Thanks to those who've expressed their interest in this story. It's a new venture for me, and it's gratifying to know that it's appreciated. I've put a lot more work into this story than is readily evident.

This chapter marks the first time an NPC from World of Warcraft makes it into the narrative. Let's see what she has to say, shall we?


He was dressed in furs and leathers, every stereotype of the kaldorei male that any human had ever held: huge, savage, with no regard for social protocol; a wild animal masquerading as a man. It was ironic that, if not for the inverse in size, he would also have met the lowest expectations that the night elves held for human men.

Sythius Sil'nathin had an exotic, almost regal name, but his bearing was anything but. His armor—and the men often wondered if it made any difference that he wore it, considering his bulk—had innumerable scratches and the Light only knew how many dried bloodstains; it was almost dyed red. The only thing that was clean about his appearance was the white-and-lavender fur mantle he wore, which matched the wrappings of his massive spear—and was similarly pristine. Sythius took great pains to wash these articles, often at the expense of washing himself. He was as dirty and grime-streaked as any of the plagued.

The thing was, all of them were. Even the captain, as crippled by his need for order and discipline as a foreign dignitary for adherence to tradition, was battered and unshaven. The Plaguelands did that to a person, human or elf or otherwise.

When she visited the camp, for most of the men it was the first vision, the first bare glimmer, of beauty they'd seen since their instatement. If Sythius was every stereotype of a night elf man, then this elf was every expectation of a nature goddess.

She wore simple robes of homespun wool, and she had an aura of fatigue about her that was all too expected, but still the meager needles of sunlight that penetrated the veil of disease seemed hell-bent on cradling her, such that she seemed to glow as she stepped smoothly like an autumn whisper into their midst. She had leaf-green hair that tumbled easily about her shoulders; she had a strong, willful stride and a curvy, healthy body yet to succumb to anything, least of all the exhaustion in her silver eyes or the pestilence of her surroundings. The men of Vant Lingham's company very nearly took a knee before her.

Her name was Rayne, and even the most pigheaded literalist could have appreciated the poetry there; she seemed to wash away the ugliness of this tainted earth by way of her mere presence. She approached the captain and nodded to him. Lingham gave a half-salute in response. "How many men?" she asked, with a silken voice that rang like music.

"Three," came Lingham's scratchy hiss. "Dorian and Jacoby are nursing scratches. Nothing fatal if it's tended quickly. But Gram's looking bad. Pale, shaking, and he says he's hungry through the nausea. He's already asked once that we end it before he turns. I hoped you might help to…calm him."

Rayne's brow furrowed with displeasure, but her jaw was set with a grim understanding. "Show me."

Lingham gestured. They began to walk in silence toward a sectioned-off tent at the far north edge of the camp. The captain's lips pursed as he saw Big Olrec sitting just outside the canvas morgue—they called it a medic's tent, but who were they kidding?—with a number of tools and ingredients, still tending to the boy. Sythius was not to be found.

The dwarf looked up as Lingham and Rayne came close. "Hail," he growled to the druidess, rough face splitting into his usual smile for the first time in what seemed like days. "Fare ye well, m'lady?"

Rayne smiled graciously; she liked the old shaman. "Master Stoutfeather. I am well." She was the only one in the Dawn who could call Big Olrec by his clan's name without a hammer across the face.

"Me heart sings ter hear it." He glanced at his commander, then back to Rayne. "'Ere to work yer magic on the boys?"

Rayne nodded.

Big Olrec nodded in turn. "M'lady." He suddenly looked grave again, and Rayne reacted to this by shifting a hand nearer to the dagger she kept on a thong in one of her sleeves, but so little changed in her expression that Lingham wasn't sure what to make of the exchange.

"Yes?"

"I wonder if ye might do a favor fer one o' yer own," the shaman said. "Ye seen the newbie. The big'un with the wild eyes."

Rayne's smile returned, but it seemed a strained one. "Sythius and I have…met. Yes." Again, Lingham wasn't sure what to make of this. He didn't bother to ask why she suddenly looked so tense. "Is he working for you and your men now? Captain Lingham?"

"…Yes. He is."

"Has he asked for me?" She almost sounded hopeful.

"Nay," Olrec said. "When I mentioned ye, lad got quiet. Said he'd nae want'n trouble fer ye."

Rayne raised an eyebrow. "He said that."

"Aye. So I'm askin' ye. This's yer callin'."

"Light, Olrec, leave it be," Lingham groaned.

"What'd I tell ye 'bout callin' him 'it?' When ye're done wit'cher business, m'lady…" He gestured. "The elf found 'im, out on the field. Nuttin' I done be much good fer him. Ye got a number o' years on me. Thought ye might have better luck."

Rayne considered for only a moment. "I'll do what I can. But if you've been unable to do anything…I don't know what difference I'll make."

"Ye flatter me." Big Olrec's smile returned. "Thankee."

Lingham and Rayne disappeared behind a canvas flap, and Olrec sat by the dying boy while he cursed the earth.


I know it's a bit short, but I decided when I started this project that each chapter would be comprised of a single scene. I hope I may be forgiven. Also, it should be noted that I make no guarantees about the accuracy of my Dwarf accent. Just…use your imagination, ne? Apparently dwarves all talk the same way, regardless of the universe from which they hail.