Loyally devoted & divided;

Need to talk to the player? This is the place.

★ If you have a problem interacting with Amarthiel and would prefer I not poke you in the future, let me know. She's not for everyone, but I promise I don't bite. :3

★ If you're interested in her story, and would like to plot your way into it, or just to arrange to learn more about her ICly.

★ If you're interested in playing one of the 'npc' characters from her storyline, let me know! ^^

★ &c &c.

Please do not flame me; I'm just having fun, and I know full well her story is improbable, somewhat silly, and occasionally slightly nonsensical. I've enjoyed RPing her for the past few years and I am not going to change my wicked ways now. If you don't like it, don't read it! |D

Either I've been kidnapped by the Bronze dragonflight in some moment outside time, or I've lost my mind. Either's equally inconvenient; I had somewhere to be, after all. Though our hostess (should I say our jailer?) assures me I needn't worry about that. There are enough mysteries to occupy my time-- where I am, when I am, why they've seen fit to detain the lot of us; except, the magic makes my teeth itch, the company sets me on edge, and I honestly don't care to try and comprehend the inner workings of Time itself.

I rather wish I'd gone downstairs in disguise; so far, the Alliance seems unwelcome. I'm sure with the dragons keeping a watchful eye, things won't get too violent-- at least, I hope so, given their choice of guests... Easier to fade into the background in more ways than one. Well, so be it; play the part, aloof and selfish, as much myself as any other facet. It works at odds with itself; when I was that way, a hiresword and nothing more, I'd have gone at all of them if I thought it'd win me a bounty, a commendation from the Guard. I've never been disloyal, really; never worked against the Alliance, or even considered it, though I'm sure I could have made some gold selling secrets if I'd tried. But to claim disloyalty now feels strange... even if I'm no more invested in the cause than I once was.

Unsettling. Well; no choice. I'll manage.

She had avoided this as long as possible, but there was no one left in Orgrimmar who could teach her. Nor was there anyone on the high, sunny reaches of the Tauren city. By all reports, if she wanted to further study the art of Alchemy her only recourse was the Royal Apothecary Society of the Forsaken.
The city of Lordaeron.
Amarthiel managed to kill the shudder that strove to creep down her spine, and pulled her hood a little closer to her face as she climbed down the zeppelin tower. It's just a place. You were so young when you left, why should it matter? Trying to calm herself lest she draw unwanted attention, she headed for the crumbling gates of the city.
With downturned eyes she walked towards the old seat of power, having been told that the way down to the Forsaken 'Undercity' was past king Terenas' throne room. Amarthiel kept to the shadows, half from training, and half because the ruined city scared her, in a way. Her feet guided her without her will; she found herself standing, in spite of her wishes, in front of a crumbling home. She didn't look at the coat of arms; didn't read the name inscribed upon the lintel. Just stared at the yawning, broken door, glad that the darkness inside obscured whatever was left. Her own family had not been here when the city fell; just a distant branch she didn't know and didn't much care to. It was a mystery to her what had become of them.
Amarthiel found herself wondering what had happened to the man who might have been her father, the paladin Ilfirin. She had never thought of him growing up; her father forbade reference to him, and though her mother had told her the story-- assuring her that the paladin was no relation-- it had never made a difference to her. If anything she felt a slight distaste for him because of the path he'd chosen; her mother's devotion had always left Amarthiel biased against champions of the Light.
Something stirred inside, a hazy, sulfurous glow rising in the depths of the cavernous building. It resolved itself into two points; one of the dead. Thankful for the mask that kept her face stiff, Amarthiel tried to smother her disgust.
"You like my home, orc?" rasped the corpse in heavily accented orcish. The weak sunlight spilled over a skull, bald of hair and sparse of flesh. What remained, shrunken and shriveled, of his lips was twisted into a sneering grin. She did not recognize his voice, or his ravaged face.
"I was admiring the coat of arms," she lied, glancing at it for the first time. Most of the gilt surface had been destroyed, the precious metal scraped away, leaving gouges in the marble. The fineness of detail was gone, but one could see the traces of its old shape; the hawk's wings that traced and mingled with the rays of a dawning sun.
"Aurefion," muttered the dead man darkly, his burning eyes narrowing. "Nothing of mine. They were long gone by the time I moved in," he chuckled, turning his gaze back to her. "For some of us, dying meant moving up in the world. All these were ancestral homes," he said, one sharp-fingered hand emerging from the darkness and waving down the row of marmoreal relics, "Households I could never have afforded, even if my birth entitled me to a place in one. Which it didn't," he added with another toothy leer.
Amarthiel tried not to breathe a sigh of relief. It was comforting to know this corpse was none of hers; and she doubted it was Snowsong. The dead man seemed more like a low-born scavenger, pleased to scrape at the ruins of a great house, pleased at his chance to dominate in death what he could not have touched in life.
"I am glad you find some pleasure in your current state," she muttered, and bowed her head. The Forsaken snorted; she could not tell whether it was amusement or disgust. He cast another glance at the crumbling coat of arms, and stalked back into his "home."
The 'orc' took a shuddering breath to center herself, and continued onwards towards the Undercity, trying not to think about where she was or where she was going. "Nothing of mine," the corpse had said. The warrior had no desire to contend his claim. She'd sooner take the house in Lakeshire. Amarthiel did not look back, as she headed for the so-called Undercity; behind her, the doorway yawned open, dark and empty. The house was nothing of hers, either.. Not anymore.

