Ee! Pirates 3! Shrek 3! Spiderman 3! And none of them belong to me!

But Starcraft II is in development! Starcraft II! Starcraft II... I am happy... Why aren't you? Starcraft II, Starcraft II, I am happy, aren't you, too?

In other news, it appears that both Kael and Illidan actually die in The Burning Crusade. Kael's killed by random idiots with swords, and Illidan's killed by Maiev.

I might just kill someone to release frustration! Poor Kael! He was just a good character! In fact, this is one of his famous quotes, a mantra by which one of my favorite RP characters lives: "In times like these all one can do is eat and enjoy pie. Pie is our Salvation men!" Poor Illidan! To survive Arthas only to be killed by Maiev! It's so wrong!

GAHHH!

I was surprized no one commented on the oil pastel of Jaina and Thrall kissing. Mustn't have been that good. Oh well; I dedicate this chapter to Fluttercannon, who got me off my rear, and Arallion, who kept me off of it.

To Kill Or Not To Kill! That Is the Queston!

Silithus
Ras Frostwhisper

Two and a half years since we first arrived, and here we are, still in the Silithus Desert. Two years. Six months. Four days. I have counted the days. The hours are a bit harder to gauge, so I won't guess at those. Two years, six months, and four days we have been here, and still Nathanos conspires to ensure we stay longer. He does it subconsciously, I think, without ever stopping to consider the true implications of his actions. Almost two years ago, to the day, we wandered into a Horde warcamp just outside of Ahn'Qiraj. There, we found Horde and Alliance fighting side by side against the insectoid monstrosities located therein. The battles were long, fierce, and bloody. The going was slow.

The combined forces of the Horde and Alliance used small specialized bands of adventurers to make their gains against the Silithids and their foul masters. That's where we got ensnared. By many things.

The first quandary we faced was that the Horde and Alliance forces truly needed us. We could assist them in countless endeavors, from the most mundane to the most profound. For example, very few of Azeroth's inhabitants can speak both common and orcish. Between the three of our little group, we can speak almost every language of this world. This makes us exceptionally valuable for coordinating multiracial forces. Not surprisingly, we were also very valuable for our combat abilities.

The second conundrum was that we really had no means of transportation back to the Undercity. It would take months of travel just to reach Ratchet, and even longer to sail past the Maelstrom to reach Booty Bay. After that, we would have to travel the whole length and breadth of Azeroth to finally return to the Plaguelands. It would, of course, be possible to take a Zeppelin from Orgrimmar directly to the Undercity, but Zeppelins weren't the most reliable form of ocean-crossing transportation. We had no currency of any kind, and no means to navigate Silithus.

The third and final ensnarement was Nathanos himself. Six months out in the desert was not good for his convictions. When we left Scholomance, he was prepared to rip apart the whole world in search of Ketala Truae. Now he seems almost… What is the word? I cannot adequately describe his demeanor, for it is one of utmost peculiarity. The closest I can come to naming the state that plagues him is "despairing" or "apathetic."

When we first began helping the warriors against Ahn'Qiraj, it was for the funds necessary for a wyvern flight to Orgrimmar. Then it became a reluctance to leave. I think he does not want to face what he will find in the Plaguelands. I think his intent is to remain here and drown out all memories of her. It is how he copes with things. When things pain him, he pushes them away until they mean nothing to him.

In his mind, he had already failed. After six months, there was nothing left to do. It was too late to do anything meaningful. Too late to help Ketala. Too late to do anything relevant to save her. If she had not escaped her predicament on her own by then, then it was too late to do anything. Perhaps he was afraid of her reaction to the fact that he had failed- that he had let her down. Perhaps he had simply convinced himself not to care about what became of her. He had probably rethought his path, but by then six months had become a year, or two years, or two years and a half, and the gap of time between him and reality had grown tremendously.

Only yesterday it occurred to me that I am victim to the same emotions. I came to see that I have remained with him and this insane necromancer, living out this militant life in Silithus, to escape my own fears. I realized that I don't want to know what became of her. Deep inside, I wish she had simply dropped off the side of the earth, and Arthas and Kel'Thuzad had fallen with her. I wish I never had to think about her or Alanna again. I want to start anew in this place, and slaughter monsters until one finally kills me. Deep inside, I've already given up. I do not believe we are ever going back to the Plaguelands. I follow this tortured ranger because I know he is too scarred by unlife to deal with his own emotions- too immature to return. And if he doesn't deal with them, I will not have to, either.

That is the saddest part… That we willingly and knowingly commit ourselves to do… nothing.

