Castles in the Sand

The notice said "The Traitor Jaina Proudmoore" and it was plastered upon the walls of Stormwind, looking to the more traveled markets and commons. It's script was simple, to the point, calling for a meeting but a few days hence, to censure the lady of Theramore Keep. It was proclaimed by one Corporal Breeor, and attracted the attention of a certain gnome warlock and her best blue friend.

“I know … it’s not much.

“A child’s play craft, from happier times, when the hardest decisions were how formal a place to set for the afternoon tea or if Miss Disneri might wish one acorn or two … and for you, remembering not honey or sugar but jam.”

The gnome lass sat upon the cobbles of Stormwind, her dark robes pooled about her, cloaking her in the deepest shades of gray and black. Long ago this fel garb stopped being pristine, no longer fine. Instead they now bore the harsh battering and disturbing stains betraying passage deep into titan halls. What color splashed her this late afternoon came from the wildflowers in her lap. Argent peaceblooms, the deep crimsons of Talandra’s Rose, the sparkle of mana wrought thistles found in the forgotten ramparts above Shattrath.

Beneath the silent gaze of her eldest companion, slender fingers slowly wove the bright flowers together, taking quiet care, teeth catching upon her lower lip as she concentrated. Cobalt and sable with sharp talons forged of ancient magic, the big Voidwalker shifted, his bracers shimmering as they caught the light sifting down past the half timbered buildings, sneaking into her quiet corner.. Protectively he shadowed the gentle warlock, skittish, as if he could feel the unacknowledged darkness hidden within this keep town.

“It’s the path of least effort, Mezzy …

“And that makes it a powerful seduction, powerful enough to send one’s heart racing, to heat blood and temper far past any manner of reason …

“Be it within the halls of Lordaeron or within a city tavern.

“It’s like a castle in the sand …”

There was a moment of silence, as red blossoms were set in their broad circle, accenting the boughs of green which loop in a simple interlaced ring.

“Small buckets and a little shovel, the pat of hands upon damp sand at the surf’s very edge, and if one works, sets their heart into it, come the end of the day a tall and wondrous castle can be set against the beach, with ramparts as proud as those which guard Ironforge, as pretty as the temples in Darnassus, as tall and elegant as the spires of Dalaran.

“And yet …

“All it takes is a handful of heartbeats for a bully’s kick, for strong arm tactics without care or compassion, to shatter those beautifully sculpted towers until there is naught left but memories to be washed away by the roll of the tide.”

Slowly the young gnome turned her work over in her hands.

“It must be intoxicating, to stand over the fallen, to look down and say, I broke that. As if somehow might can determine what is right by the simple course of destruction.

“And yet, even as the sand is washed out to sea, the truth that something good stood, even for a little while, can’t ever be taken away.

“One can’t help but think that makes that manner of victory … empty.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s a castle of sand or one of stone, if it is a kingdom, or a single person.

“It doesn’t matter if it is by sword or words.”

“In the end Mezzy, it’ll never make it right.

Standing, she dusted off her robes, shaking out her deep russet pigtails

“Build a home upon a far away shore … forge a peace with one’s enemies.

“It’s so easy to tear somethin’ down …

“It’s so much harder to put somethin’ together.”

Carefully she hung her playful wreath upon the Stormwind signpost, the bright dance of color covering the notice of one Corporal Breeor.

Accidentally.

Perhaps.

Heroine

The warlock sat at the edge of the pier, looking out across the frozen sea. It glittered dark, the first hints of the coming dawn casting long shadows through the ice flows, dusting the frozen islands in growing saffron. Behind her, the tusker village was starting to wake, a slow and easy bustle. Kamagua was no great port or merchanter focus. It was small, and she liked that, very much. A place where the most dire threat was a shift in the fish schools, where the skills of a net maker far out weighed those of a swordsmith.

Beside her the great blue Voidwalker too looked out to the dawn. Still, and quiet, his expression inscrutable.

A demon upon a pastoral morning.

"I know ..."

The little warlock tugged a deep red pigtail, her thoughts reaching beyond this quiet place.

