A/N: Thank you everyone for the reviews and for reading!

I hope that I've addressed everyone's questions in the following. If you're not one for A/Ns, feel free to skip to below the '...-...'.

The reason Brath became worried about people seeing his form to begin with was because he was afraid that Nicolas's employer would figure out that he was someone worth killing off. While his reins restrained him, they also hid him, so when Amy removed them, she backed him into a corner and he had no choice but to go to the very person he'd be hiding from in an attempt to secure his own safety.

So, while he was worried that showing his human form would lead to Nicolas slaying him, after he got the stay of execution, he wasn't as concerned as before, because Wrathion knows he's there, but also that he's trying to 'redeem' himself and they reached an arrangement in which Brath doesn't have to worry about assassins, at least for now.

And, yes, Wrathion does have a reason for letting this play out instead of just writing Brath off as a loss to the old gods, like the rest of the flight.

As for Brath's owner? While I will hit on this a bit more in the next chapter, I will say: orb of deception.

I will try to get a better description of Amy in there, but it probably won't be immediately.

…-…

Well, a few things.

First, when I had headed out to find Brath, I'd managed to get my daggers back from Nicolas, on the off chance I ran into one of those saber cat things that roam the island. While I think everyone thinks that I'd pretty much just run flailing away from said creature, he gave me back my weapons, if only so I'd have a security blanket as I looked for my dragon.

So, as Mr. Undead came stalking toward me, I was armed, at least.

Second, I considered trying to do the whole, "Brath is a living, sentient creature, so he can't really be yours," logic on him, but I somehow doubted he would care much. I read a bit about the Forsaken and they're kind of evil. Like, drown puppies for fun evil.

Not to mention he was clearly controlling a demon somehow. A small part of me registered that this guy must have been one of those warlocks that I was originally looking for and I have to say…I am so glad I didn't meet any of them first. Even if he'd been a human. Like, a living one. No. No, thank you.

And third? Heh. Thank goodness for small breaks.

You see, the forsaken guy stopped a few feet from me and his fel guard marched forward a pace or two. As I eyed the whole thing, my hands went for my daggers and the warlock just kind of laughed. I suppose I'm not really that imposing of a figure. Always been a bit short for my age. And, you know, I think it's pretty obvious that I'm not some seasoned fighter.

Anyway, he just kind of stared at me for a moment, as though making sure I wasn't just pretending to look like a young, mostly helpless thing, and then crossed his arms. "My dragon." His words were slow and deliberate, as though he was reveling in my fear. "If you return him to me, I'll kill you quickly. If not," he motioned to his fel guard, "I'll let him play with you until you feel like talking."

"I…" Even as I started to try to think of what I could say—maybe that'd I'd lead him to Brath and hope that my dragon could be able to maim both the man and his demon before they could do anything—the felguard laughed.

I thought of those police men. Of the devastation of my world. Of my allies who were out of reach, giddily planning to take the fight to the demons. Of Greg, my parents, Bethany. Of all the little things I would never get to do. Even if my world was saved, there was so much that would still be lost to me. Even if we're saved, we'll be too busy picking up the pieces to afford to be able to go back to school, to college. Entertainment jobs—like fashion designers and actresses—will take a back seat to restoring our crumbled society. All the things I looked forward to, knew would happen, are gone. Who's gonna waste time on a prom or graduation ceremony or even just a birthday party with karaoke and drinking when there are buildings that need to be repaired or food that needs to be procured? Yeah there will still be times when we'll be able to relax a bit and laugh, but it won't be the same. There will always be that cloud hanging over us, that reminder that we lost a part of who we were the moment those demons set foot on our world. My world might as well be Azeroth, as different as it will be when I get back to it.

All because of the creatures behind that laugh.

Now, I know the demon was only a minion. I know that. I know that any sound tactical person would probably go for the warlock, since apparently killing them dismisses their pet—Maevlen told me about that during our flower picking expeditions.

But it was just…I couldn't have fought the warlock and listened to that laughter. That cruel, sadistic, evil…

I don't know if you've ever gone into a blind rage before, but, um, it's true about not really being in control of what you do, hence the blind. And I don't really know how long I'd have been in it, were it not for that warlock.

Which brings me back to my third thing: magic resistance.

I guess when I lunged at his felguard, Mr. Warlock tried to set me on fire. Well, no real surprise there, nothing happened, leaving me free to somehow tackle—looking at the area, apparently there was somewhat of a scuffle, though again, I can't quite remember it—his felguard and sever its head from its body.

Apparently, from the hack job, I was still mutilating its torso when the warlock finally used a high enough level spell to hit me.

That knocked me off what was left of his pet and back to my senses. Sort of. I mean, I saw what I'd done to that felguard and started gagging trying not to throw up—more so because I'd just done that than the fact it had been done. However, even as I tried to come to terms with killing another living creature with my own two hands, I heard that scratchy voice slurring words together, calling on darkness and damnation and all that.

