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Ogres.

…ogres…

A zealous hate with the potential to burn the Light out of the holiest of paladins threatened spontaneous combustion. The longer she traipsed about the northern boundaries of Frostfire Ridge, the more Azheira’s revulsion grew. Why did these idiotic beings have to hang out where it was freezing? And snowy. And freezing. And icy.

And freezing. This Draenor business hadn’t taken very long to get old.

Duty was duty, however and when a few bumble headed soldiers got themselves captured by the flabby miscreants, someone decided a healer was needed to come along on a rescue mission. Azheira was summarily recruited.

The ogres, of course, demurred at having their dinner snatched. Reinforcements were called in. Where they came from, no one had any idea. The ugly beings seemed to multiply like rabbits, yet without the benefit of a female.

Mutants.

At least the backup ogres seemed to have been artificially inseminated with snail !@#$%. They were slow and easily picked off. After a few outlying skirmishes, Azheira’s contingent made good headway into the Stonefury area. A blockade was set and forays into the main ogre encampment began. Azheira, however, was grateful the support team was told to stay behind. The blockade had a round the clock fire.

At camp, preparations were made for the inept soldiers’ return. Bandages, salves and potions created and food prepared to fill empty bellies. Always one to do her own thing, the spirited paladin offered to go east, gathering herbs for the various remedies. Alas, the powers that be decided a young woman ought not to go off on her own, so an elderly orc was assigned to accompany her. It was a bit of a struggle to not roll her eyes at the thought of him trying to defend her honor, but she managed it. Besides, his shamanistic tendencies seemed to be an advantage in plant finding.

Near evening, he warned her, “We don’t want to go much further past Coldsnap Bluffs, Miss. Definitely not to Snowfall Alcove. Dangerous.”

“Are there more ogres?”

Zorruk shivered beneath his yak fur coat. “Others.”

“Others.” Her inflection may have been a bit flat. “Could you be a little more specific?”

“No.” His gaze traveled to the rocky bluffs far ahead. “We will not approach those cliffs.”

Her gaze followed after his. “Well…yeah…there’s nowhere to go. Unless there’s a tunnel in there.”

The old orc’s head snapped away, scouring the ground, searching for herbs. Watching him for a minute, Azheira wondered at his fear. Deciding to not make a fuss, however, she gathered kindling. They would need to camp for the night.

Long after the snow had stopped shimmering and the cliff’s shadows had stretched until the silhouettes covered the ground in one smooth expanse of darkness, Azheira lay awake. Her thoughts pushing and pulling, going round and round like a taffy machine.

Coming to Draenor had been an easy decision. Too easy, perhaps. She knew she was running.

Sprinting from the demon who claimed to be her friend.

Leaving the Old Man.

His offer to help her regain her memories was so generous. And the first few had been simple enough – earlier, stress-free recollections that had nothing to do with the trauma that had led her to Winterspring. She couldn’t quite access those particulars yet. The mere idea of those memories terrified her.

Every time they ventured into her mind vault, she skirted past the most prominent doors. And each time, the Old Man watched her, saying nothing, letting her decide when it was time to open them. His kindness was unnerving. A part of her wanted him to grab her hand, place it on the knob and force her to open up.

She knew he never would. He wanted her to make her own destiny. Didn’t he realize how hard that was without a foundation? Those lost memories might be the solid ground she needed to move forward, but…what if they weren’t? What if the secrets behind those doors were so terrible they crushed her chest until breathing was no longer an option? Then where would she be? Stuck under a bank of snow again, perhaps. Only this time, there would be no rescue.

It was too much.

Azheira desperately wanted to be able to trust the Old Man, but it was difficult to open her mind and lay her thoughts bare before him, especially after their relationship had changed. Not that she minded the closeness. In fact, she quite liked it. But that scared her too. She had thought she was getting the hang of it, but the more time they spent together, the more awkward she felt.

So she ran, hoping the business of war would remove her indecision. Or make a more permanent choice for her.

Despite the fire's warmth, her breath crystalized as it escaped in a sigh.

