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((New thread for a new direction. The first three posts are copy/pasted from http://tinyurl.com/qe8pclw ))

Exhaustion claimed her limbs as she stumbled out of the tunnel and fell to her knees. Her palms hit the snowy ground as her breath choked out in shallow gasps. Heaviness pressed on the back of her head making it feel like as if a weight was attached, pushing her down. A violent shiver racked her entire body when her forehead touched the ice cold flakes.

Something hard swung out from her chest and hit her chin. Lethargically, she reached for it with one hand and lifted her head to look. It was a red stone attached to an intricately woven chain hanging around her neck. Sitting up and resting on her heels, she stared at it. Despite the bright waves of sunshine glistening off the snowy bank, her pupils dilated and flickered as a strange mix of emotions clouded her eyes. Her thumb rubbed comfortably back and forth across the stone as if it had done so a thousand times. Something seemed off, however as her gaze shifted to the shadow the stone created on the ground next to her right knee.

“Shadow,” she murmured with confusion in her voice. “There’s no…light inside the stone.”

Suddenly, nausea caused her abdomen to twist hard. She leaned over and emptied her stomach until there was nothing left. Groaning, Azheira reached out for handful of snow to clean her mouth, but the fatigue and pain coursing through her body demanded to be assuaged. She slipped on the edge of the snowdrift and tumbled down a small hill, coming to a stop underneath a fallen tree. She did not get up.

The frozen splendor of Winterspring; it would steal the breath from any man, fill the heart of any poet with cold inspiration. Snowcapped mountains held council with the clouds, while the valley cradled layers upon layers of snow. Ponds went to ice, warmed by day, froze again come night. On a clear day, invisible little maids of wind scurried around, gathering powder in their skirts and casting them joyfully into the air. Thick evergreens huddled together in stoic silence. The occasional bear would lumber too close and a pine would shiver down a mound of frosty fluff to bury the furry creature. But for the shattered-ice screams of overhead falcons, the winter-enshrouded landscape was utterly silent.

It was a magnificent journey. It was a tiresome one. Regarde Lio'thindas trudged through a valley that had been untouched since the latest flurry; each forward step was resisted by feathery snow, shockingly heavy for its lightness. His booted foot would lift and come to rest upon a top crust of sun-seared ice, but break through with a mocking crunch and sink to the knee. The sheer beauty of the place tempered his patience, and beneath his furred scarf he discovered a smile.

His mission in Felwood was brief. The cruel and soulless machinations of a demonologist cut abruptly short, foul experiments scattered, research set to the judgement of flame. Only when the final ember smouldered its last did Regarde begin his journey back to the manse, Winterspring Valley. It had meant passing through Timbermaw Hold a second time. His first trip through was not quite so peaceful; those of the tribe who valued life parted to allow passage for the lean Blood Elf in his chain and plate and massive quiver of weapons, and those who did not value life, those spear-wielding braves who saw only an enemy to kill, were relieved of their mortality.

This time a Furbolg shaman, eyes crusted with age, presented him a frostsaber cloak and enough jerky for four days of travel.

Regarde's smile faded like the sun overhead, yawning in its descent behind the western ridge. Life is so precious a gift. Yet there are so, so many begging to have theirs squandered, cast away in wars, or for profit.

A shame.

A harsh wind funneled from the north; the snow cast from overhead branches drifted against his armor, politely begging entrance and then falling with disappointment to the ground. Fingers of cold pressed the joints of his plate, but leather and fur beneath kept him insulated. The tails of his scarf flapped in his wake as he pressed onward, shouldering his weaponry and pulling his thick hood lower.

Blinded thusly by flurries and a hide blinder, he nearly stumbled over the body. Only he did not recognize it as a body at first. Regarde frowned at a pile of black and crimson, unmoving, until he identified lean shoulders and curved hips, a pale face set in an expression of heartbreak and turmoil, light hair artlessly covered in snow.

A woman. A human woman. Alliance. One of the 'Blues'.