I sit and I huddle in my robes, trying to maintain my own body warmth. The desert is cold at night- even within these sheltered ruins- and there is nothing to build a fire with but the scattered bodies of a thousand overlarge beetles. The necromancer is fast asleep, his thumb in his mouth. I sometimes ponder that the reason we have not killed him yet is because of his utterly childish mannerisms. There is something innocent within his twisted soul. Maybe he reminds us of Ketala. Or ourselves.

Even Nathanos is resting. I am not certain if he sleeps, but his eyes are closed and his composure is relaxed. Every once in awhile he twitches at some distant sound. Sometimes people get that way- where they can stand watch in their sleep, fall asleep at a moment's notice, and wake at the slightest noise.

It's late. I should probably get some sleep. The Dreadmist spiders that Nathanos keeps as pets have already drifted off to agitated slumber. My dreams will not be pleasant- they never are- but I am human again, and I need my rest.

Human again…

Nathanos jerks. He cringes and twists and then grabs at his chest, his eyes opening wide. He doubles over as if in pain and clutches himself, breathing heavily. I blink and tilt my head to the side. How odd… It appears that even Nathanos can dream. I had though that the undead were beyond such things. From the way he is shuddering, he must have dreamt something dreadful. I am sitting slightly to the side of him. It does not appear he knows I am awake.

To my amazement, his shuddering becomes more pronounced, more definite. His countenance draws with further pain. After a moment he moves his arms, and sinks his face into his hands. Each shudder is now a singular rippling along his frame.

Only after a long time does it occur to me that he is crying.

Teldrassil

Malfurion took in a slow breath and then let it go in a sigh.

His beard was not groomed. His hair was a messy tangle. There were dark circles under his silver eyes, and he had lost a good ten or twenty pounds- maybe more. He held himself with the posture of someone who was ill and waiting for a miraculous cure to show up out of nowhere.

When Ember had disappeared from their home, it had not taken that great a mental leap to realize where she would go. All the reports he had gathered indicated that Ember had taken off towards Felwood. She had been trying to get back to Illidan.

What Ember had not known was that Illidan and his followers had left several months previously. They had given no word of their departure. One day they had simply vanished. Furion had not been surprised. Illidan was a bit rash and impulsive, to say the least, and the feud between them might have caused his violet-haired twin to move as far away as nightelfinly possible.

However, when Furion and Tyrande had arrived at Illidan's old camp in search of their daughter, they had found no sign of her. The only clue they found that she had even reached the deserted camp were the hippogriff prints in the ground. Hunters had tracked the prints to a nearby cave where they had found the remains of a campfire, a satyr polymorphed into a toad, and some discarded animal bones. The cave had been deserted for a few days, and there was no indication of which way Ember had gone after that. The trees and wildlife in the area were extremely unhelpful. It had taken Furion months to coax some of the nearby trees to cooperate with him, and by then it was too late to determine Ember's exact whereabouts. All the trees could tell him was that Ember had gone south.

Why Ember would go south was a mystery to Furion.

The archdruid sighed and looked over at his beloved wife. She was poring over reports coming up from the Silithus desert, her eyes flicking over the pages with rapt attention. Admittedly, Furion should have been the one looking over those reports. The Cenarion Circle was deeply entwined with the going-ons in Silithus, and he had a duty to the fight there. Perhaps Tyrande merely understood that she had to keep her composure and inner strength in light of her daughter's absence. If she were to allow her worry to consume her, she would be distracted, and unable to perform all her duties as leader. Tyrande had a fierce warrior's spirit. She could not allow Ember's disappearance to dishearten her.

Furion smiled at these thoughts. He looked on her with admiration, and quietly forgave her for her lack of superfluous emotion. Her strength was something he greatly admired.

"You're worrying about Ember again," she murmured, turning over a leaf of the reports.

"I am," he admitted, softly.

"It wasn't your fault, Furion. You must cease taking the blame for all of this."

He winced, and looked quietly at one of the walls of his home. "I am to blame for some of it. I failed to see what she needed. I failed to help her, and to protect her. I failed to be a father to her. I was not here in her first years of life-"

"That was not your failing. You owed that to Ysera."

"Even so, Tyrande, I should have been able to do more for her. In the end, all I did was give her a more concrete reason to flee."

"You should spend your time with the child you do have, rather than worrying about the one whom you have no control over."

He sighed. "How can you be so calm? She could be dead for all you know."

"She isn't."

"How can you know that, Tyrande? And how can you not worry that she soon will be?"

"Furion, you still haven't figured out why she'd go south. That's something that was evident immediately to me upon her disappearance."

He blinked and sat up straighter, his eyes focusing on Tyrande, trying to understand her motives for telling him this only now.

"Ember can't stay in Night Elf lands or you'll find her and restrain her. She has a distinct destination. She cannot risk you stopping her before she reaches it."

"And where is that?"

"Ratchet. Or Orgrimmar. A ship or zeppelin. Azeroth."

