagons, it was well known that the tunnels were crawling with wolves and giant spiders.

After finding no clear path between the nearby peaks, Thomas decided to clear out the caves while Jerath watched over the troops. Some of the officers and rangers argued that with their numbers and the rangers on guard, not to mention they were a full army, they should save the time and march through immediately, slaying what posed resistance or threat as they went.

Thomas restated his promise that not an elf would die under his command and that he would take no risks. When they tried to press, he curtly silenced them with a reminder to never question his commands, or they could leave now if they had a better way. He left them blushing shamefully, with half the rangers quickly following him into the tunnels with their bows ready and quivers full.

With their quick speed, it took only a few hours to clear the way. Thomas was also using the time to draw out a map for his followers to prevent getting lost within. There was no filtered light or crystals to help them, meaning he would need the mages and priests to conjure up light for them. By how the spiders lurked and ambushed them from the shadows and utter darkness, he was vindicated for his decision, to which Genveera and Velanee were quick to announce to the waiting blood elves after.

The march passed smoothly and quietly under the mountains. Although crammed in tight corridors with consuming darkness, the blood elves remained poised and confident for the two hours in passing. They smelled the marshes of their destination long before their elven eyes caught first sight of outside light. Donvorei, the head craftsman, made his way up to Thomas then. As was discussed, his team left with several guards ahead of the troops to begin an easy pathway over the marshes. Priests made rounds of reminding elves of the dangers of drinking the stagnant marsh water and importance of keeping any wounds and cuts clean, in the disease ridden swamplands.

The sky was blue and the air musky outside the tunnel. Mushrooms larger than any tree they've witnessed scraped against the sky with their long stalks and the ribbed platforms of their massive heads. The warm and humid air made an immediate impression too, as did the swarms of buzzing pests focused in clouds around the water. Thomas left the tunnel to the sight of white, mushroom-stripped bridges with unseen support awaiting their first crossing over the rippling waters.

So they went, cutting east first to remain against the mountain edge. Thomas found the Dead Mire of eastern Zangarmarsh too much of an unknown risk to want to travel through it, but the southern draenei city of Telredor would surely stand hostile against the former Sunfury, maybe even send an aggressive force out despite the white banner. He planned a route angling between them, passing word to Donvorei and the rangers to keep an eye out for it.

By the time they reached the point he wanted to set south at, the Outland night had fallen in its subtle way, and he called for them to break camp for it. There was no more games, foxes, or celebration among them now, and after explaining his current plan to the officers and hearing their added input to it – those already experienced in this march – left them to be alone before retiring for the night. Sarrine came again, but he turned her away softly, wanting to think.

Next morning they headed south, close enough to smell the Dead Mire's sickly rot without seeing it. It was a long island that they traveled down, winding around the many mushroom stalks of all sizes and scaring off bog beasts and giant insects. At the bottom of the island, Thomas checked his map to see their close proximity to Telredor. The mushroom city was only a few miles away, which could have been any of the giant caps they could see in that direction.

East again they went, circling around the bottom of the Dead Mire. It took a three hundred yard bridge, made in less than an hour by Donvorei's men, to reach the next land mass, but they were traveling again. It was nearly nightfall again when they reached the next turning point – to head south once again – but Thomas did not want to stop them so close to the Dead Mire. Donvorei and the rest were exhausted but their resolve remained as they continued to march south, building as they needed to.

It was a smaller island that they stopped at, but it managed to house all of them well enough. Their tents peppered the blue-green mossy ground under the two medium sized mushrooms. Although tired of the marshlands and its smells, the elves would often look up with fascination. The cap was lit was orange and green light, giving off an illumination that was almost fae – yet elves neither blood, high, or night ever knew lands like this.

Only a few miles south still was the road between Telredor and the Cenarion Refuge. The latter was Thomas' destination, hoping to rely on the druid's neutral hospitality enough to trade for goods and supplies. The blood elves had an abundance of food, medical supplies, and living items like tents and blankets, but altogether had practically nothing else. Thomas was hoping that if he could secure their cooperation – or at least tolerance – then they could be safe from Telredor's draenei.

At the early hour they were marching again. Thomas could recognize fully the soldier in them now, breaking down the camp in only a few minutes and forming up without any reluctance, no matter when the call came. They crossed the final rippling bend of water over a stiff bridge, then Thomas sent Genveera ahead to make contact with the druids at the Cenarion Refuge, to announce them and beg for hospitality for their force.