His sharp eyes darted in a quick circle, spotting the smear of broken snow where the body had tumbled down the nearby hill, the impact of armor against the dry bark of a fallen birch. He did not bother to climb up there and sort out the rest. If there were more, they would have been the ones to trip over her. And from the sight of things, she'd been here a while. The corners of full lips were threatening to turn blue. Dead, he decided. And turned to be on his way when he noticed the breathing.

They were faint, but the plumes of frosty air came from her small nose all the same.

“Still clinging,” he observed, the warm timbre of his voice muffled by his dark scarf. “You must be in such pain.”

His left hand reached, and he selected his least barbed weapon. A longsword, straight of blade and wickedly sharp at the tip glided from its companions and flipped expertly into his metal hand. His boot pressed against a shoulder, turning her on her back. Her head tipped limply. He might have been deciding where to plant his azaleas, so dispassionate his movements.

“You have lived to your fullest, I am sure. But that time is gone. Your song is sung. Rest, now.”

The edge of his longsword whirled into an inverted grip, and shifting forward, he pressed its tip to her breastplate, just over her heart. And proceeded to lean.

The blade sunk like a finger into cream, puncturing her steel. He sighed, and pushed harder-

Until sudden movement, and Regarde gasped.

A black and crimson gauntlet had snapped up from the snow, and closed around his weapon. The human's eyes remained shut, her mouth pursed unhappily, but her grip was unyielding.

Beneath his scarf, he smiled.

“Perhaps you have the breath for another verse.”

Impressed by her will to live, he sheathed his sword, unclasped his frostsaber cloak, and tried to recall the nearest cave.

Flaky white drifts surrounding the fallen birch echoed the thoughts in her mind. Fluttering at the whim of the air. Kissing her ears with whispers of death’s promise. The elements and events of the past months combined and conspired against the paladin, enticing her to the razor’s edge precipice between this world and the next. It called to her. It was not forceful and did so without demand. It was a siren’s song luring her into a fatal lassitude.

She offered no resistance. Until. The steel slid almost effortlessly through her breastplate.

Somewhere, in the shadowed recesses of her mind, something moved, shifted. Synapses fired an electric signal as if it were a warning shot at the start of a battle. Sluggish and slow were her thoughts, but her will – her will was not yet ready to let the blade take what time and climate had not been able to. No conscious thought forced her hand to grasp the man’s weapon. Reflex, perhaps, or maybe even survival instinct not yet quashed by the weight of snow on her body, caused her to hold tightly, not allowing the sword to penetrate further.

The blade left her grasp and shortly after, more movement, again involuntary, but not instinctive. Someone else was moving her. Detecting, without sight, for she had not yet found the fortitude to open her eyes, Azheira knew it was a man – a strong one. He had to be to carry her. She was not large, by any stretch of the imagination, but the plate she wore was nearly frozen. Ice cracked into shards and hit the ground around his feet as his movements caused the armor pieces to clink together.

She did not know how long he walked. The rhythm of his stride was a steady cadence and lulled her back into a semi-catatonic state. But when he stopped, she no longer felt the sighs of the wind on her cheeks. Instead, she felt her body being lowered. The ice-coated armor clanked and groaned loudly, some pieces riving as the ice shattered.

His boots made muffled crunching sounds as the snow broke off and was flattened underneath his heels. Footsteps circled her once and then the crunching sounds receded and became distant until she could hear them no longer. Azheira made no move to get up. Even if she wanted to, she could not have. Muscle, sinew and bone had only responded once in the last seven days and did not seem inclined to attempt it again, at least not until they had warmed up a bit. Outwardly, her body did not twitch, but a tremor slithered sensuously along her spine, taunting her with its movement.

She was so very cold.

Drifting precariously close to the precipice again, Azheira barely heard the return of the boots. The sound of a jumble of wood hitting stone did not jar her. Nothing within jerked at the variety of noises the man made. She lay very still, not by choice, necessarily, but as if it was her body’s way of conserving strength in case he decided the sword still had purpose.

Whisk.

A soft whoosh.

Heat.