"Azeroth? Why would Ember go there? She has never been to those lands- has no connection to them, or reason-"

"The Blasted Lands." Furion frowned and stiffened, not liking where this was going.

"… The Blasted Lands…?"

Tyrande nodded. "The Blasted Lands. The Dark Portal. Outland."

"… Illidan," Furion murmured. "She could not locate him at his camp. It would make sense to travel to Outland. However, I fail to see how Ember could know about Outland. How would she even know that there is a Dark Portal in the Blasted Lands?"

"She has a demon residing in her mind, Furion. Eventually, she will give in and listen to what it tells her. And when it says that the only way to get to her Uncle Illidan is through a portal on the other side of the world, she will attempt to reach it."

"And yet you say all of this with a straight face, as if it didn't concern you at all," Furion murmured, staring at his mate. "Why?"

"Do you remember the toad we found in the cave Ember had camped in?"

"…Zenn Foulhoof. A Satyr who had been permanently turned into a toad. Yes, I remember. Tyrande, what does that have to do with-"

"The toad belonged to one Zul'vii."

Furion fell silent.

"That was her message. Her sign that illustrated "I've found this child, and she is safe."

"Why would she not return Ember to us?" the druid murmured.

"The only alternative to her bringing Ember back to us… Is bringing her to Illidan," Tyrande said softly. Furion winced and nodded. Then he blinked, and stood, his gaze focused entirely on the face of his mate.

"… Why have you only mentioned this now? Two years later? When you know that the troll girl must have already reached the portal? Why have you let me flounder after her for two years? Why have you not searched for her?"

Tyrande paused in skimming through her reports, and locked gazes with the distressed archdruid. She was silent a long moment before speaking. "Because I think Elune intended it. I think Mahi intended it."

"For what reason?" he asked, astonished.

"I think Ember is the goddess's gift to him for everything he had suffered."

"He has suffered?"

"Yes. Illidan has done much evil in his life. Almost all of it was out of a desire to do good. And he was right, in Moonglade, when you tried to blame him for corrupting Ember. He was right. He returned me to you. He returned Ember to you. He promised not to threaten our people, and has tried again and again to make reparations- even for things he feels were not his fault. I think Ember was Elune's gift to him. The consolation, if you will, for all he will never have."

"Tyrande, that is absurd! The child is merely misled by demonic forces! If she gets to Illidan-"

"Then what?" Tyrande demanded. "Then he will corrupt her with more demonic energies and the forces of magic and chaos? Is that what he did last time he had her in his care?" Furion choked off on his response. Tyrande snorted and then continued, "I do not have the power to help her. And neither, I think, do you. But somehow, Illidan has left such a lasting imprint on her that she finds it vital to return to him."

"Tyrande…"

"If you cannot think of her as a gift, then think of her as his penance. His means of setting things right. I believe Illidan can help that child- whether he knows it or not. We can't."

"Tyrande, how can you so willingly give her up? Throwing her aside as if she were not your child? She is your daughter!"

"No, Furion. She isn't."

He blinked, his eyes widening.

"She never was. I just carried her for awhile. And acted as her surrogate parent after that."

"How can you say that?" he whispered weakly.

Tyrande looked directly at Furion. In her eyes there was both resolve and sadness. "Ember was wholly Archimonde's- even from the beginning. From birth- from the womb- from her very conception. If the alternative is that she becomes wholly Illidan's, then I am not one to complain. He may be a chaotic and twisted being, but he is one with a very good heart." She looked down again.

Furion stared at her for a long, long moment. Then he stood up, turned around, and exited their home.

Stranglethorn Vale

"Hokay, what did I tell you about bothering the Vile Fins?"

"Murlocs are people, too?"

"And?"

"And I shouldn't gut them and string their innards between conch shells to make necklaces for crocolisks?"

"And?"

"Throwing monkey poo at them is not funny?"

"No, no, the other thing."

"Massive hordes of tiny people can be frightening when armed with spears and nets?"

"Yeah, that one."

"I'm sorry."

"Well, you are just lucky that the situation only turned out so bad," Zul'vii allowed, somewhat pacified by Ember's apologetic tone. The half troll was currently suspended by her ankles over a boiling cauldron of fish heads and green ooze. "They could have rubbed caviar on us again."

Ember made a face from where Vile Fin murlocs were stuffing carrots and lettuce into her bonds. Caviar smelled bad, tasted funny, and felt gross. Several days after her last coating in caviar, Ember had smelled so terribly of spoiled fish that she was attracting every predatory animal within five miles. Due to this, Zul'vii had been forced to give her a bath- with soap and everything. Ember hated baths.

"You know, Ember, I'm starting to see a pattern here. Every time we start making good progress, you attack something that tries to eat us. Think it might be Archimonde riling you up to impede our progress?"