Amarthiel crept through the dripping caverns beneath the Ashenvale beach, concentrating on each step. It wasn't enough to be quiet, she reminded herself; you had to move slowly but surely, one step after the other, avoiding the drifting gazes of the naga and satyr that wandered so close, from time to time, that she feared alerting them to her presence by brushing against them. She reminded herself to exhale, keeping the rythm of her breath even, letting it fade into quiet background noise... Holding your breath wasn't helpful, but it was the natural nervous response.
Part of her wanted to take the quick way out- she was well-trained and strong; she could, in her normal guise, take them all down without stopping for breath. And the world'd be better off for it, she thought, pausing as one of the demons' eyes passed over her.
But... well... She needed the practice in subtlety.. and who knew if these cheap daggers would hold, if she tried them against the monstrous creatures here. Besides, she'd come down here with a number of Horde women; two of the Blood Elves, two of the dead, and she didn't know where they'd gotten to. Her disguise had served her well, in their company, and there was no reason to jeopardize that because of impatience.
Their battle with the manifestation of the Old God summoned by the Twilight's Hammer had gone, all in all, quite well. Amarthiel doubted they'd made a real difference- the Adept they'd slain might have been the head of this chapter of the cult, but those who sold their souls to such primal forces were rarely that easy to exterminate. And the enormous hydra they'd slain had been but the barest sliver of the goddess' power; just an avatar.
As she slid along a wall, keeping her eyes on the nearby serpent priestess, the "rogue" mused on just how lucky they'd been that she was more than they'd seemed. As they crept through the cavern towards the great hydra, the five had been carefully dispatching huge, angry turtles. However, they ventured too close, and suddenly the goddess was upon them. The sin'dorei Paladin fell quickly, and the hydra's heads whipped around to face the dead priestess.
Training took over; Amarthiel surrendered to instinct and changed her stance, bracing herself to withstand the blows. Throwing her head back she roared defiantly at the beast, challenging it to take its attention from the priestess. Yelling, to keep its attention on her, the woman did her best to cut the beast down quickly, oblivious to the uncomfortable sensation of the Light being channeled, made all the more unusual by the fact that one of the plague-dead wielded it. Slowly but surely it weakened, bleeding freely from knife-wounds and arcane burns. Amarthiel renewed her efforts, and the beast soon fell. The mage and warlock sat down to recover from their mental exertions; the other Forsaken knelt beside the paladin's fallen form to pray for her soul's return. The "orc" walked off a ways, concerned that letting her training show might raise questions she couldn't answer.
She feigned a worse reaction to the hydra's venom than she felt, sitting on a moss-slick stone while the others recovered. At length the priestess wandered over; Amarthiel glanced up.
"Good work, Amar," she said, with a pale-lipped grin. The mercenary returned the expression, though her red mask concealed the curl of lips around carved-bone fangs.