Her core temperature was so cold her cheeks did not flush at the sudden warmth emanating from the fire. The boots crunched toward her motionless form, he leaned down and pulled back the cloak he had draped over her. She sensed rather than saw his frown. His own armor clinked as he shifted to kneel beside her. A hand pressed against the pauldron cracked by ice on her right shoulder.

A hesitation.

A resigned sigh.

One strong tug at the clasp and both pauldrons were off. He lifted her left hand, the one that had stopped his blade, and removed the gauntlet before doing the same to her right. Soon, all her armor was lying on the rock behind her, leaving only the soft leather undergarments she wore to keep the plate from chafing her skin. Her exposure to the elements had been long and the wet snow had seeped through, leaving the leather wet.

Another heavy sigh.

More armor, larger pieces, made to fit a man’s form, joined hers on the rock. Practiced fingers pulled at the laces on her undergarments. A protesting shriek echoed in her cognizance but was quickly tampered by two more rational thoughts. The icy leather needed to go and if the man had dastardly ideas about her, he could have done so already instead of building a fire.

He shifted to lay behind her and suddenly she felt the heat of his chest on her back, although lower, his legs were still covered by his breeches. The freezing temperature of her skin caused him to suck in a harsh breath, but he settled quickly and pulled the cloak back up to cover them both. Slowly, his warmth began to permeate her cold and aching body.

In her mind, she took a step back from the precipice.

"Tell me of your troubles, Azheira. Might be I can help you lessen them, after all."

She frowned as she watched the flash of his eyes. A fuss of snow swept into their shelter and she shivered, whether from his piercing green gaze or from the cold, she knew not. Wrapping her arms around herself to stay the tremors, she suddenly realized she was still without clothes. Blushing furiously, she snatched up the frostsaber cloak, wrapping it tightly around herself. The snow flurries in her cognizance were still gusting about and she was having trouble concentrating. Fingertips rubbed lightly at her temples as she deliberated what to do.

This man. This elf. What did he want? He had told her he was just an artless cook, and proved it by feeding her awful soup. He had also told her she had no other option but to come with him. Where, exactly, he had not stated. In fact, he had not been explicit about anything. No mention of why he had chosen to save a human. Not a word of why he was in…she leaned over, peering out the mouth of the shelter, trying to figure out where they were, for she had no idea. The colors of the sunset glinted off the expanse of snow outside. White as far as the eye could see. Settling back down into the pile of leather and fur, she considered the possibilities. But her ability to focus, while vastly improved from the nourishment the elf had provided, was still far from quintessential.

One thing she was aware of - she needed new clothes. Glancing at the rock behind her, her lips contorted into a grimace at the jumbled pile of ice shorn armor. Clearly, she would need a blacksmith to craft a whole new set of plate. Inclement weather had ruined the steel the elf had removed from her body. Her leather undergarments weren’t much better. Sighing softly, she turned back to look at the breathing conundrum sitting next to the fire. At least, thanks to him, the elements had not destroyed her.

In saving her, he might have shown a kindness perhaps, but his words belied an ulterior motive. Azheira did not care what his purpose was – she just knew she had to get away before he could enact it. In order to do that, she would need her strength. She settled down into the makeshift bed of furs and leathers he had provided and watched him as the silence stretched like a like a frostsaber would just before it pounced. Which one of them would pounce first? The elf or the human? Determined to come out of this with herself on top, Azheira decided to play his game.

Her dry lips cracked as she gave him a tentative smile. Inwardly, she cringed at the thought of telling a stranger her secrets. But sometimes, you have to do what you have to do.

“So, you want to know my troubles?”

“You will need clothes,” Regarde observed after a time. After her voice had settled like ash, her searing tale pinching his perfect features into a thin glower. The poison of his eyes came to rest on the heap of obsidian and scarlet armor, shorn and twisted from impact and rime. “It would be wasteful to have you perish of frostbite and leave so many-”

A scream shot through their small, cavernous shelter, ricocheting off stone walls and echoing sharply. Regarde did not quite flinch, but threw a glare out at the mouth of the cave. The raven bobbing on a low branch twisted its head as birds will do, and screamed again.