"I know everyone says we should move to the city, to be at the center of one's important tasks, to have all the resources of the world at one's fingertips. Eternium thread, smiths to mend armor and blade, where those who stand to fight the Lich King can find us, to send us upon our missives against the cold, frozen dark.

"But I'm not sure."

Green eyes closed, and she hugged herself. Teeth set upon her lower lips they pressed, hard enough to pale them.

"Is it swords and ensorclements, is all it takes to be a hero but strength and skill? Two swords and a crown and a will unstoppable. Is that a hero, Mezzy? Is it some manner of ranking ... as if by some number of scourge-tormented skulls one stacks, if that grim pile gets high enough, one is bestowed such an honor? Is that what forges those upon whom the minstrel sings.

"A dragon's head, a harpy's corpse, ogres and giants slain

"To rise from the dark, unbent and unbroken. To claim what was lost, to stand against the coming night no matter what may be the cost."

Slowly she let out her breath, a puff of frost left in the air. Her eyes opened, looking to the lightening horizon. But perhaps, perhaps they looked farther.

"But I'm not sure."

Tilting her head, she looked back up to her oldest friend.

"It must have been very hard."

Breath caught, held for a long heartbeat before let out.

"For Her."

About the young woman the Kalu'ak were setting their boats to the sea, stacked with their nets, fishing poles rising this way and that in a happy chaos. The coiling of rope was accompanied by deep and low harmonies, a shanty for working to, to greet the coming day. But as she looked to the cold northsea her thoughts couldn't be farther away. Lost in a broken kingdom, where the only water was fel green within dusty stone canals, where there was no sky save vaulted ceilings of grey stone, where the blood of a betrayer seeped into the bitter dust along with shattered bones.

Where death was but a transitory hurt.

"It would have been far easier, Mezzy, to have focused Her magics, to draw down that arcane power in a deadly bolt and strike down that which her companion named as villian and cur. There would have been no one to gainsay such a righteous killing, and I know when returned to Stormwind, She would have been met with cheers and accolades, been proclaimed great among Her kith and kin.

"Named a hero of the Battle of the Undercity, set with the legendary of Stormwind."

"But she didn't chose that path."

There was an imperfect silence. One beat, two, then three.

"There is something out of balance, Mezzy, something I can't quite name, that lurks within this masquerade in which we are trapped. As if one were to pull off those masks of the roles we play one may find the visage exposed lacking.

"And that the true strong ones are the ones who do not wear such masks."

"Be that mask a tabard, a sword ...

"... or a crown."

Small fingers rested upon her new stff, slowly moving up and down its length.

"It must have been hard, Mezzy. To bring down those frozen prisons, to halt that bitter fight. To return a Warchief to his halls. To return a King to his fanciful throne room. Knowing full well the wrath that would follow and the dark words that must now be sneaking like a rogue through Stormwind's halls.

"To find one's self in a place built not of stone or steel or blood but conscience.

"Her decision struck not because it is what everyone knew what should be done ... what one's liegelord proclaimed ... what would bring one the most glory and acclaim ... what should have been the next dance in our masquerade.

"Done simply ...

"... because it was the right thing to do."

Slowly the warlock stood, palms dusting off her robes. A small glance was cast over her shoulder, to the southwest. As if she were looking all the way to Theramore.

"Every morning, we watch the fishing boats go off to sea.

"It's important, Mezzy.

"So that in my heart, each and every day ...

"I know that it is not swords and enscorclements, that it is not two swords and a crown nor how tall a pile of skulls ..."

She couldn't help but smile, as the fish vendor passed her. And what was most important upon his greeting her - not the coin for trade, no matter how beneficial for both - a simple blessing for staying warm against the forever winter.

"... but seal-skin boats. A morning welcome. To make sure the Kala'uk's only worry is which direction the reef salmon are running.

"I know, in the grand scheme of things, it's not very much and we'll never be heroes, Mezzy.

"Not like Miss Jaina.

"But this ...

"This ...

"This is enough for us."