The marching hastened once they were on a real, solid road, and only a few hours later the night elven lights could be seen in the distance, and Thomas had the blood elves wait under Jerath's lead while he went forward to talk to the druids. Sure enough, there were concerns and terms to be made – no more than a dozen Sunfury allowed inside their refuge at any time, among others – but they promised fair treatment and hospitality. If that didn't encourage the elves of a future redeemed of the mistakes under Kael'thas, nothing would.

They broke a new camp to the north east, at the foot of the mountain range that formed the divider between Zangarmarsh and Hellfire Peninsula. The officers made rounds through the camp asking what necessities people needed and argued away vanities, then they entered the city to see what they could get. Hygiene matters, pots, and pans were the biggest on the list.

It was a short rest for them, and once again Sarrine came, to the grudging smile of Thomas. "You aren't trying to run from me now, are you?"

Thomas let go of the lumpy mushroom stalk and turned, a smirk turning up his lip on one side. "Come with me." He looked back to the white stalk, got a good handhold, then began pulling himself up. The 'bark' was spongy and gave in if he were to push hard enough with his fingers or boots, allowing him to climb. He had the idea of seeing what was atop one of them before they left the marshlands.

Sarrine huffed a laugh from the ground, and only a second later he heard her cry as she lunged up high for her first grasp, beginning to follow. The mushroom was a few hundred yards tall, but their hands and feet were steady as they climbed and climbed. The blond was nimble and overtook him midway up, shooting him a gloating glance. Not to be outdone, Thomas made it into a race.

They stopped at the top, where the stalk blossomed out like an umbrella. It was thick ribs that lined the whole underside, but there was no beam or branchlike structure to cross to the outside. As Thomas began to consider it, Sarrine let go of the stalk with her hands – beginning to fall back – only to catch one rib between them and burying her fingers into the flaky material. Like a monkey on the underside of a tree branch, she grabbed it with her feet too and began climbing outward. Thomas watched for a moment, impressed, then began to follow in the same manner.

It was a far climb but not difficult for them, and soon they reached the lip that the ribs ended at. This time, it was Thomas who demonstrated: holding the rib between his feet, he hung upside down and drew out his daggers, then swinging himself forward, gouged them into the spongy flesh like an ice climber, beginning to hand over hand. Sarrine let go of the rib to do the same, yet as she swung forward to gouge the lip, her feet slipped from the rib.

She only managed a short, shrieking gasp before Thomas caught her hand. Hanging with only one hand on a dagger, he watched her looking up with wide green eyes as one of her daggers plummeted down below them. It would be falling for some time. Taking a breath, he heaved her up where she could grasp his other dagger, and then she buried her one remaining one higher. She produced a thin stiletto from her her sleeve to make up for the lost dagger, and then they were climbing over the lip together.

"You sure as hell better have an easier way down," she demanded once they were on top, lying down to recover her breath.

Pushing himself to his feet, Thomas turned to look around them. He came up to her a second later with a smile and held out his hand for her. "Look."

Sarrine took it and let him lift her to her feet, then standing with him, she finally looked around them, only to gasp. Neither noticed their hands remained clasped. "By the sun! It's... beautiful."

Mushroom caps of all colors rolled out before them like round hills. Most of them glowed orange or other starkly contrasting light. Down below, they could see leagues of sky blue water bends and dark land masses, both speckled with strange lights from what might grow there. From their vantage point, the scope of what they saw was awing, and it gave them the feel of tiny ants in such a large world, enhanced by the Twisting Nether and whole planets suspended above them.

They remained silent at the view for a long while, until Sarrine tightened her grip on his hand and gestured them forward with a mischievous smile. "Shall we dangle our feet from the edge, so you can have a second crack at saving a fair maiden's life? You might even get a certain reward for it."

Thomas noticed then the continued presence of her warm, smallish hand in his, but he lightly pulled her the other way. "You're much too clumsy for me. This way, where the tip pierces the sky. We can lay out in a safer manner."

She didn't argue, only smiled and followed along with him. That smile almost made him pause though, and it etched into his mind for a burning few seconds. Sarrine was the typical elven beauty, with short blond hair done well despite the conditions of their march. Two garnet earrings studded her lobes, and her pale skin sported a natural light blush on her cheeks. Her ranger armor too was browns and greens and form-fitting, though the cut was just low enough to show a suggestive valley at the neckline.

Shaking her visage from his mind, they made it to the very top of the mushroom cap and laid down together. They watched the churning sky, so alien and bizarre to them from Azeroth yet so beautiful. The croaking and buzzing from the marshes was absent at that height, with even the breeze nearly stagnant. It was peaceful up there.