Plate scraped and chain whispered as he gathered himself up and strode purposefully toward the black bird. “I was wondering when you'd come,” he murmured. Whatever conversation they held after he'd crossed to the snowy entrance, Azheira would not be able to hear; but for the low rumble of the elf's honeyed voice, and the cursive slurs of Thalassian, he spoke quieter than the crackle of their diminutive fire. Once or twice, he tilted his head and the two of them pinned her with a perplexed, scrutinizing leer.

The one tilted its head, the other frowned thoughtfully.

Regarde rolled his lean shoulders and quipped something with a defeated sigh. The raven cawed once and shat in the snow. It promptly twisted about and spread wing, disappearing as a bruise blurring into the distant evening sky.

The elf returned, crossing before Azheira and peering down at her. Jagged shards of pure emerald swam in the poison pools of that stare, shimmering with suspicion. Those eyes had seen her bare. Crawled over every secret inch of her. Every small scar, the larger one. The small tattoo. How had he not noticed the red stone chained about her throat, or the peculiar charm of her bracelet? Perhaps he had noticed, but had been too blunted to suspect them.

Right before me, and I might never have seen. What else have I missed? And he began to feel cheated, for not the first time in his life. An elf without even the smallest hint of magic sense. Whats even the point?

He was not quite brooding when he reached and twisted a charm from Azheira's bracelet, and lifted the intricate chains from her collar. The touch was gentle, unforced, but undeniable. Both items he dropped into the fire. He doubted that flame alone could undo the magic binding the tracking spell woven into the bracelet's charm, but it was at least a little satisfying in a spiteful way.

That done, he smiled and reached for his belongings. A small travel pack, worn and modest. His massive, sling-like sheath containing every possible manner of weaponry. From the pack he retrieved his jawplate, a wrap-around face mask made of metal and barbs and fur-lined padding, made to clasp around the back of his head. It was gunmetal traced with bright cyan, matching the rest of his bulky, spined gear. Snapping in place, it gave his concealed expression a terrible savagery, the eyes above its metal rim cast in a predatorial glare.

Muffled, his voice remained what it was, warm and evenly pitched, as though he were discussing fond pastries while gathering his slingsheath.

“I will return shortly, try not to do anything heroic. The weight of the world will still be there, when you are well enough for it.” Boot steps crushed stone and snow as he stalked towards the cave's mouth. Where he paused, and glanced back at her. A cold evening wind funneled through, casting the blonde tumble of his hair over an eye.

“Do try to stay put. I will not save you twice.”

Crackling and popping, the flames licked at the intricately woven trillium chain and the metal charm. Her lashes fluttered down, resting on pale, cold cheeks barely beginning to flush at the fire’s warmth. His movements swift and sure, he had given her no time to protest the removal of her jewelry. Having no idea why he wanted them gone, it upset her he had taken this liberty. She did nothing, though, as her thoughts moved sluggishly through the flurries in her mind while she slowly spun the saronite links of the remains of her bracelet as she tried to remember why the necklace and charm were important to her.

The memories were hidden behind a wall. A thick, solid block of ice. Impenetrable.

At least for now.

Blonde hair splayed out onto the pile of furs as she lay back, huddling beneath the softness of his cloak, lifting her lashes to watch him as he fastened and buckled his armors about his body. His decree about her lack of attire mirrored her own thoughts and she wondered at this. Could he read minds? Did he understand she was already planning her escape? His parting words almost seemed to imply he knew she might try something. Pressing her chapped lips together, she said nothing in return as the wind curled and twisted its way into the cave, lifting his hair and hers in unison. Blonde strands fluttered over poison green and pale blue before the whispering air quieted.