"I'm not sure. Before I left Teldrassil, it seemed like he wanted me to get to Outland. Now… not so much."

"Well then, he's either stroking my ego, or he just didn't expect me. We should take that as a good sign."

"So you're not mad at me?"

"Of course I'm mad at you. I'm going to tickle you for a good four hours once we're done, just to show how much spite I have for you."

Ember looked utterly stricken and Zul'vii laughed. She waiting until most of the murlocs were off gathering more wood, and then breathed in deeply. Her hands were tied behind her back… So doing a vertical curl up was going to be more difficult than normal. With an effort of will (and thigh muscles of steel), she bent her knees, pulling herself up towards her ankle bonds. With a second effort of will (and abdominal muscles of steel), she curled her upper body up so that her face was level with her feet. After nudging her boots with her face for a moment, she located the dagger (which was, of course, made of steel) that she'd hidden in the right shoe.

Zul'vii delicately slipped one of her tusks under the dagger hilt, and clamped her teeth firmly down upon its handle. Her stomach and thigh muscles trembled and burned with effort. She took in a deep breath, and then extracted the dagger from her boot, her jaws clenched tightly over the leather hilt of the blade. Now came the trickiest part. With her leg and abdominal muscles already strained, she pulled her bound hands up to the level of her feet, and then set the blade against those bonds. It wouldn't do to cut her feet loose if her hands were bound. She'd just fall into the boiling cauldron below.

The Vile Fins were a bit confused by all of this. At first, they weren't even sure where Zul'vii had gone. After a bit, the brightest shamans among them had looked up to where her feet had been bound, and found her there curled under her branch. While they were busy trying to figure out how or why she had pulled herself up to the branch, the half troll slit her hands free.

Zul'vii grinned. She flexed her hands and then grabbed the branch she was tied to. Her burning stomach and leg muscles relaxed, and she sawed her feet loose. Once this was done, she pulled herself onto the thick branch and tried to relax. It took the murlocs a few minutes to start throwing javelins at her, and by then she was ready to move again. The half troll sighed, took in a deep breath, and then rolled off the side of the branch. She landed next to the boiling cauldron, knocked the cauldron over, and grabbed a spear from a startled guard.

Three impaled, four bludgeoned, and two boiled murlocs later, Zul'vii had made her way to Ember and was untying the little girl. A few fish-men decided that Zul'vii couldn't possibly be that great of a threat with her back turned and her focus on Ember's ropes. These murlocs came to regret their decision when a freed Ember had pounced upon them and made avid use of Tyrande's stolen warglaive.

All in all, the, murlocs didn't have it so bad. Zul'vii could have easily allowed Ember to rip apart the entire clan. As it was, the half troll restrained Ember, and a dozen or so fish men escaped into the Stranglethorn waters. When Zul'vii was certain that Ember had calmed, she released the little girl, and set about to finding the duo's gear. The two then stripped the murloc camp of anything valuable, and then set off once more into the depths of the vale.

And while they walked, Zul'vii thought. She didn't think about Illidan, or Ember, or how long their journey was taking. She didn't worry about Furion, or her clan, or Vol'jin, or demonic invasions. No… Zul'vii was occupied with a far more perplexing conundrum.

For you see, Zul'vii had never found out why the murlocs always attempted to cook them before eating them. Eventually she attributed it to them finding land-food unsanitary. After all, how could creatures who bathed so infrequently be clean enough to eat without proper culinary preparation?

After a bit, Zul'vii picked up Ember and sat the girl on her shoulders. The child smiled and clung to her hair in painful and unnecessary ways, but she ignored it. Ember wasn't really that bad once you got past the sadistic, psychopathic, manic portion of her personality.

In fact, she really did remind the half-troll of Illidan.

Theramore

Kallah Proudmoore was not afraid of the dark. There were several reasons for this. First of all, orcs had better night vision than humans. In addition, Kallah got to leave Jaina's quarters at night. Her mother would take her down to the castle gardens to play. To Kallah, night was a time of wonder and exploration. She had absolutely no fear of it whatsoever.

The little girl was wrapped up in a tiny traveling cloak. In the off chance that someone was up and about, they would not immediately notice her orcish features. Kallah took one look back at her mother, and then disappeared off into a maze of trees and plants. There was a Koi pond in the center of the garden, with which Kallah was particularly enamored. Eventually she turned up at the pond's grassy banks, and crouched down to watch the water more intently.

There was something about water that Kallah loved. About its glassy face and its mysterious depths. About how it clung to her fingers in tiny beads, and yet escaped in all directions when she tried to pick it up. There was something about this pond that attracted her. Something about the brightly colored fish meandering around within it. Something about the way rain made strange patterns on its surface- In the way that it reflected the light of the moon onto her face.