A satyr stirred as she crept by, and Amarthiel froze, abandoning her reminiscence. The demon shook its head, and she crept off quickly, attention firmly planted in the moment. Still, she couldn't help but smile... it was fortunate, how her dual training worked out.

No thunderclaps or revelations accompanied the birth of Lord Aurefion's child; it was, if not an easy birth, an average one. Ilfirin waited with Victor for the child to be presented; the two men did not speak. Still seemingly confident of his innocence, the paladin waited patiently; Aranel's husband, on the other hand, paced the floor, occasionally shooting angry glares at the younger man. Still suspicious, the imminent arrival of his (possible) offspring had raised all the doubts he'd been feeling... and the proximity of the man who had-- emotionally, if not literally-- cuckolded him, was torturous.
Eventually, after the interminable waiting, the midwife's apprentice brought out the babe, wrapped in the clean, monogrammed blanket Lord Aurefion had provided. The new father surveyed the girl, searching in her eyes for some hint of himself, or of the paladin. However, being a newborn she bore no resemblance to either man.
Ilfirin again professed his innocence; the only warmth he felt for the child was based on his love for her mother. He declined to hold her, insisting that Lord Aurefion was, in fact, her father, and as such he wouldn't dare take her from him. He asked after Aranel; was told that she was weak, but stable. On that note, he offered his congratulations to the lord, his best wishes to the lady, and left.
After some thought, Victor chose to name his daughter "child of Fate;" seeing her questionable paternity as a matter that could not be divined. And so it was that Amarthiel Aurefion came into this world, mistrusted by her father, something of an embarassment to the family because of the mystery of her birth.
As the child grew, it became clear that she resembled her mother very strongly; the same soft, dark features developed in the girl, with no trace of either man. In time, perhaps only from familiarity, Victor became convinced that she did, indeed, resemble him; grudgingly, he gave his permission for his wife to visit with Ilfirin. This, however, reawoke rumors about the lady and her knight.
Amarthiel, doted on by her father at first, soon caught his dislike for the paladin. She found Victor much less affectionate as soon as Snowsong came back into her mother's life and, being but an infant, she took an irrational dislike to him. In spite of his renewed suspicions-- or perhaps because of them, as a result of his possessiveness-- Victor decided that his daughter was indeed worthy to carry the Aurefion name.

By the time Amarthiel was three, the constant rumors about the affair between Ilfirin and Aranel- and the whispered questions about the girl's parentage- became too much for Victor to handle. Giving his title and estate to a distant cousin, he took Aranel and their young daughter south, leaving Lordaeron in favor of the small, insignificant town of Lakeshire... Far from the stares and whispers, far from rumors of scandal.
Aranel, shaken by her husband's decision to move, and tormented by the loss of Ilfirin, turned to the Light for comfort; it could not replace her Paladin love, but it gave her strength. From an early age, Amarthiel was pushed by her mother to enter the priesthood- a fact that contributed to her growing distaste for the Light itself. It is possible that Aranel's insistence upon her devotion was meant as a jab at her husband; an expression of her indignation of having been taken from her home, her friends, and of course, Ilfirin, in spite of the fact that she'd remained faithful to him. Whatever the cause, Amarthiel and her father began to distance themself from Aranel, unable to stomach her newfound religious zeal.
Life in Lakeshire, surprisingly, suited Victor quite well. The Aurefions kept a small farm, and the former Lord found he enjoyed the management of such a small and productive estate much better than the ultimately meaningless activity of the city. The farm was not successful enough to restore the family's former wealth, but it allowed them to live more or less comfortably.
Perhaps to spite her mother's intentions, Amarthiel was an athletic youth. She was something of a lone wolf from early on; Aranel's devotion won no small share of mockery from the rest of Lakeshire, and the other children thus tended to avoid the Aurefion household. Amarthiel, already somewhat jaded by the instability of her brief life, hardened to it, and didn't go out of her way to win their trust. She kept largely to herself, quietly accepting any attention she won, but not seeking much.
One of Victor's last holdovers of noble behavior was his desire to spoil his child; she was largely free to do as she pleased, having few chores or responsibilities on the farm. What little work Amarthiel did tend to be in the stables; from an early age she was fascinated by even the tired old plow-horses Victor bought along with the farm. By the age of ten, she was a regular assistant to the stablehands, and even when nothing needed to be done, could often be found hanging around the equine members of the family. Her interest encouraged her father to buy several more horses, perhps the base stock to begin breeding them for sale, as the farm began to turn a profit; as a start, he gifted her with a stallion of her own, a fine black steed, a suitable mount for a young noble girl. To his vague dismay, Amarthiel proved to be something of a wild rider... and the energetic horse was happy to play along. She vanished from the stables, spending all her time riding, racing through the woods and only occasionally showing up for meals and sleep.