Azheira did not move immediately after he left. A few hours of sleep, a bit of soup and the warmth of a fire combined with the elf’s heat were not much to go on, but she felt compelled to try. The pile of armor behind her was useless, she knew, but she got up anyway and picked through it, hoping to find something salvageable. A heavy sigh escaped through the cracks on her lips as her prodding proved the ice-shorn armor was untenable. The leathers might be of some use, however, and she picked those up. As she did so, something fell, hitting the stone floor of the cave with a soft clatter. The sound was harsh to her ears after the soft sighs of the winds outside. She bent down and picked up another necklace. This one wasn’t made out of fine metal, nor did it have a beautiful stone attached. Several tiny beads formed a circle. Each bead made of a different material and each having its own color and design. Sitting back onto the makeshift bed, she stared at it, her eyes blinking as she attempted to focus.

Fingertips brushed lightly, reverently, almost prayerfully over each bead, lingering only when she came to two in particular that were side by side. One was dark with a blue drop of water painted on it. The other was white with gold shield. The flurries shifted, obscuring the memory that threatened to surface and her head pounded with the exertion of trying to remember. The beads dropped so she could rub at the talon-like aches boring into the back of her neck.

Frowning, she glanced about, looking at the jumbled mess of leather undergarments she had pulled from the pile of armor and pondered how to make it work. It was stiff, unwieldy and took several long minutes of struggling to get it back on. Her lungs protested the effort by coughing violently. She waited until the fit subsided before trying to figure out what she was going to do for shoes. It was difficult, this process of rational thinking when foggy drifts of snow were blanketing her cognizance.

Finally, she realized she could use some of the leathers he had left behind. The sleeves should do nicely, she thought, and then she could wrap some of the fur over the top. More coughing followed this endeavor, but her desire to get away prevailed, despite her body’s complaints. She had no indication how long her labors took her, but she knew that time was of the essence. He would not fail to return and when he did, she must be gone.

Standing, more unsteadily than she would have liked, she wrapped herself in his frostsaber cloak. Her frame was slighter than the elf’s and length of the cloak hovered just over the rock floor on which she stood. One shaky step moved her closer to the mouth of the cave, but something caught her eye and she looked down, noticing the circlet of prayer beads again. Without knowing why, she picked them up and held them tightly as she left the shelter.

Not so gentle whispers lifted soft white flakes, spinning and twisting briefly only to be deposited somewhere else when the breeze abated. A good portion of it was piled near the backside of a cluster of trees. Above, on the branches, the powder was thick, bending some of the limbs almost to breaking. Four tall pines near the road formed a quarter circle, a shelter, of sorts.

A lone, hunched figure picked her way through the drifts, heading in that direction, pausing every few steps to catch her breath or to try to suppress a cough. After one particularly punitive hacking fit, she pushed the fur lined hood back just enough to be able to look out further than a few steps in front of her. Frowning, she saw that the small copse of conifers was still a fair distance away. Glancing back, she sought out the cave’s distance across the expanse of white. With a sigh of relief, she realized she was closer to the trees than the shelter the elf had taken her to. Unfortunately, she was also aware of how long it had taken her to get this far – too long. A shiver rippled up her spine and her hands shook, nearly dropping the prayer beads. Clutching them firmly, Azheira stared at the white bead with the gold shield. This particular bead felt close, familiar somehow, even though she could not remember where she had seen it before.

Breathing shallowly so as to dissuade her lungs from coughing, she stuffed each hand inside the opposite sleeve of the elf’s cloak and continued on, hoping to reach the safety of the trees before the sun had completely set. It was a slow journey, each step filled with pain as her body protested the movement. Her limbs begged to go back to the warmth of the fire and the security of the cave. The strength of her will, however, forced her to press on.

Upon reaching the copse, she threw out a hand to catch herself by using the strength of the tree trunk to keep upright. A shrill bird’s cry from the branches overhead and she lost her grip and her footing. Azheira slumped down, her shins hitting the snow with a muffled thud, her head falling to her knees. She closed her eyes as disorderly, confused thoughts tumbled through her mind.

The demon had told her she was married.

Ludicrous.

Regarde had told her she had to come with him.

Outlandish.

The elf had saved her. He had provided food and warmth. Why was she fighting so hard to get away?

Bizarre.