From within the folds of her cloak, Kallah produced a tiny ship made of paper. With great care and deliberation, she set it upon the surface of the pond.

It fell over.

Frowning, the girl picked up the boat and examined it. It looked exactly as a boat should. Why shouldn't it float? Again, she set it on the water, and again it fell over. Stumped, the half-orc felt over the sails and the base. After a moment, she lay down on her stomach beside the pond, and again set her ship in the water. To her surprise, the bottom of the ship would not stay underwater. As soon as she removed her hand, it would pop up and knock the entire ship over.

After some deliberation, Kallah found a small flat rock and laid it down in the bottom of the ship. Once more, she placed her creation in the pond. This time it did not fall over. It wavered, and wobbled, but did not fall. A little push sent it bobbing triumphantly across the pond. Kallah smiled and propped her head up, watching the little boat on its heroic venture.

She never once noticed the shadowy figure behind her, nor the moonlight gleaming off its drawn scimitar.

Ahn'Qiraj
Nathanos

Somewhere in the middle of running around with a giant tick chasing me, and hoping that Ras can keep fifteen broody Horde members and fifteen arrogant Alliance members working together to kill explosive eggs, I came to realize that I really, really hate the Qiraji. I hate them. I hate their pets, I hate their leaders, and- most of all- I hate their god. I've come to the conclusion that he must have been the god that landed me in this god-forsaken hell-hole (I told you it was easy to blame gods, yes?) and so now I am determined to extract payment out of his miserable hide.

My party members urge me towards them and then scatter. With a sigh, I turn my sprint towards the damaged egg. Buru the Gorger just follows me. I hit the egg as I go by, ripping the final cut in its disgusting bulk. The tick follows me. His body is positioned perfectly over the egg when it explodes. This is the sixth time we've pulled such a stunt, and this time it appears to finally break the stupid tick's back. Literally. His golden shell is ripped right off his frame, exposing a violet underbody and gargantuan brains protruding out from his back.

Aha! At least now we know why Buru fell for the same trick six times. Anyone whose brain is located solely in their posterior- no matter how large that brain happens to be- is bound to have some type of mental handicap. In any event, Buru doesn't appear to be quite dead yet. In fact, his first course of action is to charge all the flaming idiots who have started to cheer.

Rather than pulling out my bow, I heft both my axes and charge the stupid thing. I'll rip its carcass asunder and carry its head as an epaulet.

Theramore

Night time. A toy boat sailed across the Koi pond. It cloth sails were unfurled. Its wooden frame cut the water like a knife. It was built like an old Alliance battleship from the second war. Many boats had sailed across the Koi pond. At first, these boats were only paper. As the craftsman of the vessels grew in skill, they began having wooden bases and cloth sails. It was only a matter of time before details started appearing on them. This battleship even had little cannons.

Kallah watched the ship with a critical eye. She watched the wake of the boat for any signs of drag or hull inefficiencies. She examined how the sails filled in order to determine if they were placed just right. She-

The boat reached the other side of the pond. A gloved hand reached out into the moonlight. It gently turned the boat around, and then sent it floating back in her direction. Kallah blinked, lifting her head quickly and staring hard at where the hand had appeared. Her keen eyes delved into the shadows of the tree, and at last distinguished the yellow glow of two unnatural eyes. The girl docked her head to the side in bewilderment. The battleship reached her and she looked down at it. After a moment, she sent it gently back across the small pond.

Once more, the gloved hand halted it. This time it moved to the little sail riggings and straightened them, making them tauter in one area and looser in others. The sails were a portion that Kallah had difficult perfecting. No wind was necessary to propel her little vessel. After a moment, the gloved hand finished its work and returned the ship to her.

The half-orc girl was silent a moment, observing the shadows in curiosity. Still, she held no fear of the dark or its mysteries. When her battleship returned, she plucked it out of the water. After a moment of indecision, she pushed herself up to her feet, and navigated the edge of the pond, coming towards the shadowed thing. The yellow eyes followed her, but their owner merely waited.

Closer, closer the little girl came, until she was right beside the shadowed thing. There she halted, bathed in a patch of moonlight, and stared at the yellow-eyed thing. After a long, cricket-filled silence, she held out the battleship towards the thing.

The yellow eyes watched her for a long moment, and then disappeared briefly as their owner stood. Slowly, the shadows moved forward. Their dark shapes touched the moonlight and were molded by its silvery ray, forming into boots, and clothing, and hands, and a face. That face… A stylized hat shadowed some of its features, but she could still recognize the being before her. The face was masculine and leonine. Its cheeks were a ghastly pale. It sported a gray mustache and its hat was perched upon a mane of gray hair. Its expression was currently blank and restrained, and its brown eyes were shadowed.