As I rode north from the ruins of Durnholde, I wasn't thinking of what lay ahead. My mind had drifted to what lay behind- the concurrent past that lay buried in the south of Kalimdor, where I'd walked over this terrain long ago, surveying the Keep unbroken, the prison and home of the orc I've come to think of as my Warchief.
So perhaps, lost in contemplation of the complexities of time, I forgot the equal complexities of my own allegiences.
By luck I'd managed to ride past the two Wildhammer gryphons that guard the southern pass through the foothills without catching their attention. In spite of my absentmindedness, the dire wolf I purchased in Orgrimmar- once I felt myself sufficiently established that such a display of affluence would not raise suspicion- loped along the path worn in the grass, in no hurry to get anywhere.
A sudden shout brought me back to reality. The wolf stopped short, muscles tense, ready to fight or flee. The voice came again, recognizable (to me, at least,) as one of the Wildhammers of Aerie Peak calling to his fellows. Of course, I'd never bothered to stop and think about where I was going.
I vaulted off the beast's back and gave a clipped command in Orcish that sent him running. Anyone who thought it prudent to chase a gigantic, angry wolf probably deserved what they got if they caught him.
As for myself, I cursed the inattentiveness that had gotten me into such a mess- being caught unaware made it much more difficult. For obvious reasons, I didn't want to kill my pursuers; they had murder in their eyes now, but I'd accepted the hospitality of the Wildhammer clan before. I hit the ground lightly, listening for another shout, trying to figure out which way they'd be coming.
The first was upon me before I could guess; I twisted out of the way and shot a kick out at his heel, managing to throw him off balance. Sure enough he tripped; I took a breath, thankful that I'd mastered so many techniques of incapacitation without injury, and flipped my dagger in my hand to jab him with the hilt. As I'd hoped, the heavy pommel hit its mark, and the sudden shock to a well-placed nerve left the dwarf slumped over.
I didn't have time to make my escape before a second was upon me, narrowly missing me with a shortsword. I rolled to the side and brought a dagger up to parry his next cut, wincing as the impact jarred my elbow. I scrambled up and began backing up slowly, at least having the sense to move away from Aerie Peak. I used my right arm to keep up a defense, parrying and dodging the worst of his cuts- tho' a few managed to scar the thick leather armor I wore. Finally, I managed to get one of my belt pouches open. I grabbed a handful of the powder, and turning my head to the side to avoid any blowing back, flung it in the dwarf's face.
He roared in frustration and stumbled back, clawing at his face. The blinding powder would hurt but wouldn't damage him in the end. I didn't stay around to watch. Giving a sharp whistle, which would hopefully get my mount's attention, I turned and ran, expending all my energy for a short burst of speed which would hopefully get me far enough away that the dwarves would stop chasing me, once they came to.
The brush rustled to my left; I tensed and prepared to dodge, but the only pursuer that emerged was the great, dark wolf. Relieved, I remounted and paused to get my bearings, finally heading east towards the Overlook Cliffs, and the small trollish town I knew was there. Those guards, in fact, had come after me more than once, when I'd chanced to wander too close.
I had always thought that anything trying to kill me was fair game for a fight. Now, caught between two warring factions, I found my perspective infinitely complicated... Anything that would kill me in either guise was still fair game... But it was always disconcerting to see my "allies" from the other side. I've been chased by men I knew from the Stormwind guard; I've spoken with the Orcish soldiers who used to nearly lame my horse as I ran along the coast of the Barrens.
I remember once, riding through Tanaris in the shadow of the Scourge, and having a brief glimpse of understanding, the realization that there were larger things out there than I busied myself with. It was a revelation I rejected at the time; I went back to whatever I'd hired myself out for, and only looked into working for the Argent Dawn when I'd learned they were paying well. Self-sacrifice is not in my nature.
But now... To stand on both sides of a war, makes it difficult to understand how we can villify our foes so thoroughly. It was that attitude that drew me to Orgrimmar in the first place... I am no less dismayed by those among the Horde who make slaying the Alliance their goal in life. I don't have the luxury of that blindness anymore.