Her awareness of the physical danger she was in by kneeling in the snow in her current physical condition was minimal. All she knew was that people were saying nonsensical things. She needed to get away from them all so she could think.

From a distance she could hear the sound of snow being crunched beneath boots and wheels. Raising her head, she looked up, peering through the space between two of the trees. In the distance, was a small caravan traveling toward her. Reaching up, she rubbed her eyes with her fists and looked out again. No, it was not a vision. They were definitely coming this way – she could now hear their voices. In the opposite direction lay Everlook. If she could convince them to take her there, she could get away.

Encouraged, she grabbed hold of the nearest trunk and pulled herself up. Stepping out from behind the wall of evergreens, she hesitated when movement from across the road caught her eye. She gasped as she saw Regarde approaching the small caravan, his weapon drawn. Opening her mouth, she tried to call out a warning, but only a whisper of a moan escaped. Her hand clutched frantically at the beads in her palm as she watched the scene unfold.

Cellian Clickhavoc scrunched her toes up in her furry boots and breathed some feeling back into her little hands. She had resisted Cassandre's insistence on winter gear, such was her urgency to be on the road. Another day pacing Everlook and she would have gone mad; the trail had run (don't say it) cold days ago and there was no further sense in wasting daylight. Beautiful as the snow-carved vistas were, Winterspring was a barren place. And the goblins were getting on her nerves.

It had been the better part of a month they'd spent hiking the bleached white vale. For her first-ever actual command operation, SI:7 had pulled the punches. Intel had it a Horde Inquisitor was lurking somewhere out in the eternal blizzards, plotting whatever wretched schemes he might. Cellian was to run recon, try and pin down the Red's location, or at the very least confirm his disposition. What ever a bastard of the Horde would want in Winterspring was anybody's guess, but SI:7 does not satisfy itself with guesswork.

Their wheels wheeled along. Spokes and spikes dug into the treacherous snow cover, gripping fast and churning their path over like white mulch. Sir Altwulf gave a snap of the reins. An old habit, utterly lost on their carriage; it was a short wagon with seating for four and their gear, driven by a cloud-spewing machine whose inner complications were lost on the young woman. The device was blessedly muffled, silent but for the occasional rattle of metal components.

I suspect I should be salivating over it. Or at the very least hovering upon it, wrench in hand like so many of my people. The gnome chewed her frigid lip, smiling at herself. She could not fathom how her kind could be so excitable and wanton. It is bad enough we must -look- like human children. All the worse if we behave like them. Cellian puffed a strand of raven black hair from her face. Its natural curl would spring out of place again, to hang between deep purple eyes.

Cassy and Sly huddled against one another in the back. She was a small, nimble thing outfitted in padded hide and fashionable straps. A high throat lined with yeti fur kissed her chin, as Sly often attempted. With less success.

The long-haired devil was comely, Cellian had to admit. But with that humor of his came an untrustworthiness that even his name did not credit. Still. He was the finest tracker in the Eastern Kingdoms, or so they said. And as a month of rabbit stew and venison steaks could attest, 'they' said correctly. The ranger was half-bent, murmuring something devastatingly raucous in Cassandre's ear, smirking as though he had invented clever.

Cassy did not seem quite impressed, impassive as the snow trickling into her short red hair. Cellian had nearly tempted Ruan into the sin of gambling, with a bet of how many evenings would pass before Sly lost his moustache or more to one of Cassy's ever present knives. But on the subject of such fornications, Sir Ruan Altwulf merely smiled the smile of the blissful.

He was a black panther of a man, reminding the gnome of those obsidian statues that patrolled An'Quiraj. Heartily made and brimming with inner peace, he was the finest knight she had ever laid eyes on. Even sitting bent over horse-less reins, enduring a crooked wooden wagon-stool, he sat a king. Broad shoulders carried the intricate weave of tiger-headed pauldrons, even breaths accounted for the rise and fall of an embroidered breastplate. Greaves, gauntlets, chain and sash. Outfitted in silver and sapphire, with the deep blue skirts of his order.