After several minutes of the pensive silence, Sarrine surprised him by turning over onto his side, beginning to stare at him instead. Thomas met her gaze, wondering at her actions; he needed to ask her. "Sarrine?"

"Hmm?" she returned, beginning to pick at a fringe on his armor. She remained smiling at him.

"Aren't you with Loraeoth?"

Sarrine chuckled, ending with an even broader smile. "We're just friends, no matter how much he begs otherwise. It's been that way since we were children." Her hand came to a rest on his chest, and she said slyly, "Should I ask why the interest in my availability?"

Thomas smiled and looked away from her eyes. "I'm up at what might be the most stunning spot in all of Outland with an equally beautiful woman. A man ought to just be grateful for what he already got." He looked back at her.

Her wide smile hadn't changed, and she told him, "You know, you could just kiss me. Nothing is stopping you."

"Ah, sorry, my Thalassian is still a little rusty. What is that word 'kiss?'" He threw an uneasy accent on the word, as if he'd never heard it before.

Sarrine slapped his shoulder with her palm, cheeks turning red. "Ass. You're going to make me do it, aren't- mmph!" She fell into the kiss immediately.

When they separated, it was to another bright smile from her, and her radiant eyes twinkled with a new light. Thomas touched her soft cheek, also smiling until he admitted, "I don't think we should."

"Oh?" she asked, blinking owlishly. "And why is that? Too pretty for me, are you?"

He ignored her jest. "Because our travels together have an end, and you won't be accepted into Stormwind nor myself into Silvermoon. Because I don't know what the future holds, other than me guiding you and your people off of Outland."

"Is there another woman?"

Thomas thought of the white haired woman that had visited him in his tent, and the golden haired Genveera she reminded him of. He thought of Velanee. "There's not."

Sarrine laid herself on her back, to look towards the alien sky. "To be frank, then, Deliverer, I am very grateful for what you've done for us. A month ago, my life was nothing more than cowering with Loraeoth and Jaden, hiding from nether anomalies, from preying demons, from the despicable men that thought us women too weak to defend ourselves." There was a hard flash over her eyes, but then she sighed. "Nearly every day I would walk to the edge of that blighted landmass, and I'd consider stepping off, to be done with that life and try my chances in wherever it spat me out in the Nether. You saved me from that. You gave me new hope and new life.

"I would do... anything for you, Thomas. And I mean that from the heart. Discovering you are one of us, a ranger – and a damned skilled one – was amazing, and you even make great company. So if you just want a little distraction while you take us out of here, then I'm okay with that. If you were looking for a longer courtship, then I would be glad to follow you after the march, and I'd have no issues with disguising my eyes in Alliance towns. If this was just meant to be fun and you don't have an interest in me, then I'm okay with that too. Perhaps, maybe, though just don't suggest otherwise if it's so."

When she finished, she was looking to him again, green eyes clear and beautiful. Thomas had a vague suspicion that Sarrine was young, not just be elven standards but by human too. He doubted she was even a century old, for all the wars and strife she had experienced.

"You aren't the first to mention continuing on with me, after the delivery home," he told her. "I hadn't been prepared for such a request. Now though, I don't think I'd mind keeping in contact with a few of you following the march. If you would prefer accompanying me, rather than rejoining your people and home, then... well, I don't think I'm ready for a courtship, let alone near settling down, but I think a more... exciting romance could be had out in the adventuring world."

Sarrine's attention peaked, and she leaned over again with interested eyes. "Oh?"

"Oh," he replied, matching her small grin, and his finger traced a line from her chin under her jaw, to below her ear. His head began to lean closer, prompting her to do the same. Just as their lips met again, chastely, his fingers finished their path through the soft locks of her hair to find the spongy length of ear.

It was an idle, curious action of Thomas' part, to stroke along the ear, but there was a very obvious tremor from Sarrine before both of her hands shoved him back, with a brilliant scarlet flooding her face.

"Okay!" she declared, to no question. "Okay, none of that unless clothes are coming off, mister!" Her ear actually twitched, demonstrating motor action there, and one of her hands quickly covered it to rub at something. She shook her head after.

"Ticklish?" he asked.

"Yeah, let's call it that," she said quickly. "It's like a tickle."

With a soft laugh, Thomas leaned in again, careful where he placed his hand at the side of her head, and they kissed again.

XxX

"So you are the one they call Deliverer of the Exilee."

Thomas was slow in responding, breathing out carefully. He wasn't exactly nervous, but this was his first meeting of leaders. The last time he had stood before her, he had been but a soldier for hire. He kept his goals in mind, to keep the Cenarion Expedition an ally and establish himself in a respected manner for the sake of the blood elves he was guiding.