I've spent a week bent against this windowpane, trying to decide whether it is our cravings or the twisted paths we take to reach them that damn us. Sun soaked curtains drift and bow in stationary waltz steps, swirling like skirts over the wooden floor and I cannot be bothered to detach myself from this one place. My cheek pressed to glass and my arm draped like worn framework. Occasionally the pocketwatch dredges up from my vest and with the flick of a thumb gasps the hour, before it is submerged again with the fine rattle of its silver chain.

Wants and needs. As mortal as hunger, as crippling. A drought of longing and starvation of the soul. The taste of a borrowed minute, the muted bell of laughter trickling from a bird-boned girl. They suspend themselves above your heart dreamlike, before glimpsing in you a nightmare and cringing themselves awake.

It isn't the craving that will undo you. It is the pursuit. Chase that bird into the thicket, find yourself entangled. With the last thorn you've plucked from your mangled thigh, she's gone. Her anchor has pulled the ribs from you. I suppose I am mixing my metaphors, in painting the image of some omniscient birdboat.

For a brief time, she was -my- birdboat.

She came without my consult, and left without my consent.

The windows are too blurred, too stained from the weight of my gaze to reveal any spectacle but here I stand, and there I stare. This morning would be different from its aged kin. This morning there was work, to be done. For the occasion I had selected dark slacks and high boots, a tailored shirt and jacket with a suitable tie. I decided against the tie, at last. Reminded me too dearly of feather-light fingers crawling up my collar, resting upon the nape of my throat. Squeezing fondly.

In a fury I ripped the tie away, casting it in a short arc across the room, where it coiled in a dejected heap by the mirror. I may have cursed at it. It weathered my language with appalled silence, until smoothing my hair back I could apologize in a more civil tongue.

There is work to be done. The contemplation of cravings and pursuit can wait another day, at least. They will only grow, with or without my attention.

-

We moved through that twisted portal as a vengeful storm, emerging into Draenor in a cold dark wind. “GO!” I commanded and at once malformed shapes hissed and ululated obedience, diving upon the Iron Horde. Dark-skinned orcs stared in terror and disbelief as shambling, dead figures pulled down their brothers in packs, hacking and burning and eating. I glimpsed an officer howling orders from atop his bloody-eyed warg and uttered a word of power the likes of which Draenor had never before suffered, a word which split his skull with a mental spike.

They were understandably more hesitant, after that display. Cutter moved his boys in savagely efficient rows, sweeping into flanks and sowing as much disorder as tactically sound. This is where they live, the Guttersnipe Brigade. Beneath the black sun of chaos. I patted my pockets for a cigarette, waiting patiently for the skirmishes' inevitable conclusion.

The stone steps wreathing the Dark Portal ran slick with blood before the hour was out, the Scourge Knights already bickering over who would raise which fallen foe as their personal attendant for the day. Cutter and Mercy conferred over a hastily scribbled map, doling out duties to their captains and lieutenants. In passing, I pretended not to notice the crudely drawn !@#$% whose likeness was intended to represent the Portal proper. A pair of them, on second glimpse. Standing stoic, phallic vigil. The ancient architects would be thrilled.

Of course, the true guardians of that massive stone device had months ago been demolished, and the portal proper dissolved. Only through herculean efforts had our magisters wracked the fabrics of time and space harshly enough to grant us passage. Late to the theatre perhaps, but we were well rehearsed.

“We've got us a foothold here and here. Mama Khadgar wanted to dance through the slave-camps, throwing daisies and making friends, but the western flank is where we're headed.” Jacques-Markhal Cutter fingered his thumbs in his way, pointing off into the nearest thicket. “Got scouts on foot pushing north.”

“North-east,” I corrected behind a streamer of pale grey smoke. “I want to know what the Sargerei know. I want to know what they want.”

“Yes, Dread Lord.”

Mercy cleared his throat, an awful sound from a man with little throat left to clear. He was a short, broad fellow but stood with such a straight back it was a marvel such a little form could contain so upright a posture. “I've got five hardasses, like you wanted Dread-Ser.”

I tipped some ash, studied the empty pits of his undead eyes. I do not often enjoy looking into my agent's surface thoughts, but it saves me time, in the end.

“Is Mince not among them?”

Mercy's shorn lips twisted into an ugly frown. He hesitated. “My boy... he ah. Opted to guard the star's garry, in Frostfire.”