As though feeling the eyes upon him, Sir Ruan turned his head, and through the visor of his winged helmet, beamed for her a private smile.

Noplace in this valley, will you find a shade of white the like of those teeth. How ever could there be a man so flawless? Would that I was born a few feet taller, or he a few shorter.

Sly disrupted her ruminations, clearing his throat and scattering a rueful blush over her small cheeks. “Sun fall be upon us soon, Milady. Might be best, we pitch our camp nearer than far.”

“Far will suffice,” Cellian replied. “A month with nothing to show for it is time wasted. We will do no harm by wasting a few hours more.”

One lead remained. Just one, and that was as (don't even think the word!) cold as they come. Commotion amongst the furbolgs inhabiting the cavern path to Felwood. What manner of commotion, the merchant at Everlook couldn't be bothered to know. It wasn't much, but it was greater than nothing. The Timbermaw were thought to have given up waylaying strangers. That the policy had been broken could signify anything.

The carriage churned on, banking gently with the slope of the road. Cellian burrowed deeper into her robes. Cassandre had taken to pointedly sharpening one of her knives; Sly wisely found something else to occupy himself, making a veiled attempt at inspecting his pistols. Sir Ruan Altwulf began to hum demurely, a deep sound bubbling up from someplace in his chest. It sounded like a hot tub, with the little jets running.

Just as her thoughts began to drift toward the steamy, Ruan pressed a brake. “Hold there,” he muttered in a thick baritone, to a horse that was not there. Cellian shifted, peeking over the paladin's massive shoulder.

A figure was lurching toward them. Though evening had begun to fall, there was light enough to pick out dark armor, some type of baggage, and long, light hair pouring out over the top of a half-mask. Sly saw first. Cassy murmured something unkind, and Cellian sucked in a gust of breath, cold be damned.

Those eyes. Those ears.

He, for the armored figure though unnaturally slim and impossibly graceful was a male, came to a stop and affected the imperiously lazy poise of a Sin'dorei. Blood elf. He had greatsword in hand, leaning upon it as one would a cane.

Cellian scrambled to the front stools, tugging up her robes in her hurry. No more than fifty yards away, shin-deep in snow. Some lunatic Maker had crushed emeralds in His hands and cast the jagged shards into the pools of venom that served for the creature's eyes. They pinned her with a slithering leer, scrutinizing. Judging. Inhuman.

Cellian Clickhavoc hated the Horde. The orcs had poured forth from their Dark Portal and tore open a hole in her life. She would never meet her father, her mother, or their first child. Any creature that could ally with those green savages were of equal evil. Worse. These ones hide their cruelty with beauty. An Orc you expect to be brutish and savage. His sort play at culture and court, then skewer you simply because they can think of no decent reason not to.

The elf tilted his head. Cellian could sense the cruel grin beneath that gun metal mouth-mask. “A fair evening,” he called, voice raised over the winds.

Her three shared a look, then turned upon Cellian. She was the only amidst them to speak Thalassian. She squeezed warmth from her heart into her fist, her mind racing. He must be connected. He must be. A Horde Inquisitor, concealed in the snow. You will show me where. I vow it.

“Fair to you as well, my lord. From where have you come, and to where are you going?” For all the will she pressed into her voice, it would only ever scamper out of her in a gnomish squeak.

“From roaming about in the earth, and from walking in it,” he replied with a chortle. “You seem very well equipped, whereas I, I am not. Do you, perhaps have any extra garments? I have no gold, but I am well armed, and would part with a blade or two if it meant parlay.”

Sly nudged her small leg, peering mistrustfully from the back. “What is he sayin.”

Cellian hesitated. Her teeth found her lip. He must be connected. He is but one, while we are four.

“Most men that draw a sword, intend to use it,” Sir Ruan rumbled. He had set the reins aside, but made no move for the whip coiled on his armored hip. Ever loyal, he would not act without her command.

Cassandre stood, to better see what all the fuss was about. The elf's eyes shimmered as they settled upon her. Cellian felt her heart quicken. There.