"To be honest, I wasn't aware they had decided on a name for themselves. I suppose it is apt though: the Exilee. My name is Thomas, and indeed I am the one that is taking the elves safely out of Outland to rejoin their people," he returned, also in Common. The night elf tongue he knew to be quite similar to Thalassian, but the conversation would not pass smoothly, so they settled for what they both spoke fluently.

Ysiel Windsinger nodded sagely. Though she might appear young, he knew all elves to be infinitely older and wiser. As the leader of the refuge here, she had to have a quite a history and experience. He didn't remember being nervous before her last time, when she spoke of the war and his place in it, but now tension had its place here and he had to consider her entire personality when regarding her.

She returned, "I am surprised to hear it is a Common name they have taken upon themselves. I have seen that you are the only human among them, these former Sunfury blood elves." There was a brief, hard edge to her voice in saying the name, for good reason. "I remember you though, Thomas, and I have not forgotten the aid you have given my people and this town."

Her voice trailed off there, and she stared at him with heavy regard. Thomas took a breath and said, "I am sorry to come back to you like this, Mistress Windsinger, at the front of the enemies your expedition was started to defeat. But I ask you to keep in mind that you have had your victory already, and the Sunfury are no more. Years may have passed since you last knew me, but I have not changed much from the hired blade that was so quick to throw himself into the fray for the rightful cause. You can trust me as the leader of these Exilee, as they make the final pilgrimage back from their exile."

Ysiel laughed softly, not with insult. "You may relax, Thomas. If I harbored any ill will towards you or your people, there would have been no terms to allow you inside my town, and indeed no quarter if you pressed your proximity. However, it is not your intentions or the loyalty of your people that I shed doubt or fear on; it is the end of your march, when you have rejoined our beloved world of Azeroth." She added, "Also, my name is Ysiel and you have permission to address me as such."

"I would enjoy your wisdom on the matter, Ysiel."

"I am sure you have noticed that your exile carry themselves as an army, despite the white flags they wave above them. There is a danger in that mindset, even with their clear devotion to you. For example, even now, the one with silver hair has her bow trained upon my breast as we talk here."

Thomas sighed and briefly touched his forehead with his palm. "I was aware of her watching, but I had ordered the rangers' disarmament before accompanying me here. Please forgive the hostility; I will administer fitting punishment to her for it."

"I am not angered by the threat. My sentinels have her surrounded with their own bows for if she takes action, and my life is not in danger from that hastily sung bow. But this is an example of my warning. It is not with disrespect to you that she has taken this action, but with devotion that she intends to protect your life even against your word. They are soldiers – even more dangerous: they are soldiers that have lost. They will not allow themselves the same mistake of losing their leader."

There was no doubt why this woman was the leader of the expedition, Thomas noted. His spine tingled with the same feeling it had when he was younger and would realize the sometimes millennia old wisdom and experience that a seemingly young elf could carry. Like a human talking to a vastly ancient tree, was his old analogy.

She continued: "I understand you mean only to guide the blood elves home, like travelers through a forest, but while you understand the responsibility you have for them, you must be aware that there will be no easy parting once you are through the portal. It is not to Silvermoon City that they hold allegiance to but to the one they call Swiftblade, the Deliverer. Prepare yourself for the mantle of command.

"When you step through the portal, they will be ready to take up a new banner for you, and they will march where you tell them to. You will hold a small but potent army, seen as rogue by the large hands of the Horde and the Alliance, with allies and comrades that will be few and very far between. You move and act like a sentinel, so I believe you can take them quite far, and under you, I believe you can do much good with them, but my friend Thomas, I do not envy the future you will hold in your hands."

Thomas found himself staring out the balcony instead of her intense eyes, and he was glad when she finished. His back was tight with tension and jaw clenched, and after several attempts of clearing his throat, he said to her, "You share much words on what should only be a slim possibility. I only want to see them home after so many years of mistakes and hardship. But there is the implication of new drums of war in your words. Has something happened that I am unaware of? A Fourth War?"

"It was the desperate word of a fleeing refuge. We have no method to validate his mad words, but there is no doubt of honest fear in him. Just be cautious when you reach Azeroth and listen to the wind before you try to let them go."

XxX

They camped outside Cenarion Refuge for three days. Under the consideration of Ysiel's words, Thomas picked up several books on military command and other historical books; he had no intention of taking up that mantle, but the possibility prompted him to action. It was in the middle of A Thousand Leagues From Home and comparing that to his present march when he heard someone approaching his tent with unusual subtlety and soft steps.