“That was his decision, was it?”

“Ah- No, Dread-Ser.”

I regarded his hesitation with a father's pain. And pushed away the irony of a dead man displaying more love for his family than I could ever again muster. “Just as well. I will have need of him when I arrive.”

I gathered Mercy's five and we took to the skies, on the lean backs of two-headed rylaks. The untamed land of Draenor, all hissing jungle fauna and chilling midnight sands sped by with the whisper of the wind. Some demented creator had hung ghastly moons in the nude sky, terrifying in their weighty silence. The harsh wind of the rylak's speed caught my coat and cast it behind in a long streamer, Mercy's five champions riding in effortless formation. It would be some hours before Frostfire.

It would be some hours, of hearing only windsong and gazing into distant memory at things I could never have.

((These wordstuffs. Keep them coming!))

Decadence smells like satin sheets and the strength of a chest covered in warm flannel. An arm draped gracefully across ribs, two fingers tucked between buttons, making slow circles against the heat of his skin. Hard knuckles trailing along her spine, filling the tiny grooves - a perfect fit - gently kneading the small of her back.

Yawning and stretching across the sky, dawn’s colors stroking the throats of birds, coaxing out their songs of morning. From a snow laden tree, heraldic chirps and tweets skittered against the silence of the camp set alongside a small, rocky outcropping.

Azheira woke slowly, feeling the soft texture of flannel against her cheek and a familiar scent all around. In that minute, between dreams and reality, she thought--her body twisted, turning away from the memory of her latest starting gun.

Heavy wolf furs still wrapped around her slender form, she rose, not yet feeling the effects of the Ridge’s early morning wake up call. A trim bend of waist, stoking the fire, careful to not cause smoke to waft in Zorruk’s direction. Still in his bedding, Zorruk inhaled heavily in that venerable way of breathing that was half a snore but mostly fits and bits of grunting. The elder man seemed more tired than he should be. She would let him sleep.

Scanning the horizon, partially concealed in tufts of white, she spotted a line of trees. The herbs they were seeking would be nearby. It was a bit closer to the bluffs than Zorruk would like, but what he didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him. Certain of her ability to be back in time to make breakfast, Azheira shrugged. Elven shoulders, now more familiar than the human ones lost in her memories dropped the furs as she pulled on her boots.

A muted flash, red and black, stuck out from under the wolf skins. Hesitation. Of their own will, fingers picked up the flannel, catching on buttons. Did he realize she had taken it? Perhaps not, he had so many.

Azheira had run. Again. But she always seemed to take a bit of home with her.

Tucking the flannel out of sight, she strode away, the soft crunch of snow the only sound of her departure.

Odd that it was the silence that woke him. The snort of his own cough echoed against the shelter of the rocky outcropping, breaking the stillness. Zorruk pushed up from his bed of leathers and furs and shoved hard palms at the sleepy residue in his eyes. A short, annoyed grunt left his throat when he realized the fire was nearly out.

“Damn that girl,” he muttered while glancing to her empty bedding. “She was supposed to tend that.” Lifting tired eyes, the old shaman searched the area around the camp for his companion. A spot of snow must have fallen after she left camp, for a scan of the area showed no sign of her tracks. Against the blank canvas of white, there was only the hush of winter staring back at him.

Realization came slowly to the old man, seeping insidiously under his clothing, the hair on the back of his neck standing on edge. He shivered violently. Song-less, were the birds on nearby boughs. A chilling seasonal breath made no sound as it whispered through the tiny camp. It was too quiet.

The bags under his eyes swelled with the weight of his rising anxiety. He was old, but his senses were still sharp. Zorruk knew better than to shout. She was out of sight and therefore out of vocal range. The silence was unnerving, clawing at his skin and rattling his bones. He felt off kilter, like a pebble on the edge of a precipice. Something was wrong and the paladin was missing.

By now the fire was completely out, but Zorruk did not bother with it. Slowly, he bent to pick up his staff. With his back to the outcropping of rocks, pupils dilated like saucers, his gaze swept the area, back and forth, back and forth. Despite not seeing anything amiss, he still felt quite vulnerable and the sense of danger for his companion was quite strong. In spite of his unease, he leaned back against the rocks, his shoulders sighing with relief at the lack of visual clues of a threat.