Hero

Oh Mezzy.

The woods of Elwynn are supposed to be so beautiful.

The sun sifting through the canopy in a golden and green moire, the singsong of the birds carefree upon the warm branches. Even the domestic bustle, the clang of a cowbell, the bark of a dog, the creak of a wagon wheel laden with vegtables market bound, there's a quiet peace in all that. The peace of clothes drying on the line, the softness of a bobber drifting at the end of a fishing line, the whuffle of an old destrier pulling a plow; his days of spurs and barding now but a faded memory.

I can't hear it Mezzy.

Not any more.

I can't taste the hint of apples in the gentle air, the sweet smell of hops and barley. I can't feel the caress of the autumn breeze, that measure of warmth of summers past and the promise of summers to come, the crystal measure of cold, reminding us that winter awaits before us.

Oh Mezzy.

For winter has come early. It is here.

The only thing I can hear are the broken cries of hurt and terror. The only thing I can feel is the cut of steel, the dull ache of that bitter fel miasma, the final heat of cleansing dragon fire. The scent of ash, brimstone and rot choke; there is no deep breath that can be taken, no sweet water that can wash away that taste, no wine potent enough to grant the blurred gift of absolute forgetfulness. I can't close my eyes, afraid of what I might see; black dreams and nightmares pale against the cruel truth that now haunts the borders of Dragonblight.

For I know if I close my eyes I would still see them.

Not just the knights of Stormwind, not just the stone strong of Ironforge, not just the light filled Dranei or the still Kaldorei.

But the children of Gnomergan too.

I never knew her name. But as I looked down the line of rank and file, I saw her. I know she had hair lighter than mine, but tied in the very same pigtails. Her goggles told me she was an engineer, that and how proud she looked standing next to her siege machine. I never knew her name. I should have asked. I should have taken that moment to offer a smile and a greeting.

So that my herald's ride could have come to a close, perhaps at some stone door in Tinkertown, where I could have looked to her mother and her father, unable to offer them anything that could counter such a loss except to tell to them they should be proud; proud of a daughter who had stood in His company.

Somewhere, sometime, behind me, like ripples of a stone in a mirror smooth pond, the other fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters will hear. And that is some manner of solace; knowing that in days upon days, from grandparent to grandchild, they will speak of those who fought with Him; a fragile immortality of lore, that at least some manner of consolation. But the ache is there, the darkest pit, knowing that there must be those who had no family, no kin to remember them, no one to raise a rough wooden goblet in the Thunderbrew in their memory, and yet, they too, stood for a fight for which there was no winning. They may have been alone among Stormwind's many, but that should not, it can not, cast a shadow upon any that fell today.

The shield I carry upon my back is heavy, as if its very weight could press my Dreadsteed's hooves deep into the ground.

I wish ... part of me wishes ... part of me would trade my very breath to have not started that path that lead to Wintergarde and its Scourge bound secrets. Or to have found some way to break that chain that lead to His holdfast. And yet I know in my heart that he understood full well the weight of the words we brought to Him. That they were his to bear, for how could He have given them to another, to ask someone else to take his place, to meet the fate he must have known awaited behind those black steel gates.

I think, I can't help but believe, his bravado, his boldness, there was more to it than simple pride. To call out the Liche King, before his very door, was as much for us as to tempt Arthas Menethil's cold temper. For it stilled the fear in our hearts and bones, which told anyone with even the littlest sense to run. I looked to each side, as those steel jaws opened, as I caught my first sight of frozen armor and the icicle sheen of Frostmourne. You could see that they they knew too, but more ... it wasn't power, it wasn't respect, because both of those qualities can be paid for in the coin of fear, and fear is a very poor leash.

It was trust.

You could trust, that when the world ended, He would be standing there with them, with us.

How could we not offer the same in return?

I can hope, I can wish.

I can wish, that as the final green mist closed in upon him, choking in the betrayal by Varimathras, that he saw a glimpse of the Dragonflight. And just as he stood and did not abandon us, with his fading sight, the stopping of his heart, he knew he had not been abandoned.