As it was the final night before they marched again at early light, it wasn't uncommon for the rangers or officers to come with questions and concerns, though the last had come nearly an hour ago, and it was nearing Witching Hour. The one approaching had the sound of a ranger or rogue – he had a few blood elf assassins under him. So sitting with the book in one hand and his dagger across his lap, he watched the tent flap for the person to enter.

Casual cloth wear was fitted nicely to her frame, seen from under the heavy grey cloak she carried around her and hooded her face with. No weapons, not even hidden ones, were carried by her, and she made the fact obvious with how she carried herself. When the flap shut behind her, one pale hand lifted and slashed to the side, dimming his one candle to a miniscule warm glow that didn't reach her at the entrance.

She accompanied the gestured with sweet Thalassian words: "I hope I am not intruding, Deliverer." His skin prickled with goosebumps at the voice, both with memory and the mere suggestive sound of them. In the darkness, she removed her hood to reveal white hair and gleaming green eyes. The woman that had visited him before.

His eyes narrowed at the return of her visage. Not long ago, Genveera the Swan had been in this tent with the rest of the officers, the one he had thought to also be this woman. They were of near equal height, yet her pale skin glowed like pearl, and her hair revealed itself as several shades lighter, more than even Velanee's silver – like moonlight spun around her head. The face wasn't exactly as he remembered Genveera's either – or anyone he'd seen in the camp – though he knew that stance of a ranger.

At his silence, she stepped forward while her hands undid the first few ties of her plain tunic. At the sight of her cleavage, he recalled the shape of her breasts in his hand, her sighs and shivers to his touches. Her husky voice didn't match Genveera's, but he had thought it merely a change of tone for the occasion. For too long he debated the inconsistencies, and she sauntered close enough to gently take the book from his hand. He watched her green eyes flick to the title, showing no sign of her thoughts, then marked the page and closed it.

She saw his hand on the dagger and paused, looking back to his eyes. Thomas felt frozen still, until the look prompted him to action. Why did he have a weapon drawn before her? A sly motion twisted the blade from his lap to its sheath, and it followed the book onto his makeshift table. Immediately, the unknown ranger straddled his lap, taking his head between her hands and curling her fingers through his hair.

Shaking himself free of the daze, Thomas opened his perception to her, not just his eyes. Shortened, quickened breaths, dilated pupils and plump lips. His hand touched her cheek and she careened against it, back arching slightly. He touched her thigh and she tensed, exhaling a morsel harder. He knew it from the eyes, but her body showed all the signs regardless.

"You come only under Bloodgem lust." It was an accusation, and he stilled his hands.

She did not flinch, but her fingers dug against him almost possessively. With all the song of seduction, she said, "I ask again, does it spoil the night for you?"

"I thought it was supposed to be in thanks," he reminded, a bit sharper than intended. Genveera's sweet perfume filled his nose, and he blinked suddenly at this woman's shape. His hands touched her hips and dragged up, feeling the muscles as she squirmed at it, until his hands came to the firmness of her ribcage. "And it does, Swan."

There! A lapse in concentration, just a brief shock, and he felt the tingle under his fingers of faltering magic. He squeezed with the tips, dragging back down, while her lusty voice stumbled with a nervous squeak: "I am Snow."

"Do you think I am a fool?" he demanded, coming up with his hands again and dragging his thumbs along the underside of her bosom. "That because I lack magic, I cannot recognize a glamor?"

She pushed her chest against his hands, while her eyes bore down at his. She grabbed his shoulders and squeezed while saying, "You are not a fool, Deliverer."

His hands stopped around her waist, and he lifted her slender body from his as he stood and set her on her feet. He said in Common, "Go, and do not return again under the influence of Bloodgems, Genveera." Her bright green eyes betrayed no expression as she stepped backwards, watching him, until she was at the entrance and stepped through.

XxX

"Ready yourselves!" rang a clear elven voice over the sounds of battle. The sharp twangs of bows were ceaseless, just as the snarls and roars of the charging orcs were. The short line of Bloodwarder defenders stood tensed and solid, and they banged their swords to their shields in a mantra as they waited for the orcs to make it to them.

They were composed of just two lines, the rangers and defenders, against hundreds of raging fel orcs. The red skinned warriors had come to the loud blares of throaty warhorns, the reason no more than simple blood thirst, Thomas felt. The rest of the blood elves remained a few hundred yards east of their position. He hoped to keep them entirely free of the fighting (most still too frail and weak for honest battle, and many would die even if their victory was obvious), but they would if their lines broke.