His mistake was not looking up.

Crunch.

Azheira stilled. Body immobile, her eyes darted about. Slowly tilting her head, her gaze searched the shadows.

Crunch–closer now.

Silent curses streamed through her head, fingers closing over the handle of her blade. Whoever was out there wasn’t bothering to muffle their approach. Whether this was good or bad, Azheira could not decide. When she guessed the visitor was within ten feet, the paladin jumped up, alert and blade ready.

“Ah…good evening, Miss Ash. It is good to see you again.”

Confusion. “Whoa. Who are you? How do you know that name?”

“It is what he calls you, is it not? Your lover or should I say…former?” A female figure emerged into the dim light of the morning. Bareheaded and barely clothed. “Come now, do not tell me you have forgotten him as you have all the rest.”

Angry now at the stranger’s apparent knowledge, the blade in Azheira’s hand rose. “You speak freely. Now do so in a way I can understand. Tell me who you are. What do you want?”

“No need for blades, Ash. We were friends once. I helped you. And I am here to do so again.” Stepping closer to the small fire than most would dare, the woman thrust her face into the light. “I am Algalhenste.”

A heartbeat. Two. Three.

That name hit her ears as if someone had stepped on a loose floorboard. An annoying squeak, yet familiar all the same.

“Oh, don’t worry, Ashy. I’m not offended you don’t quite remember. I am more than happy to enlighten you.”

“Stop it. Only he calls me that.”

“Yes, and you call him Old Man. How quaint.” The woman was close now. Close enough that Azheira considered using the blade and be done with it. Algalhenste seemed to follow that train of thought and moved to the side, placing herself close to Azheira, as if a confidante. “I have much to tell you. The Graven are here. Put out your cooking fire. Come.”

Don’t talk to strangers. Rule number one given to young children. And don’t go anywhere with a stranger, either. Still. There was something about this woman.

Azheira’s gaze slide sideways, far back to where Zorruk was probably just now waking. Her boot stamped the fire and a quick kick at the powdered ground had it covered in snow. She turned and strode past Algalhenste towards a small copse of trees. Algalhenste followed at first, but quickly took the lead, tugging at Azheira’s cloak, pulling her farther and farther away. How the woman could see well enough to not trip was beyond imagination. Still, she was a good navigator. When the sounds of their footsteps began to echo and the wind against her cheek was less biting, Azheira realized they had reached the cliff face. She stopped—hard—causing Algalhenste to stumble a bit.

“We will go no further until you tell me what this is all about.”

The elder woman acquiesced and sat on a smooth rock, motioning for her companion to do the same. Azheira did not and Algalhenste grinned.

“You are needed, my dear. Your old man knows this, but has allowed you to run off to these wilds of Draenor all the same.” Her head bobbed in a slight nod as if confirming to herself. “Perhaps he knew what was to come. Perhaps that is why he has found another to warm his bed.”

A premonition of death, Azheira stilled.

“Ah, I see you did not know this. I am sorry to have been the one to tell you, but perhaps it is for the best. You will need a lack of distraction for what you and I need to do.”

Liore. He could be very distracting. His immovable gaze. His hands. His tongue. This woman knew their pet names for each other and she knew of the Graven. And she seemed to know more about Liore than Azheira did. Taking a cue from the old man, Azheira kept her thoughts to herself, and her expression indifferent. Her mind though, was a million miles away, back on Azeroth.

Algalhenste held up a forward facing palm. “Stop. I meant what I said about no distractions. Consider him no more. We have work to do.”

Azheira was trying. She was trying hard. Something about this woman and her aura was familiar and the paladin could sense she was telling the truth, but she had to know for sure. Tentatively, her mind sought his, as they used to do, although she did her best to keep her own thoughts closed off, she only sought confirmation of the woman’s words. It was easy enough to find. It was right there—his preeminent thought. She slammed the link shut, pain slicing through every tendon, her muscles fell slack and she sat, hard, missing the rock entirely and wilted into the snow.

Impatient and lacking compassion, Algalhenste slapped Azheira. “Snap out of it. So he found someone else. He will need her if you are to complete your task.”