She looked silently up into the face of her grandfather. After a long moment, she again offered him her toy battleship. He glanced down at the offered ship, and then gently took it in his hands. He examined the hull of the ship, and the integrity of the various masts. She stepped towards him, oblivious both to how he stiffened and to how his face contorted with hate. Instead, she silently showed him the tiny cannons she had placed within the ship, as well as the tiny doors that could cover them

Kallah felt him tremble, but did not understand why. She did not know of the struggle. She knew nothing of the hate, and the prejudice, and the pain; of the pride, and self-doubts, and rage; of the admiration. She did not even understand her dangerous position until his left hand crumpled the hull of her beautiful ship in frustration. The little girl gave a cry of dismay, and looked up at him with tears forming in her eyes.

Kallah had no idea that it took everything within him not to drown her then and there. Or that only the sight of her tears, gleaming silver upon her tiny cheeks, stayed his hand. He looked away, his eyes shut and his teeth clenched tightly together. After a moment, he thrust her ruined battleship back into her hands, and quickly took his leave.

She watched him, clutching the shattered corpse of her toy. She did not know that her mother had made identical boats many years before. She did not know he had watched her for weeks, unable to strike because he saw Jaina in her. She had no idea that her ignorance and naivety had saved her… Or that the little boat had taken her place.

Jaina watched her father walk off, and breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone. She turned her gaze back to Kallah, noting the upset and bewildered look on the child's face. The little girl gazed down at her broken toy and then plopped down, trying to piece its tattered body back together. For a moment there, Jaina had been ready blow Daelin to many little icy shards to get him away from Kallah. When he left of his own accord, she had been relieved, impressed, and- of course- made curious.

The shrewd sorceress watched over her daughter from the protection of invisibility and chuckled softly. "I think you've found a soft spot," she murmured. "Don't give up."

Ravenholt Manor

Fahrad was impressed. Puma had been bathed. Her hair had been soaped, conditioned, and patiently brushed out. Once this was done, it had been styled after the latest human fashions. She was in a plain blue dress with little blue shoes. Make-up had given her cheeks life and energy, and blue gloves that reached from her fingers to her elbows obscured her undead decay.

"Thorough job, Kang. But will she be able to maintain this appearance?"

The old orc snorted and nodded. "Well enough. If her partner sees fit to make modifications to her make-up, she's been… taught to hold still."

"Very good. You should try your hand at training hounds, Kang." Outwardly, the orc made no move. He had learned many things about self control from watching Puma. Inwardly he stiffened, disapproving of the manner in which Fahrad treated the undead girl. Ordinarily Fahrad was a reasonable man, and even amusing to talk to. Perhaps he felt Puma was so beneath the level of normal human understanding that his jokes would pass right over her head.

… Actually, now that Kang thought about it, they did. But that didn't necessarily make it right.

Puma just listened. Her brain could not operate on a high enough level to absorb everything that was going on, but her instincts compensated for what she could not understand. Kang was irritated. He smelled disappointed, and the subtle signals he gave off indicated that he was currently feeling protective over her. Fahrad was amused, and seemed to regard her with a dismissive air. He felt she was expendable, and so she could not trust him entirely.

Kang and Fahrad continued to converse. The two were so preoccupied that they did not immediately notice the soft creak of leather, or the soft, transient vibrations of feet against stone.

Puma did not like having strange people sneak up behind her. She turned her head with a snap, and looked behind her timidly. A strange man was there, leaning casually against a wall and watching Kang and Fahrad bicker. The creaking had come from his light brown leather armor. The vibrations had come from his padded boots. A small smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, and his eyes conveyed both cold calculations and warm amusement. He quickly noticed that he had drawn her gaze and so gave her a wink. Puma blinked, clutching her arm with fake nervousness.

The two rogues took the moment Kang and Fahrad were occupied to size one another up. Kang had told Puma that she was to be paired with another rogue. If this man was to be her ally, she wanted to know everything about him. What she sensed was strange. His face seemed somewhere between boyhood and manhood. His eyes seemed both sprightly and mischievous, but the way he carried himself conveyed the dark experience of an assassin. Her eyes narrowed, and for a brief moment she showed signs of legitimate mental activity.

"Am I intruding, Grandmaster Rogue?" Puma blinked. Even his tone rang both of youthful indolence and calm arrogance. His paradoxical nature unsettled her.

Fahrad looked up and smirked in approval, before shaking his head slightly. "Not at all, Everon. Glad you could join us at last."

"I was… 'distracted' by your groundskeeper. Forgive me," he answered, giving Fahrad an appropriate nod of respect. The corner of the grandmaster's mouth quirked up.