For a second I was petrified because I just knew that as soon as he finished that cast I was a goner. Namely because he'd actually figured out how to hit me. But then I remembered something I've learned from observation more so than anyone actually telling me.

The stronger the spell, the longer it takes to cast.

So while the warlock was conjuring up my doom, I went after him. One of my daggers had fallen to the ground, but I grabbed it up as I sprinted toward my enemy. When I tried to grip it, I felt a sharp pain in my hand and it dawned on me that I must have broken my hand when I was maiming that demon, probably because I was holding the daggers wrong.

I'll have to listen to Nicolas more.

And even as I threw myself into the warlock, startling him and sending us both flying into the sand, a few other aches and pains were starting up. As we hit the ground, I leaned my arm with the hurt hand—since I couldn't really use that dagger anyway—into the guy's throat and held the other dagger back and ready to strike.

My rage had passed though. Even if his eyes were all glowy and evil and he was nothing more than a rotting husk of what he had been, he was still a person. He'd never assaulted my world.

He stared up at me in surprise, though as I hesitated, his face grew calm and then he arched an eyebrow. When he spoke, his voice was strained and rasped more than before, from the pressure on his vocal cords. "You do realize I do not need to breathe, yes?"

Even as the realization of that hit me, I felt his boney fingers digging into my sides and I screamed out. Once his fingers had broken my flesh, his flexed them out, dragging them through my muscles and it felt like I was being torn apart. As I was overwhelmed with pain, the warlock brought his foot up between the two of us and kicked me off of him.

Despite getting flung off things, hitting my head, breaking my ankle, getting poisoned, I'd never actually been hurt this badly before. I think he'd cracked a few of my ribs based on the way my torso was hurting and it was terrifying to see myself surrounded by so much blood.

The warlock rose to his feet and brushed the sand off his robes before walking over and picking up his staff—I guess it flew out of his hands when I tackled him. My blood smeared against the shaft of the staff and I felt myself pale as I watched it drip from his fingers as he sauntered over to me casually. I tried to get a better grip on my daggers, but his foot came down on my hurt hand and while I may have had qualms with killing him, he obviously had none in regards to finishing me off.

He squatted down next to me, laying his staff across his knees. "Now then. I believe you were going to tell me where my dragon is?"

"He…" I felt so trapped. I didn't know where Brath was and even I tried to 'show' the Forsaken to him, I had a feeling he'd be killing me off before I could turn the tables.

I was going to die.

And even as I realized that, it dawned on me that it was okay. Michel and the others would be able to save my world, so I wasn't responsible for getting help anymore. I just had to worry about me, now.

Suddenly, I wasn't scared. I mean, as much as I want to believe that Greg is out there somewhere, he's probably not. Bethany and my parents are probably gone, too. Like Nicolas said, my town is gone, so there's no one for me to try to get back to.

I have nothing to lose, so what does it matter if I die?

Not to say I want to, but…it's like, if I screw up, the repercussions won't leave me haunting some place with regret, you know?

My hand was already broken, so I gave up on it. If I made it out, I'd harass Clara and Neesera to heal me, or take my chances with Azerothian cancer and chug a few potions. I braced myself and then shifted quickly, sending a kick to the warlock's shoulder. He hadn't been expecting retaliation, though he managed to dodge my attack.

However, his foot had slid off my hand and I took that moment to roll away from him, and grab up my daggers again. I don't know what made me do an extra roll, but even as I stumbled onto my feet I heard his staff smack into the sand where I'd been seconds before. I guess he gave up on spells.

I whirled around and faced him. I could barely stay on my feet though. Sand was in the wounds from his fingers and it hurt like you wouldn't believe. Everything hurt—except my leg, for once.

I had figured that we both knew who was going to be winning that fight, but when I'd looked at the warlock, he'd looked worried, like he expected me to pull out some 'win' card and totally trample him into bone dust. I guess rogues are known for that.

But then, I'm not much of a rogue.

Even as I tried to figure out if I should try to run or see if I couldn't get that staff from him or something, I heard the sound of tree branches cracking and both the warlock and I turned in time to see a large black blur shoot out of the trees and slam into my adversary.

The wave of sand from Brath tackling my adversary into the ground left me with grit in my eyes and lungs and it took me a moment of coughing and blinking before I could finally see and breathe again.

However, when I looked over, somewhat happily expecting to see pieces of said warlock scatted across the beach, maybe bobbing in the surf, I saw that he was sitting on the ground, his legs crossed in front of him as he tried to reset one of his shoulders, and Brath had laid down in his dragon form, his head raised so that they were eye level.

The warlock laughed about something and then Brath gave him a toothy grin and half flapped his wings before responding. They weren't fighting. They were just talking.

They were friends.