Few people had noticed my absence, and none had been bothered or become suspicious. I picked up where I had left off- looking for ways to keep food on the table and, if possible, a roof over my head.
I was approached by a gnome in Stormwind- I don't know who recommended my services to her, but she was willing to pay for some assistance; escort through the Barrens and help killing some quillboars. My own dislike for the pig-men led me to agree, and we headed off. We secured passage to Theramore and ran from there, stopping off to rest at the few outposts that Lady Proudmoore kept between her island and the Barrens. Dustwallow Marsh is not the safest of places but the road was relatively clear, and we made good time, in spite of the fact that my charge had no mount of her own. She was friendly, at least; I don't generally like gnomes- too calculating, too mechanically-minded- but this young warrior was cheerful and had a good sense of humor.
After helping her out in the southern Barrens, I agreed to take her up to the Charred Vale, although our agreement had only included time in the Barrens.
She was young, I think, and did not seem to know much about the world; she gasped in shock seeing a young Tauren run by us in the Barrens. We made it to Stonetalon quickly enough, and it was nice to be back under the shade of trees. I mentioned this, and the gnome agreed.
"The logging here is.. troubling," I said absently, keeping an eye out for spiders.
"Why?" she asked.
"They're over-cutting... This place will look like the Barrens if something isn't done," I explained. "It's not so bad here.. but over on Windshear Crag, for example.. there's hardly anything left, and the Venture Company is vicious." I sighed. "There and everywhere.. I've heard they've even spread into Mulgore, where the Tauren are."
"Tauren?"
I laughed. "Like that young shaman we passed before..." I trailed off, realizing I needed to change my town; I didn't want to sound too sympathetic.
The gnome brightly mentioned something about the advantages of building in stone and metal, and I nodded, my mind elsewhere. The orcs, too, were doing their own logging; in Ashenvale I'd heard of the endless battle with the Silverwing Sentinels over the rights to a small valley, where the Horde had set up a lumber camp. I didn't feel much sympathy for that; the kaldorei had done enough for me that I respected them, even if they had their measure of arrogance.
We spoke very little as we travelled through the Charred Vale, killing what was in our way. We parted company in Desolace. I pondered heading back to Theramore; perhaps taking up residence there, instead of in Stormwind. It would make it easier to get to Orgrimmar... And somehow, I might feel safer under the reign of Jaina Proudmoore; at any rate I might feel like less of a traitor.
I flew back to Theramore to spend the night in its inn, no long-term decision made. I wondered absently whether, in time, anyone would notice my absence when I left Orgrimmar... for that matter, I wondered how long I intended to stay there.