"I shall make sure to confront her about that. Everon, this is going to be your partner, Puma." The rogue looked her up and down.

"Undead. Gloves, make up, nice new dress, grooming job. Two daggers on the left thigh, four on the other, two in the bodice, one behind the ear, one in each boot."

Fahrad smirked and applauded lightly. "Puma is a tad mentally unsound. I assume you thoroughly read my briefing?"

"Well enough. I'm impressed; she looks good," Everon continued without missing a beat, coming up to Puma and looking down at her. He was half a foot taller than her and she immediately looked down, every fiber of her being straining away from him. He smirked and reached forward to grab her chin. There was something about her, something that convinced the men around her that they were superior to her.

Kang noticed, and his eyes widened. Puma lifted her arms as if to shove Everon away. He caught one of her hands by the wrist. Her other hand shoved against his face, slipped to his neck, and held the blade of a tiny razor firmly against his throat. Everon's eyes widened in surprise. Somehow he had missed the tiny blade she had been holding in her hands.

The old orc monk immediately reached forward to grab Puma's wrist and restrain her. He grabbed her jaw and quickly turned her face to his, looking deep into her blank and lifeless eyes.

"Puma. Do. Not. Kill."

Fahrad began to laugh. Everon didn't make a sound, looking curiously between Kang and Puma. Allied rogues generally tried to worm blades between each others' defenses in order to test them. Very rarely did they actually stab one another… Well, unless they were contracted by another guild.

"Should have read the briefing better, Everon," Fahrad chastised, enjoying himself immensely.

The young rogue's expression didn't change, but his gaze alighted upon Puma's features. He studied her dead eyes- eyes that conveyed no inner struggle, no desire to stab him, no incentive to move away- in fact, eyes that conveyed no thought whatsoever. After a moment, a tiny metaphorical wheel gave a tiny metaphorical turn within her head. She lowered her razor, and just turned her gaze blankly back to his.

"Good girl," Kang said, gently releasing Puma's arm and eyeing Everon critically. "This is to be the rogue you are partnered with."

'Good Girl.' Even without intending it, Kang treated her like a hound. Everon snorted, disgusted by the fact that a psychopathic hunting dog- nay, a mindless tool- had so easily bested him. He had bested all his peers- hell, he'd just entered the room without alerting even Fahrad- he… he…

If Puma could trick him… What poor fool did stand a chance against her? This was her signature ability, wasn't it? Her ability to appear so meek was precisely the thing that made her so valuable. And if he could somehow harness that ability- if he could control it…

"… Puma," he said after a long moment. He could sense her focusing on him, her pupils shifting slightly. He smirked, and touched his chest. "Everon."

Puma stared at him a long moment and he could almost hear one or two tiny cogs turning within her head. Her blank eyes shifted slightly, taking in his countenance to the last detail.

Everon's hair was black and around a foot in length, so he had it drawn up behind him in a ponytail. A few unruly bangs had pulled free from their ties, and curved lightly down over his brow. His skin was bronzed, and he sported a light and meticulously groomed goatee. The nose was narrow and aquiline, the planes of his face sculpted and elegant in appearance. His brows were arched and well-defined, and from beneath them his eyes peered out like twin blue flames. About him was a constant and brazen aura of self confidence; he even gave the appearance that he was perpetually smirking.

Everon watched the cogs finally click to a halt in Puma's head. She paused briefly and then slowly leaned towards him. He blinked and regarded her with some wariness. Although her movement didn't seem particularly threatening, Puma based all of her skills off of the ability to appear meek and helpless.

Kang winced and Fahrad burst out laughing when Puma gave Everon a big wet lick. The good news was that she was satisfied with whatever it was she tasted.

Ahn'Qiraj

Nathanos quietly brushed bits of Ossirian the Veryscarred off of his axe, and settled down to sharpen its gleaming edge. The axes- and his fingers- had both been repaired thanks to the Cenarion Circle. The cold metal reflected his features in the light of the setting sun, and he paused in his sharpening. After a moment he took in a slow, unnecessary breath, and looked up at the sky, thinking. He breathed out, letting himself relax. Tensions, frustrations, and hatreds oozed out of him. The ranger closed his eyes and just breathed in and out.

A water droplet landed on his nose.

He blinked and opened his eyes, looking up at the sky. In retrospect, he should have noticed the giant, imposing black clouds. Another water droplet fell, and another, and another. His party quickly ran about, seeking cover from the impending storm. Nathanos just remained where he was, sitting beside Ossirian's vast carcass. Within mere seconds, the water was coming down in sheets, drenching him to the core.