"For the Sunwell!" another cried out, and another, "For the Shadow!"

Despite the efficiency and deadly stopping power of true ranger arcane-infused arrows, it was clear that the enraged beasts were advancing unhaltingly. Thomas fired his bow with them, still an accurate shot with enchanted arrows, until the orcs were too close. He threw it over his shoulder with a shout and jumped between the lines, yanking out his blades. He might still be lacking as a military leader, but he knew battles and he knew fighting.

He felt two blessings settled over him between steps, a priest's Power Word from Saela and a paladin's (in this case Blood Knight) seal, and he gladly ripped open the first orc without stopping his run. Loud, desperate cries and orders raised from his elves – "Protect the Shadow!" – but he shouted them back, to hold the lines.

Three more orcs fell to his daggers, with many others dropping from arrows, before Thomas shadow-stepped to the one still leading the charge and hooking his dagger into the thick, red skinned back and yanking him back in a spray of demonic blood. With a twirl, the next two found the daggers already in their hearts.

They had the high ground, slowing the charge of the orcs up the rocky hills, and the building numbers of corpses on the dirty ground contributed to breaking the orc's momentum. Before long, the brutes realized the disadvantage and turned their eyes away from the solid line of elves on the short bluff to the human already in their grasps.

The orcs swarmed around Thomas and died for it, but so did the warrior people leave their mark in his armor and skin. Thomas used every energy bursting and shadow trick he had at his disposal to escape the worst of their attacks and still drop them like flies, but as he fought, often stepping through the shadows to escape being surrounded, he noticed that the elves had advanced forward to directly engage in the fighting.

The rangers also disposed of their bows and dove in with wild strikes, jumping nimbly over the obstacles into the writhing pile of red muscle. Desperately, Thomas jumped to their position and held himself at the front, absorbing as much of the attention and aggression that he could. He barked orders to the Blood Knights to switch to only healing and was glad to see Saela hanging back for the same already.

The scramble was short but agonizing. Already they had won out from their previous position, hence the advance, but still the orcs was savagely strong and their axes always sharp. No matter how old, skilled, and agile elves were, they were susceptible to deadly mistakes and bad positions, so Thomas made sure to not let any orc fully swing a weapon if he could help it.

In hardly a minute, they were fighting on top of dead orc corpses, while the living ones stumbled at the awkward footing. Rangers had no such problem, keeping balance easy as if it were a flat road, and the surviving fel orcs growled orders for their retreat. They harried the escape with bow shot, but Thomas swept through for a damage assessment.

Some were bloodied with their own blood, but the worst of the injuries was Jaden's severed left hand. He and Saela were kneeled together, pressing the dirty limb to the gushing stump, and both muttering softly as small strands of holy magic encircled them. After, Thomas was glad to see the hand rightfully reattached, though Saela confirmed it would be too numb for use for another week or two.

Styling his words a bit after a speech he read in a book, he celebrated their victory and sent them back up to the camp to rest up. The blood elves stood strong and proud as they made their way back up, without a single loss. The rangers did not depart with the rest though, crouching around Thomas with their bows readied. Even Jaden sat on a boulder with a dagger in his right hand, eyes peering around him with a hard glint.

"We are almost there," he told them. "Two, maybe three days, and we will be back through the portal, back home. Your exile will finally be over." All eyes glanced over to him, some with hope, others with unspoken questions. He said nothing more of it, standing himself and waving them forward. "Let's get back to camp."

XxX

Leagues upon leagues of red land stretched beyond, split and sundered and charred but unmistakably part of Hellfire Peninsula. The vale before him was split with the unmistakable road that connected Hellfire Citadel to the Dark Portal, like a yellow scar that cleaved the land in half. The Portal itself wasn't visible, hidden somewhere behind the storming clouds and lances of lightning seen at the end of the scar.

Crawling forward though were dark blotches – some in lines, others just individual ants. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, of the dark shapes. Most remained on the road, remained together, but drifters departed off to nowhere. This wasn't an invasion or an organized movement. It was clear that these newcomers had no idea yet where they were going, only that they needed to come to Outland.

"I thought we were supposed to be the exiles," Sarrine mentioned to Thomas, squatting beside him on his narrow vantage point. Her fingers plucked her bowstring like a harp; he had long since noticed she did it as a nervous habit. "Do you want someone to meet them for answers?"

Thomas felt there wasn't a need. He knew, somewhere in his gut, with the whispering words of Ysiel in his mind, what was happening. Still, he kept his confidence and told her, "I will do it myself. We should have nothing to fear though. We will move on and let ourselves be seen."