And that is why I carried his shield.

Not by griffin, not by some portal carved out of the arcane, by some mage, by some trickery of Dalaran.

But on my back, from the burning wastes and through his country, passing one last time through the forests of Elwynn.

Not abandoned upon that carrion field but homeward bound, one last time.

One last time across that stone bridge, to call witness of the city's elders, their still and carven gaze carrying time's weight, knowing another has come to join their ranks. To hear my Dreadsteed's hoofbeats upon fine paving, to proclaim His arrival louder than any trumpet call and hearing that sound thunder between the buildings and over the familiar canals.

They must have felt it, the importance of my missive, for even the guards at the keep gates stepped aside, as we galloped into the heart of the city. To skitter-skid to a halt before the throne of Stormwind itself; for even a Dreadsteed's hooves are not made for floors of polished marble. You could, however, hear the stone strain and crack beneath their heat, as if marking proof of the fall of Fordragon Hold.

To offer King Varian Wrynn the shield of his sword brother.

How could I have known, Mezzy, of what was to happen next? Am I that naive, am I that silly hopeful, to have sought both wisdom and strength in such a dark hour? Oh I am sure the dark hearted will look upon me as a simpleton. One has but to look at the history of humankind's kings to see how easily pride comes before truth, and how vengence seems to fill their veins.

I expected a call to arms, I am not that silly.

To fell the betrayer that took so many lives at the gates of Icecrown.

Gates beneath which I had heard the challenging growl of orcish war wargs, and it didn't matter that their skin was a different shade then ours. Against the Lich King, upon that field, all were brothers and sisters. Their blood was as red as ours, and the Scourge took them as easily as they swept over our Alliance ranks.

But, of course, I followed His King. A gift of loyalty to honor of those who fell. From Stormwind ...

... into the depths of the Undercity.

There we saw that traitor fall.

And yet, yet, how can I not feel that in the end the only one who held victory in those bloody catacombs is he who rules from a throne of ice?

King Varian Wrynn, how could you have turned against those who came, unbidden, to our aid, upon that Scourge razed stairs?

Or is that why you hate them so?

To strike with accusations of blackened trust, to call for a justice more empty than the scraps of armor smithed in Thunder Bluff; that which now lay beneath Angrathar. Blinded, only seeing the sword as the one true answer, and that scared me, because the last king who followed that broken truth is the very same one He gave his life to stand against.

Is that why you hate them so?

That it was an Orc who stood at His side, against the Lord of Snow and Ice? That when the betrayal came and burned down all, it was Saurfang who stood shoulder to shoulder, Ogrimmar steel beside Stormwind's shield?

Could it be you can not face the question which still echoes from each clip-clop of a Dreadsteed's hooves upon harsh cobbles?

When Stormwind's Hero, when Lord Bolvar Fordragon stood before the Wrathgate ...

Where were you?

Bookends 2

Dear Belm,

This is all your fault.

She came on your recommendation. A quiet gentle demeanor. Earnest, honest and never has a bad word to say about anyone. Her companions, always well behaved, no chewing on the bedposts or harassing the other patrons. And most importantly, she always, always pays her rent on time.

So yesterday evening I had business down in the Lower City. New tapestries for the private rooms, a few new pillows from the tailors and making sure Rokk had enough Kahliri Stew for our evening meal. I come home, my arms full of my purchases ... already late because the Constructs were tossing some fool Aldor off the upper platform ... only but to find this huge crowd ringing the entrance to my inn - grumbling, pointing, annoyed, growling and more than a few of them trying, trying, trying so hard not to laugh.

And of course, of course, in the eye of this storm, the center of this tempest, who do you think was there?

Her.

You knew this all along, didn't you?

Of course she was all apologetic, head down cast, scuffing her feet across the stone and red carpets. Stupid gnomes, how can you even get angry at something so cute?

This is all your fault, Belm.

You tell me.

What in all the blinding bright days am I going to do about ...

... the pit lord's head ...

... that's now stuck in my front door?