Azheira barely felt the sting of the woman’s hand on her cheek. Vessels were cracking like twigs under a gronn’s foot, breaking into confetti shaped bits. Only there was no party. Get it together! She yelled into the echoing fathoms of her conscious. You are stronger than this! The blue rims of her elven green eyes darkened in Algalhenste’s direction. “Task?” she inquired, her voice sounding almost normal. Almost.
Algalhenste watched the paladin for a moment and waited. When she seemed sure the pressure would not boil over, she began forcefully, laying bare the plan of the enemy, she minced no words.

“The Graven are here—in Draenor. They have been watching you. They believe Liore will come to you. It is him they want. But, I too, have been watching you. You will not let that happen. I know this to be true. Your feelings for him will not allow them to have him.”

Azheira leaned in, listening attentively now, pushing the emotional pain aside, she nodded. With everything in her, she would not allow the Graven to take Liore. He already had so much darkness in him—with everything in her she would permit no more.

Fixed and deliberate, “What’s the plan?”

“Cho’gall has taught the Pale, the fallen orcs, how to enslave elementals using the Void. He siphoned K’ure’s power and turned the Naaru into the void god, Decimatus. That was in Nagrand. Some of your people took out Decimatus along with Greyseer, the leader of the Pale.” She paused, making sure Azheira was still paying attention. “But the Pale are here, in Frostfire, as well. They are following a Graven they call the Revelator. He too, seeks power as Cho’gall did, but his deepest desire is to take one of your people and enslave him to do the bidding of the Graven.”

“The Old Man.”

“Yes. He wants Bloodwing.” Algalhenste spoke quickly now, wanting Azheira to comprehend the urgency of her task. “Bloodwing is powerful. The Revelator wants to enslave him, but he cannot find him. It is his belief that Liore will come to you.” A slight pause. “That may happen soon. He will wish to tell you personally of his new love.”

“And my task is to stop the Revelator from knowing where the Old Man is.”

“Yes. The Revelator will try to get you to reveal Bloodwing’s whereabouts. You will not do this, for your mind is strong. It has kept all your other memories locked up for all this time, it can keep Bloodwing a secret too.” She knew Azheira would die rather than allow the Graven to find Liore, so Algalhenste chose to be blunt. “The Pale despise all that is good and holy. They will take you. If the Revelator does not get the information he desires he will agree to let them enslave you.”

“Is there a way out of the enslavement?”

“For the elementals in Nagrand that have been fully enthralled, no, there is no hope of bringing them back.” Then, against her better judgement, Algalhenste gave Azheira a bit of hope. “But if you are not yet fully under their control, it is possible for someone like Blo— with great power to bring you back.”

Ignoring the warning and the hope, her lips pursed into a tight line. “But the Old Man will be safe?”

Algalhenste nodded.

“First…” Plucking a coal from the dead fire, she shoved it into the snow, cooling it. She yanked hard on her sack, taking out a few pieces of paper and quickly wrote a couple of letters. When she was done, she handed them to Algalhenste. “You will escape and you will see that these get to who they are meant for.” Her expression brokered no argument. Algalhenste smiled at the girl’s fortitude. It was unique in one so young. Clearly, she was unwavering in her determination to save Liore Bloodwing despite his apparent betrayal. When Azheira spoke, her larynx was steel.

“All right. What do I do?”

***

Getting inside the area was easy enough. Pretending to be out gathering herbs, the women simply walked east into Snowfall Alcove, acting surprised when they came upon the Pale guarding the entrance. Azheira killed more than a few. She figured, why not, since she was going to allow them to get her anyway, she might as well take a few out in the process. The plan was to try and escape, knowing they would be caught anyway. So they struggled against their captors. The women were separated and Azheira lost track of Algalhenste. The paladin was taken to the rear of the great cavern.

The multitude of Pale, pressed hip to bony hip, hoary shoulders crushed together in a macabre version of ring-around-the rosy, surrounded Azheira. She was exhausted and there was nowhere to run. A twist of robe at the archway leading out of the cavern told her Algalhenste had gotten away and was fleeing. Gods damn that woman, Azheira thought, she better do as I told her. And then, pensively, I wish Liore was here. The Revelator stepped towards her, hands steepled in front of his cavernous chest. He looks like a very real imitation of a bad guy in that pose. The frigid expression in his eyes belied the upward screw of his thin lips, coiled into a counterfeit smile.