"Valiant march of the White Army?" she asked, using the common name for their force. It was coined from the submissive banners they still carried proudly.

Thomas found himself slowly shaking his head. The feeling remained nestled in his belly. "Tell them to raise green banners now. Have the blacksmiths heat their portable forges and the leatherworkers preparing hides and needles. Blades sharp and hilts clear. Tell them... No. Just tell them, Sarrine."

"The Green Army of the Exilee? Are we marching into a war?" There was husky excitement in her voice.

"I am taking you all home, no matter what lies on the other side of that portal."

"Nothing can stand in the way of the Deliverer," she agreed, eyes flashing as they glanced at him. She stood and offered him a hand. "Come, let us meet these exiles and see what information they have to offer."

They made their way to the camp. Thomas passed orders to Commander Raeloth to begin the march again, directly to the portal. The former captain found the rank thrust upon him in a sudden rush of actions, as their white banners where hauled away and stripped in favor of green. The man had experience leading men, with a miraculous string of specific victories under him. He accepted the position humbly, and those that knew him accepted it gladly.

The rangers were then sent to scout ahead of the main body now, under lead of the bearded Jerath, but they insisted he took some with him for protection. He wasn't surprised to see Sarrine, Genveera, and Velanee step forward for the task. Recently, tension had built between the Shadow and the bloodgem addicted Swan, but professionally, nothing had changed between them, and she was his most capable ranger.

So while their forces sluggishly began making their way down from the hills into the flatlands below, the four of them rushed ahead at a fast pace. Eyes were kept sharp as a hawk's. It was obvious too when the refugees noticed the approaching army by the way many turned direction and hurried away, while others pointed and squinted for the banners – was it the red-black of the Horde or the blue-gold of the Alliance?

Most of the exile was composed of humans, they discovered. A good ninety out of every hundred, with some mix of the stout dwarves or child-sized gnomes. Very rarely there was the slow grace of a hooded elf, body thin like a reed yet still the least fatigued of all the races seen. One mass of two-count twenty, waving solid blue cloth that could have once been a shirt, began to move towards the approaching army. The men wore swords at their waists, yet only one managed a breastplate for armor, the rest jerkins or even simple cloth vests.

Despite the caution of his protectors, Thomas approached the ragtag soldiers, hailing them with a raised hand. The leading man, in only a fine tunic but mounted on a horse, hailed him back and let them approach. When they were close, they slowed to a walk, and the leader also walked forward. By then, it was obvious that those with him were blood elves, not the allied high elves, and they noticed several free their bows and casually hold them at their waists.

"Human, did your commander send you to speak for that army?" the man asked in Common once close enough. His horse wheeled nervously at the tight grip he had over the reigns.

"I speak for them, yes," Thomas told him softly, getting a better look at the haggard soldiers behind. "A strange place for you to come, lord. We march to rejoin our beloved world of Azeroth, yet we find Azeroth rushing to meet us here. What is the meaning behind this?"

"Before we get to the pleasantries, I want to know the intention of your army. What is the name of your commander? To whom is your allegiance?" The lord's suspicion was understandable. Thomas could tell by the way he carried himself he had once been a knight and had tasted battle, but what struck him most was the presence of a lord down here, away from his estates when he was clearly retired.

A second meeting of leaders, and this time Thomas found himself announcing himself. There would be no more hiding. "What you see is the Exilee, the remnants of the blood elves Kael'thas took with him to Outland now seeking a return home. Our march is peaceful, but should any try to bar our way, they will be blanketed with arrows before the first life is threatened. I stand at the front of them. My name is Thomas, also called the Swiftblade, and it is to me that you can address your concerns, lord."

The lord released a heavy exhale through his nose, staring down his brown mustache at the four of them. His steed had stopped its dancing, and with his free hand he stroked his short beard. Finally, he said, "I have seen front men before, Swiftblade, and I wouldn't put it past the elves to manage such mischief – an escort of three for a commander? Hah! You will not be of any help to us."

"Three handpicked elven rangers, whom have certainly toured in more wars these last few years than you have in your lifetime, and I assure you, lord, that should you and your men wish hostilities upon me, they will not be needed in your execution. Now, I have told you my name. It is only polite that you return the favor."

