Outskirts of Terrokar Forest, near the border of Nagrand
"I can't believe you beat all of those Arakkoa and you're not even tired!" Salandria squealed, "You must be really strong!" Naetrhim's expression darkened for a moment, but he quickly masked it, "I am not as strong as you might think, Salandria." despite his powerful self-control, a bit of regret managed to worm its way into his tone. Fortunately, Salandria didn't seem to notice, "So, are we gonna see the Throne of the Elements tomorrow?" she stared up at him expectantly. "Of course. I said we would, didn't I? Now, excuse me while I set up camp." Naethrim went through the motions of setting a tent and starting a cooking fire. He had bought the necessary equipment just prior to meeting Matron Mercy because he knew that the living tired and would need rest eventually. Death Knights could march for days on end and slay scores of enemies and they would still be alert and ready for more, but he couldn't expect that kind of resilience from any living person, let alone a child. Habits formed from before he died were apparently still ingrained in his mind since he took less time than he thought he would.
He opened the tent's flap and gestured for Salandria to enter, "Ladies first." the normally polite statement sounded out of place when said with his ghostly voice. Salandria crawled inside and looked back at Naetrhim, "Coming?" she giggled. He raised a hand in refusal, "Sorry, but no. I still need to pick feathers out of my armor and tend to my sword. My gear always comes first." and I don't sleep anyway, he silently added. "Aww, c'mon." "No. Now, you need your rest. If you don't get enough sleep, we might need to postpone our trip to the Throne of Elements so you can catch up on your sleep. Goodnight, Salandria." Naethrim was in the process of unbuckling his shoulder guards when Salandria retreated into the tent.
Naethrim was busy polishing his runeblade, PlagueEdge, when the sword began speaking to him. It had rarely spoken since the Battle at Light's Hope, and, when it did, it usually was the tormented ramblings of those he had slain during his time as one of the Scourge. This time was different; he could sense the part of his soul that was bound to the blade reaching out to him, "She is not to know who you are, no, who you were. Let her believe that her father lies peacefully in his grave, but not that he lives in torment beside her. Her life has been hard enough." A conscience, a Death Knight with a conscience! How absurd, and yet, the sword had a point. There was no reason to reveal who he had been. Such a revelation would cause nothing but pain for Salandria. She is aware that her parents died, but not that one had risen again. It was as Highlord Mograine had said after the Battle at Light's Hope, "Our kind will never have a place in your world." He could never be the father she had lost.
Naetrhim placed PlagueEdge beside him and stared at the alien sky of Outland, contemplating his position. I do not know if this is a blessing from some divine benefactor or if it is yet another torment for me to suffer in the course of my unlife. The gift of having an influence in my child's life, and the torture of the inability to be her father. A shrill cry shook him from his thoughts. More Arakkoa. I just found my nightly entertainment… He smiled wickedly and grabbed PlagueEdge from its place beside him, and stalked off into the forest. "I've been harboring some pent-up stress, and you have been nominated to help me relieve it."