The ranger just closed his eyes, and let the droplets dance over his countenance. For a brief moment, with a sweet breeze blowing across him and the raindrops pattering softly over him, he lost himself. He was no longer in Silithus, but far, far away… He was in the unconquered wilds of Lordaeron, with forest all around him. He was young and alive. His bow was pulled taut. On either side of him were his fellow rangers, all moving in silent tandem in the boughs of the trees.

Despite the fact that he was now much more powerful, Nathanos had the strangest feeling he had once been so much more than he was in the present.

He shook his head lightly and opened his eyes. Water cascaded down his arms and over his blades, wiping all grime and blood away. After a moment, he tugged off one of his own gloves and examined his fingers. Long… calloused, but nimble… Worn at the third digit of each finger, and along the curves of the palm. The hand of an archer; of a warrior. He lifted that hand to his face, and felt over his own dead features. More masculine and chiseled than an elf face, but still with a certain grace and elegance that his species normally did not possess. He was once the pinnacle of human pride. Something powerful, skilled, and beloved. His hair was somewhat bleached by the sun, but it still retained most of its brown coloration. His armor was faded, but still strong. The ranger could still walk as quietly as any highborn, rustling not even the crispest leaves with his uncanny steps. His aim with a bow had only improved, and he could track as well as ever.

Nathanos's eyes closed once more as the wind picked up. He licked the raindrops from his lips, and his eyelashes fluttered lightly as a thousand old memories flashed through his memory. He could almost taste elfish words on his lips, and picture the ancient city of Quel'Thalas. He remembered Sylvanas in all her living glory, and the old King Sunstrider, Kael'Thas's father…

He could remember Bolvar and Flint and…

He could remember her… Her blonde hair dancing like fire in the setting sun, her eyes closed tightly as she enjoyed its radiant light. He could remember her turning to him and laughing, her bright eyes glowing a brilliant white. He could remember the rain, and taking shelter beneath the sheltering branches of a willow. He could remember her tender kiss. She had tasted like a cool and exotic fruit. Both of them had been young- unaware of life's true evils. They had-

Nathanos screamed and jerked violently, refusing to remember anymore. He clutched his head, boring his fingers into his skulls, as if he could physically extract those wonderful, horrible memories from his mind. For the first time, he remembered Ketala's words- that he had been engaged in life. Engaged! For all he knew, he had slept with the she-elf, and could have a child out there somewhere, but he didn't want to know, he didn't want to remember!

The memories spilled in unbidden, despite his screams, despite his act of will. He remembered a thousand stolen moments, a thousand tender affections. He remembered proving himself to her family. He remembered her taste, and her curves, and-

He screamed and screamed, trying to forget what he had done, trying to forget what he had been. Trying to forget that he had ever loved anyone.

But he couldn't. Not any more. The merciful boundaries that death had installed were utterly washed away. The last floodgates between his undeath and his life had been opened. There was no closing them again. All of his memories returned to him. All of his experience. All his pain, his death, his love, his joy.

He was on the wet sand, curled up on his side. A shudder passed through him, from the top of his head to the tip of his booted feet. Another shudder. And another. And another. His screams dissolved into harsh sobs, and then, at last, into true crying. The rain covered the true tears that leaked their way from his dead eyes.

He could not forget. He could not forget that he had once loved a high elf woman by the name of Vila'thail. A beautiful creature with fiery blonde hair and the disposition of an angel. He could not forget that he had loved and been loved. He could not forget her kisses or her intoxicating taste. He could not forget holding her, his body pressed tight against hers, with nothing but rain around them and the starry sky above. He could not forget making love to her.

From the depths of his wretched soul issued forth such pain, such sorrow, such love. Such love… Such love for the one creature who had managed to teach him what love truly meant. Her name escaped his lips in the form of a low moan, his heart beating sympathetically within his breast- ashamed that he could have ever loved anything but her.

Such was the greatest gift that Truae could give him; three years after he had last seen her, in the middle of a desert, beside the body of a slaughtered foe, with nothing but the rain as her unintended weapon. Such was her greatest and most powerful gift: his humanity.

"Ketala…" he rasped. "Ketala…"

The rain washed over him, purging him, healing him. The sand beneath his cheek became a bed of pine needles, and carried him far, far away. His thoughts left him, stretching outward to the western horizon.

I love you.

His eyes opened. The alien land before him drew him back to the present. Past Ossirian's bulk, through the obscuring sheets of rain, he could just make out the edge of the Ahn'Qiraj temple. His shudders ceased, and he slowly lifted his head, his hawk eyes focused on that monumental building. A well of understanding blossomed through his chest. His fists and jaw clenched, his eyes flaming a light yellow color. His entire world faded, leaving little else but him and the distant temple.

I'm coming. I will finish this here. I will force their eyes back to the northern lands.

And then I'm coming.

Yarg! Review or... ...or...

Just review because you love me? Gotta love Jack Sparrow.