The lord's nostrils flared at the threat. He growled, "You speak like a long ear, boy. I don't know what your game is, but you do not need my name. Here are the answers you seek:

"Whatever you hope to find on Azeroth, whatever home you're trying to return to, you won't find it. It will be burned and razed to the ground with a dozen corpses twisted and rotting atop it. They don't even have the decency to bury the dead afterward, and they will ambush you if you try to do it yourself. Stormwind is in anarchy, the leadership gutted, and the elves, blood or high doesn't matter, didn't have the stability in the first place to survive the axe drop. Silvermoon City had the worst of it, I heard. Take heed and turn around now, join me in finding the resistance to strike back... or march on like a fool, into their maws. It matters not, only the shame of a few hundred less blades where it counts."

"Have both the Alliance and Horde been attacked, or do they strike each other?" Thomas asked.

"No one knows yet. The only word I have is that the "Singing Blade" is behind the attack on Stormwind. Now, will you join us, or do you march to die?" Thomas could only shake his head, knowing he must keep on.

The lord's horse wheeled again, while his eyes remained on them, and then he turned back to his men. "Yah! Onward, men! The long ears will buy us more time for the defense." The soldiers began to move again, back towards the road, while the lord moved to the front again without looking back.

Around Thomas, the rangers looked to him, indifferent to the confrontation. Genveera prompted him by asking, "Deliverer?"

Sarrine noticed the way he was still locked in thought and added, "Did any of that make sense to you? Do you know what's going on through that portal?"

"I don't know much more than you," Thomas told them truthfully, and he glanced at the band making away from them. Hardly a suitable army, more like a militia of townsfolk – those from the lord's estate grounds? "But this is not my first warning. Something has happened on Azeroth, perhaps a Fourth War, but it doesn't sound like the Horde or Alliance are responsible."

"He hinted that Silvermoon has been razed," Velanee reminded, not that any had missed it. "To where will you lead us? Or does our journey together end on the other side of that portal?"

"I'm not sure," Thomas said, spreading his hands.

Sarrine turned worried, bursting out: "But if there is some invasion-"

"I don't know!" Thomas interrupted sternly, in Common. His hands dropped. "Leave the subject alone for now, but pass word through the army of danger on Azeroth. If anyone doesn't want to go through the Dark Portal, they are free to stay with the refugees here, but I am leading the rest through, as I promised. Once we are on the other side, we'll get our bearings and find out what happened, then plan from there. This doesn't have to be your war."

They looked at him, or perhaps to him, until Velanee glanced at the storm cloud around the Dark Portal. Her words were soft: "If it weren't for you, Thomas, we would still be in the crumbling Netherstorm, just waiting to die. We owe you our lives. This army, we have chosen to give you our allegiance too, and we will follow wherever you command. Perhaps, once we are through that portal, this Green Army can make a difference in whatever is threatening our world. I just ask if you will keep that in mind."

Her words echoed Ysiel's. Jaw clenched, Thomas gave her a short nod and began the run back to the army. As they moved, his eyes strayed to the lord's forces, now a good mile away. That was a man who knew how to lead men, better than Thomas could. He knew what actions to take against this threat.

But he won't hold himself responsible for these elves' lives, Thomas told himself. As a hired blade, he had met many commanders and seen their regard for their men. Thomas' promise was safety, even if that would have to change soon. No, for too long he had held the disclaimer of a soldier under orders. He had taken the responsibility for the Sunfury elves and would hold on to it, for better or for worse.

XxX

"We'll go through first," Genveera offered with a gesture to the rangers. Around them was the violent storm, kicking up dust with snapping winds with such great force that none could ease their nerves. The Dark Portal spiraled with green light at the very front, scraping the sky with its size and silently menacing. With a thick, long body, their forces waited before the gateway, weathering the storm as they waited anxiously for Thomas' command.

They were mere steps from returning home.

Thomas and the rangers were at the head, with him regarding the portal cautiously. To Genveera's shouted suggestion, he shook his head, returning loudly over the winds, "No! I will go and clear a path, if there is need. Count out a minute, then follow me through." No refugees had come through in some time, several hours at least, leading to worry and suspicion as to what might be blocking the way on the other side.

His unnamed honor guard disagreed with the plan, but they knew his reasons. He had promised not a life would be lost if they listened to him, using his own body as a shield from all the dangers. He would keep his word until they were all through the portal. He was the best of them in combat anyways, able to beat them all and more without taking harm, even if Jerath was better skilled in purely ranger ability.

He met Sarrine's eyes first, seeing the passionate fire inside as she returned his look, along with the lines of worry at the edges, before he returned his attention to the portal. He took in one last dusty, stormy breath, then drew his daggers and ran towards the Dark Portal. He himself was finally going home too. Light, with a whole army behind him.

Tension crept up his spine and back in the final few steps, and on instinct, he gathered the shadows up around him, stepping out of the light and into Stealth. Then he plunged through the green portal.