Haelthol

Scyer's Tier

Shattrath City, Terrokar Forest, Outlands

 

Back in the Thunderbrew Tavern, Belm just couldn't stop laughing.

 

*********************

Dear Mother,

It is evening now.

Somehow, somehow I always think of you as the sun fades away and the veil of night is cast across the skies. As if it were a time we held together as special. Perhaps we watched the sun set, watched the sky become rich in the colors of the harvest ... watched it slip into the most royal purples and then counted the stars, one by one by one as they braved the dying light to dance for us.

I wish I remembered more.

I am standing on Scyer's Tier. It's in a place called Shattrath, and from here you can look across lands many folks only hear in the songs traded by a minstrel, in the over-blown tales of dragons and fish explained in backwater dramatics in front of a bright tavern and over a bowl of day's travel stew.

The skys are beautiful, in their own way. There are stars too, in constellations unfamiliar and the telling of their stories, their sky scattered history, bright and new.

And the bustle, you would not believe it. And not just the dwarves and humankind that traffic in and out of Ironforge. The proud Tauren folk, the easy-speaking Trolls, the tragic Forsaken and the aloof Sindorei. It is hard to understand why there is such a deep break between us and the Horde when you see them arguing with an innkeeper over the price of a wineskin ... just like you or i might have, but a few hours before.

I miss the snow.

I can't remember what it looks like. I can't remember the image of mountains cloaked in white, of what moonlight looks like when it casts across the drifts and makes them sparkle like fallen diamonds. I can't remember how a wolf howl sounds as it echoes through the tall mountain tops and down into the sheltered vales.

I can't remember the song the pine trees whisper as a midnight breeze sifts through their boughs and needles.

But I can remember how it feels.

How the warmth of a tavern fire against the night's storm and how the sturdy stone walls makes you feel safe. The truth of the slicing wind, through tunic and cloak, so very, very real, reminding you that this is not some dream from which you might one day wake. The quiet of the evening, of hills sheltered in their blanket of white, not something to be heard or seen but felt in one's heart.

I can ... I can remember the feelings.

That I can cherish.

The image, the picture, that is like grey mist on a gray day, lost and gone, leaving only a quiet echo where it had once been.

I wish I could remember what you looked like.

But I can remember what it felt like holding your hand.

And while I can't remember what your smile looked like, I have kept something, something so important to me, to help me remember the care I felt when you smiled.

I know where home is.

I keep your name.

No one can ever take that away from me.

Your daughter,

Nellisynthia Nellastatia of Kharanos

 

The warlock stood at the edge of the carven rock, looking out across the city. She watched, quiet, as a scrap of parchment drifted away, rising into the star shrouded night.

Caught in the winds, tumbled like a leaf, forever.

Turning, she reached up to touch a cobalt and cold bracer, nodding to her silent companion.

"I'm fine, Mezzy ..."

She smiled, tilting her head.

"Walk with me?"

Bookends 1

Unto the Lady Maniae Lahrohnshah Alah'dorei

Court of the Sun, Silvermoon City, Eversong Woods

My dear Lady,

Parting, as the minstrels sing, is a bittersweet gem. One that sparkles in one's memory, of what is past and held cherished, of hopeful possibilities of paths crossing again and the unavoidable emptiness of the time between that so definite then and some indefinable future when.

To walk beneath jewel stitched tapestries, through veils as fine as azure moonlight. To smile and nod, eyes bright as the sun, at the pleasantries of wine flavored conversation. A tidbit here, a tidbit there and it of course it really didn't matter what you were saying as much as who you were saying it to.

How can there be shadows in such splendor? When a paladin's polished armor sends rainbows skittering across the grand concourse? How can there be but promise, when whispered conversations over the ritual draining of a mana eel grant alliances and set betrayals far deeper reaching than any garrison chess game?

Oh remember it so well, how can one not? The ballroom floor, the light from untold crystals arcane. The three beat rhythm matching the pace of one's heart as in a grand orchestrated pavane across the polished stone one twirled. Skirts flaring dramatically, hands held formal, chaste, yet still, bound together with chains unspoken as biting as the coldest dark iron.