My teacher in Razor Hill, who'd picked up where the old orc in the Den had left off, sent me to Orgrimmar to advance my training. The member of the Shattered Hand I there encountered sent me to Ratchet; I decided to take the opportunity to travel through Kalimdor.
Mulgore struck me as almost painfully beautiful; I imagine the Barrens must have looked like that, once. The grass was thick and invitingly green; I longed to pull off my boots and walk in it. But here, hardly a stone's throw from the rises of Thunder Bluff, I didn't dare endanger my disguise. Still, Mulgore felt wild; I admired the Tauren for managing to live there without changing it. Even the Night Elves, who can hardly be seperated from their leafy homes, seem coercive in comparison. The trees bend willingly to serve their needs; but the city of the Tauren feels shaped by necessirty. I spent some time on its rises, peering into the leather tents where the Bluffs' denizens kept their shops and plied their crafts. It is a peaceful place; much more like Darnassus than I think most of my fellows in the Alliance would expect. Eventually I left, heading regretfully back to the Barrens, hoping to find Tazan- the troll south of Ratchet that I'd been asked to kill for the Shattered Hand.
Waiting for Tazan to come along, I was taken by surprise by one of the local pirates. I was distractedly scanning the horizon for the troll, and she got the jump on me. Stil unaccustomed to the lightness of my armor, I did not dodge quickly enough; she cut me deeply. Light headed and frenzied with blood loss I fought a losing battle, eventually falling. I know not for how long.
The first thing I saw upon waking was a massive, dark-furred face; the green haze around the edge of my vision helped me grasp the situation. The tauren had Healed me, apparently catching me at the brink of death. I stumbled to my feet and bowed my head in thanks, not yet trusting my voice or my command of orcish, the way my head reeled. The bull returned the bow. His eyes were dark and deep- not an animal's eyes, as I'd always assumed. Finally I managed to stammer a brief word of thanks, wishing I'd had some way to learn Taurahe, and sprinted off to the shade of a nearby palm to sit and wait, and ready myself for battle. The bull went on his way towards Ratchet.

In time I took care of the assignment, and headed back to Orgrimmar. After following up on my task, I decided to call it a night.

The next morning, I woke up aching. I wasn't out of shape by any standard- but training as a rogue was worlds away from selling a warrior's sword. My legs felt useless, from jumping and dodging, as well as running from city to city. I decided to take a day off and explore Orgrimmar instead of the outside world.

I brought her a bag of blue pearls, from Stranglethorn Vale. They weren't precisely payment, but she'd mentioned that she used them herself and it seemed only fair. I brought her a small pouch of malachite, inexpensively procured at the Auction House, and a handful of Stranglekelp, wrapped in damp silk in a small wooden box, and a few other bits and pieces to brew dyes. In my pack, I also had a number of hides and skins; some heavier ones and some finer, which were destined for a master Leatherworker of Amynnah's acquaintance.
I have never known loyalty. I've never sought to be noble or true. I have always been a pragmatist; doing what I must and no more, seeking to survive and be comfortable. And all of a sudden I decide to undertake this madness? I couldn't fathom my own decisions. The Druidess, I think, understood to some degree; but she could offer me no explanations.
I don't know to this day what she told her guild-sister; all I know is, i was told to contact another kaldorei by the name of Máme Menelril and give her a number of materials. I'd seen her work before; she made helms for her fellow Druids in the shape of lupine masks, and the craftsmanship was exquisite. I had perfect faith in her abilities, though I was a bit leery of explaining myself. Normally I'd have had faith in my ability to come up with a convincing lie... but something about this whole venture unsettled me.
Thankfully I did not have to explain anything- she took the package I handed her without a question. "Two weeks," she promised me, and headed back to her work... Two weeks for me to sit and question my sanity.
There was nothing I stood to gain, really, from going into Orgrimmar. And there was plenty to lose- if I were to be caught, I'd be killed. By either faction. The Horde would suspect me of being a spy; the Alliance would call me a traitor.
I spent my time studying what little I could of the Orc's language, as well as a couple of brief treatises on Trollish and Taurahe. I had no hope for fluency- understanding a few words of every sentence would be more than enough. I could manage, I thought, as a rather dull-witted fighter; I planned to seek training as a rogue, rather than continuing my own path. I've had enough experience, I wouldn't want to draw undue attention or progress too fast. Better to go with something new.
Eventually I returned to the two druids. Máme had outdone my wildest imagination, creating a mask and gloves lifelike enough that they nearly fooled me. The thick leather had gone to make the shape, and the finer to cover it; she'd treated it to look completely vibrant and fleshlike. The stitches on the seams were invisible, tiny, tight, and hidden in spots where the flesh would crease anyway. Her real mastery showed in the small details; the way the leather was thinned along the eye sockets and around the mouth, to allow for easier blending into my own skin; the thin eyebrows; the earrings fitted into the stiff leather ears. I thanked her profusely, but she refused payment; if nothing else I made a note to recommend her to anyone in need of fine crafting and refused to take any of the excess leather.
Amynnah had been no less industrious; she let me in and hurried to show me a number of potions and concoctions. The dyes she'd obviously delivered to her friend, but there was a cream pigment of the exact same shade to use on the exposed skin around my eyes, and with which I could blend the edge of the leather onto my own skin. The dried Bruiseweed and Swifthistle had become a kind of glue, she told me, which would keep the mask from slipping. There was another substance to dissolve the glue (Silverleaf and Wintersbite, I guessed, based on the scent.) And a handful of other things; and a list of what was what, in case I forgot. She'd also procured- I know not from where- some false teeth, which seemed to be carved of bone; I had never even considered the jutting lower fangs, or how to approximate them.
I headed back to my inn with a pack full of things I would never be able to explain. All that I was waiting on was my own readiness.