“Mistress, Azheira. Thank you so much for joining us. We are quite pleased to have you, you know. Quite pleased indeed.” As he spoke an invisible cord holding together the girdle of fallen orcs tightened and they pressed in, muttering things vile and foul, their hatred for the holy light inside the woman in the center was palpable. The Revelator drew one of his emaciated hands high in the air, calling for silence. “Patience, brethren. We will rid ourselves of this light and be given our due. Patience.”

The Revelator turned his cunning gaze onto the paladin. Frigid, skeletal fingers picked up her soft hand. “Tell me, my sweet. Where is this Bloodwing of yours, hm?”
“He is not my Bloodwing.”

“We have heard otherwise. You and he are very close, are you not? We want him. And you will tell me where he is.”

She felt his gauntness pressing into her palm. And magic. She could feel his power. Despite his emaciation, he was full of authority over darkness and was using that power to pull the information from her.

Azheira held on to the strength of her paladin training. She grasped at the gift of her emotion for Liore without disclosing his location. She recalled one of their mind melds in which she had taken him to her quiet place. She went there now, envisioning being there with Liore. Despite the fact it had never actually happened, except in their minds, it seemed more real than the snow under her feet. And it was enough to make her forget the stalactites hanging precariously overhead.

The Revelator was becoming irate. For all his power, he could not break her concentration. She was lost near the sea, in the arms of Liore. All was well and right in the world of her mind.

The Pale shuffled with restlessness. Snow stirred under their feet and the tips of stalagmites broken off and brandished as weapons. They wanted their due.

Over the course of several hours, the Revelator pushed and pulled. His magic was robust. But Ash’s concern for Liore and his household were resilient. She could not be cracked by this Graven lackey. The Revelator would have kept trying. He believed himself dominant, but the Pale could not be held back. Their hatred for the holy one intensified into a pounding cadence on the floor. They pressed in, pushing the Revelator aside as if yesterday’s garbage. He was furious, of course, but there were too many Pale. And he had promised them they could have her.

The animosity in the air making breathing ineffective, yet she was aware of so many things as they surged forward. She had been a captive of the Dread Lord Bloodwing, but it had not been long before she had taken to life at the manse. Falchion, Riley, the Nunmunchers, and even an image of Reggie passed her by. Ash wondered if she would ever taste Vel’thik’s elaborate delicacies again. She considered the demon who had claimed to be her friend—best friend. Even though Ash still did not remember everything, she believed the demon was sincere in her concern for the paladin who ought to be her enemy. If she was to sacrifice herself for one, why not two? Azheira knew they were connected, linked. As the Pale began to wrap her in chains, the magic of which began to drain her as soon as they touched her skin, Ash reached out and touched the tie between herself and Noikona, thrusting an enormous portion of holy power towards the demon before the link was broken.

Ash’s last thought was of Liore. She sent him a message via their link. It was weak, but she hoped he heard it anyway. I am sorry, Old Man. I had wanted to be the one to see you smile, to cause your lips to twitch for the first time since forever. Be happy.

Falling without moving is an odd sensation. It was as if an abyss inside her heart opened, stretched insidiously and began a subtle assassination of cells and sinews. The dark didn’t tug or yank, it simply was. All around, filling every pore, consuming her senses – she could no longer see, hear or smell. There was silence and there was nothing. Nothing at all.

Noikona fell to her knees with a loud clatter of armor. Try as she may, her scream made no sound. Arms flailed up to the sky in a desperate attempt to grasp what was no longer there. Emerald flames leaped from her tear stricken eyes. Confusion wrapped in panic suffocated her. She stared at her outstretched arms, watching the shackles slowly materialize. A massive thrust of light surrounded her, pouring down the link with the tremendous force of a an endless tidal wave. The concussion of power threw her to her back, its tendrils wrapping tightly around her broken an scarred soul. She felt the light lash back at the fel, creating a permanent barrier. As soon as it began it was over. With her arms still reaching for the sky, she watched in horror as one of the shackles slowly dissipated into nothing.