And knowing that, upon that brilliant waltz, the brightest gem, that, that was how they saw you.

The minstrels, my dear lady, are wrong.

I am no one’s gem.

We shall not meet again.

I am through with glitter and whimsy, my patience for affections finally as empty and dry as the dust which blows through the Thousand Needles.

The world I want to know is real. I want to live in a place where steel cuts and there is blood, and it hurts. It hurts because it is actual, and it can be felt not just in the mind and heart but right to the bone.

I want to be a real person and not an actor in somebody else's play.

I don't want to be you anymore.

Signed,

Maniae Lahrohnshah Alah'dorei

 

Setting down her pen, she looked at her missive. She held the finely illuminated parchment in her fingers.

And slowly, and studiously, and carefully she watched it shimmer, heard the oh so faint crackling as it became engulfed in a dance of orange, yellow and ash when she held it to the candle.

"Good bye Lady Alah'dorei."

The slender woman turned, arms clasp at the small of her back as she slowly sashayed towards the door. It was a bright rectangle of light saffron, the plains sunlight blurring its jamb, a portrait of possibilities that only needed stepping through. Outside, outside she looked to the side, a smile crossing her contenance as she reached down to pat her patient felhunter between its long and deadly horns. She crouched, skritching the scales of the crimson demon, down across the line of his sharp fanged jaw. The fel beast's tail swished back and forth, scattering through the dandelions to send sparkles of all gray all about in gay abandon.

"... and hello Kree ..

"... who's my pretty girl?" 

***********

Melor,

We know the Earthmother holds patience as a virtue, something we should learn and cultivate within ourselves, to maintain both inner and outer peace, to truly understand the harmony of earth, wind, storm and fire.

We also know that the Earthmother does put trials before us, to test out heart and hooves of her teachings. These trials allow us to seek the answers to resolve the strife and discourse found not only in the plains as they reach across the worlds but within our own very hearths.

And then there are times when you just try my patience!

Now, as I consider crossing the camps to beat some sense into that tiny brain of yours with multiple pummelings of my skillet, can I ask you just what in all the rivers and stream just what were you thinking?

No, don't answer that.

You weren't thinking.

Again.

Reach out to our brothers and sisters in the Horde. Just because they don't have horns doesn't mean they can't learn the serenity of our teachings.

That blood elf girl was back.

Dragging the carcass of a big bear behind her.

Now, we all know that's fine. Circle of life and all that, and the bear did need to be put down. That's not the problem.

Of course she rested in my shelter. Bright sparkling drinking water, cool nectar to revive her from her travels. She was quiet, contemplative and even serene. Until she reached into her pack and brought out her midday meal. You would not believe the stampede, the ground slamming, the horn posturing and the earsplitting bellows that exploded when she carefully unwrapped and took a big, healthy bite out of her roasted beast sandwich.

"What?"

She said.

She then looked down to her meal and you could see the dominoes of logic fall into place.

So what was her reply?

"... oh don't be silly ...

" ... it's nobody you know ... "

Melor.

This is all your fault.

In the Earthmother's path,

Paha

 

Later that afternoon a different sort of bellows was heard in Thunder Bluff.

That of someone running away from an angry innkeeper and her blackened frying pan.

Very fast.

The Coming of Winter

"Can you feel it, Mezzy?" 

The little gnome warlock stood on the stalwart pier. Around her there was bustle and noise. Carpenters still at their craft, teamsters pushing cargo here and there, working as the sun painted the water in fire, scattering sparkles of crimson diamonds against the long shadows of Stormwind Keep. As twilight slipped in on the tide, the clatter of mugs and lighthearted voices could be heard, celebrating the first ship in the new port. True, it was only a sleek caraval from Auberdine, however, it came not as a mundane merchanter but as a herald. 

"Oh ... close your eyes. Can't you feel it?" 

For the first time in months there was that certain small smile, as she hugged herself. Deep red pigtails were tossled by the offshore breeze, where they peeked out from her tall pointed hat. Playful and light, and without a sound her locks shifted this way and that. Despite the cacaphony about her, this one spot was the calm of the storm, the quiet before a change in the weather. 