I tried to stay away. I went to the pub in Kharanos and spent some of my ever-diminishing silver on something to calm my nerves, but all I heard were the nasty comments and gloats of the other patrons... Stomach lurching again i finally stumbled out into the cold again, swearing that I'd just go up to Ironforge and get a room at the inn.
Three minutes later I was sitting on a snowy hillside, watching the snow settle on the murdered (murdered? That can't be the right word,) horde. I found myself wishing there'd been, I don't know, a flower-seller or something.. the idea of these poor broken bodies left out here, desecrated and alone, really did something to me. Maybe it's just the fact that I felt like I was facing my own future- dead behind enemy lines for some unfathomable reason, where no one would ever find me, or feel for me.
Whatever...
All of a sudden something glowed in the soft cover of snow.. The faint shape of an ankh on the shaman's chest burst into light suddenly, dazzling me. It faded again and the prone form shifted and sat up. I wasn't sure whether he could see me or not; in either case, the troll paid me no mind. He drank from a small wineskin at his belt, and stood, surveying the damage to his companions. Taking a deep breath, the glowing eyes closed and he began to cast... He resurrected them both, casting a soft, healing green glow upon each. The woman nodded her thanks, and began to tend to her fallen pet. The bull grunted softly, shaking his head, and sat down in the snow to examine the state of his weaponry. They seemed little the worse for wear.. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't somehow strangely comforted.
While the male troll and the tauren sat down to catch their breath, the huntress began to walk around the perimeter of the little grove in which they'd fallen... I jerked, waking from my distraction as she turned in my direction. shit... There wasn't enough time to get away... I laid my polearm on the ground, as far away as I could reach, and held my empty hands in my lap, hoping she'd realize I wasn't a threat.
She was right in front of me before I realized it, and she caught my gaze. "I'm not going to start anythin'," I murmured uselessly. She didn't seem particularly threatening herself, I realized.. I'd fought trolls in the ruins of Stranglethorn, but the women there had been stronger, stockier; this huntress was smaller and lighter than most of them. She almost resembled the Huntress who used to hire me to fish... I gestured to the spear that lay in the snow, and shook my head. I could probably take her, if it came to it- but not her two friends.
She just smiled at me, though, and nodded as though she understood. I sat there, stunned, as she moved on. She finally returned to the others. I suppose she didn't tell them about me; at any rate, they called their riding beasts and headed away.
I stayed for some time watching the snow fall, covering the marks of the scuffle, before heading out to Stormwind. I don't normally like that city- it makes me think of the fallen Lordaeron- but I couldn't stand the thought of anymore snow.