For a brief moment it seemed as if the city became quiet, but in the distance, beyond sight a quiet moaning could be heard, as Noikona truly cried.

Waking the next morning still numb, Noikona made her way to a chest she kept in a locked closet. A thin layer of dust covered the surface, but it opened with ease.

Noikona looked down at the heap of broken armor. She had kept it in the event Azheira ever wanted it back. She had found it several months ago, discarded in a cave. Her hand brushed lightly over the red and black ribs, stopping when her fingers came across a puncture in the chest. Shaking her head she looked at the clean cut, an obvious thrust of a blade, which could have ended her friend’s life. Someone, not her had stopped that blade from continuing its course. Biting her lip she bent down to gather the pieces. Although too small for her, she knew a few armorers that could use what she had. It was time to repair what once was.

((Dear god, Noikona, that is just so dang sad. Are you deliberately trying to make me cry?))

((In my previous post, Ash wrote two letters. This is one of them and would have been delivered to Noikona shortly after Ash's disappearance.))

Noikona,

If you are reading this, then it means I am gone. Where, I do not know, exactly, but I have gone so that another might live and live well. The Old Man will no longer be plagued by the demons he and I were warring against.

You and I shared a special bond. A linking of the minds. I suspect that whatever is about to befall me will break that link and you will feel that it has happened long before this letter reaches you. I am sorry for whatever trauma this will cause you. Please know, I have done what needed to be done for Liore. He needed this peace and I am the one who can give it to him. It had to be done.

So many of my memories were lost and the Old Man was assisting me in acquiring them. I have recalled some, but not all.

I know you and I were once enemies. I know you and I later became great friends. I would have liked to see that continue, but where I am going, you cannot follow—no one can. Well, there is one who could, but I have decided to keep that to myself.

Besides, someone always told me I had a purpose. I believe I have come to it at last. I can bring him harmony. I am prepared to do what I must to make this happen.

Please, if it is within your power, see that Nabby, Gertha and Vainaa are all right.

I wish you well, Noikona. Perhaps, one day, we may meet again.

Azheira

The letter lay limply in her hand as she leaned against the doorframe of the small dwelling deep in the maze of huts of Booty Bay. Noikona had read it several times, each time stirring a different mixture of emotions. Some of anger, anger at Liore who insisted that Azheira would be safe under his protection. A feeling of sorrow, that she hadn’t seen her friend for such a long time. The loss of the bond had caused her much pain, so many in the past had told her; if you can feel the bond then you know she’s at least alive. Now? The bond was filled with another? Who? She did not know. Even with all this, there was a sense of pride in her friend. They were more alike than some would think. Obviously Azheira had done a deed she thought necessary to save another. Someone Azheira thought was worth the sacrifice; this was something that Noikona would respect. In the end the worst feeling was hope. Hope was an evil that she despised. Hope had always hurt her in the past, but now she carried its burden on her shoulders. She knew it would always be there, there was nothing that could take it away.

She drifted off to sleep with her memories and the foreshadowing dread of checking on Nabby.

((Walk up RP can be the hardest to do, but it can also be the most rewarding. Thank you Azheira, there will always be a light on.

[6.15.2013 19:28:00]Noikona sticks her foot out
[6.15.2013 19:28:27][Lrigknab Sparkletrink] says: Oi! Did you just try to trip me?
[6.15.2013 19:28:49]Noikona looks around "Me? Why would I do something like that?"
[6.15.2013 19:29:13]Lrigknab Sparkletrink eyes narrow. "I saw that foot. Sneaky."
[6.15.2013 19:29:41]Noikona shrugs "I will try harder next time"
[6.15.2013 19:30:01][Lrigknab Sparkletrink] says: Silly tall ones. Always picking on us little people.
[6.15.2013 19:30:38][Noikona] says: Only because thats all I can get away with, inside the city
[6.15.2013 19:31:13][Lrigknab Sparkletrink] says: So...if we were outside the city you would have done something else?
[6.15.2013 19:31:49]Noikona eyes narrow "Oh I am sure I can think of a couple of things"
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((I will forever be grateful you stuck Noikona's foot out! And the most hilarious part is that Nabbi was only supposed to be my bank alt, yet it started this whole crazy thing. Thank you! <3 ))