"It's in the air, Mezzy. That hint of crispness, the echo of a winter's dagger bite in the breeze. You can almost taste it, that freshness, that sharpness, sweeping across the water like a siren. Hear it sing of muffled vales and crystal shards, the warmth of a hearthfire against a fierce night, one's history plainly marked in one's path, clear in a look over one's shoulder ... and ahead, a soft white, like a canvas waiting for it's first brush stroke. 

"Oh Mezzy ... there .... 

"There is snow ahead. 

"... waiting for us." 

She was silent then, for a long, long while. Snow. She missed it dearly. Oh, the aeries were beautiful, scuplted stone reaching for the sky, looking down upon a city where Tauren and Kaladorei walked side by side. The dark beauty of Netherstorm, patterened in the frail magenta of mana or the broken spires of Blades Edge Mountains, a jambles that looked as dangerous as it was. In all it's harsh beauty, however, it could not replace the white sloped mountains where she grew up, the hush of snow clad pines, or glitter of icicles in moonlight. 

And yet ... 

"Remember when we first came here, Mezzy?" 

She looked up to the big Voidwalker, tugging on a pigtail, a habit when untangling conflicting thoughts. 

"To step through a portal dark into a new world. To see ... that which we had never before. When each step was new and what was around the next bend was not yet familiar. I still remember the first time I set foot in the mansion of Karazhan, to touch a story that shook our world. To discern the fell schemings of Lady Vashj and her minions in the swamps of Zangarmarsh ... or our work to win the favor of the Netherwing, and thus gain a new ally in our travels. 

"And when we board our ship, it will be with a blade crafted in the shadow of Magister's Terrace." 

A gentle chuckle, a gentle smile slipped across her features. 

"But in the end, Mezzy, they are just trinkets. Bits of metal that I am sure will be boxed in a closet many leagues away , as we take our path from this pier. 

"What can't be replaced, however ... 

"The meeting of a young mage named Chardonnay, as she walked in her paladin's shadow. The proud grin the day she drew on our Veritas tabard for the first time. Her bright voice against the darkness, a compatriot in times good and bad. 

"Old friends, like Miss Vamira and Ellundus, standing with us, and it didn't matter that Nightbane was dead and the mansion's halls were now empty of all that was foul, but that it was all of us who did it, together. 

"Seeing Cathela step out and dust her armor off, where but a moment before there had been nothing but a cloud of turmoil; more orcs than I could count and that big draconid too. 

"A single vial of wizard's oil in the bank. Not because it's needed or not because it's forgotten ... but because it was crafted by Crestfall before the storms took him away from us. 

"Crossing our fingers as valiant Cloudstryder vanishes under a mountain of abominations ... because we know exactly where they will turn if he falls." 

Rubbing a tear on her robes, she couldn't help but chuckle at that. 

"Wynilla's infinite patience for a gnome who needs a zillion flasks made." 

Green eyes closed again. Silent for a heartbeat, until she opened them again. 

"From the caverns of the Naga, to the the halls of Illidan, to the council chamber of Kael'Thras; when we stood beside Jaina Proudmoore against the Scourge. 

"It's not the getting there that matters, Mezzy. That's not worth a single copper coin. It's the journey itself, Mezzy, the journey we make and more importantly, those we share it with." 

"Eventually, when we stand upon the foreign shores, look over our shoulders to follow our path back through the snows of Northrend, those foot prints will lead us here, to this pier. Waiting for our ship, tasting the hint of snow in the air. In a few handful days, we will say good bye to Haelthol upon the Aerie, he will wish us well, and we will thank him. 

"How could we not? How could we not cherish what we leave behind? To not ... would hold ourselves, our actions, with no more worth than a chipped goblet abandoned." 

The warlock looked up, to her oldest friend. The Voidwalker was quiet, as befitted his nature; the only constant in her ever changing world. 

"We do not hold ourselves so cheaply."