“He has designs upon our lady folk,” she blurted suddenly. “See how he ogles Cass.” He must be connected. We are four, he is one. We have not wasted our weeks here for nothing.

The lie tasted sour on her tongue, but for an agent of the Horde, Cellian Clickhavoc felt no pity.

The elf did himself no credit. “What are your friend's measurements?” he asked, leaning upon his thick sword. “I have a friend of my own, who will freeze if I do not-”

Cellian willed herself to hear no more. It was a ploy, some trick she was certain. A Horde Inquisitor. The Horde. They have taken everything.

“Lady Clickhavoc?” Even Sir Ruan Altwulf eyed the elf balefully, mistrusting him the instant Cellian had allowed. Even to you, I must lie. You will understand later, when we have silenced the Horde in Winterspring.

The word 'cease-fire' was a snowflake, landing once in her mind before evaporating on her fevered brow.

“Arm yourselves,” she whispered, and though her heart fought it with every beat, she knew she had chosen right. She raised her voice, her Thalassian clear and high. “Blood elf of the Horde. I hereby detain you in the name of the King Varian Wrynn and place you under the custody of SI:7. Will you come willingly?”

Sly flicked his thumbs over his pistols, cocking them with a familiar clink and smoothly vaulting the wagon's edge. He crunched in the snow. Cassandre slid spectre-silent behind him, moving to flank but making no sound at all. Her feet did not breach the snow. Sir Ruan rose to his full six and half feet, the bright eyes as warm pools against the dark contrast of his skin. His massive gauntlets gripped the tome lashed at his hip, and the whip slung from his belt. The air around him grew warm, as he filled himself with righteousness.

The elf. The damned elf. He didn't move an inch. He just watched. A breath of wind tangled his blonde hair behind him, and as Cellian readied her most foul of spells, she heard him mutter.

“Thirty-four, twenty-four, thirty.... seven? Maybe?”

Cellian never saw him move. She was standing there, atop the wagon, and then he twitched and she was sprawling through the snow, sliding and twisting and rolling. Some bone-jarring impact scattered chunks of wood and metal all around. Her mouth was filled with snow and blood and a ringing dominated her ears. When the world came upright, Sir Ruan was kneeling beside her, his massive, silver armored form covered in splinters. One disappeared into his thigh, staining the steel and sapphire an ugly red and she reached out to show him he was hurt, to see she was missing fingers.

Something hot was pouring down her forehead. Sir Ruan was shouting to her, as movement happened in the distance. She could not see his mouth beneath his winged helmet. He's connected she wanted to tell him. I know he is. But the words were lost when she glanced back at the ruin from which she was catapulted. Though her body felt numb and her thoughts became unglued, she observed the scene with an acuteness that people only experience before death.

There was no more carriage; it had been scattered along with snow, soil, and her fingers from a single conical shockwave that traced back to the elf. He hardly seemed to have moved, but it was difficult to tell from a hundred yards away.

But then she could see quite clearly.

Cassandre could work some devious trick where both herself and her companions became utterly invisible for a brief instant. Useful, in engaging an ambush, in moving into position. She and Sly were impossible to spot, but even at the distance, Cellian could hear their twin cries as they came into focus and struck.

“THERAMORE!!!”

Sly materialized in front of the elf, Cassy behind. The ranger lashed up with one of his pistols, bringing it line for a point blank headshot, while the rogue spun wicked blades in her hand. One to the head and two to the spine. Never failed.

Only Cassy seemed hung in the air, not quite reaching the elf. And Sly had come up short as well. Cellian watched in horror as the armored Sin'dorei wrenched the ranger's wrist backwards, pressed the barrel of the pistol in the screaming man's mouth, and plucked the trigger. Teeth pinged like pebbles off his breastplate. And he turned and shook Cassandre, beautiful silent Cassandre from the sword he held in a reverse grip, flicking its thin edge out of her throat. Not a single drop of blood spilled on her garments as she fell into the snow.

“Monster!” Sir Ruan Altwulf was a shooting star, a blur of gold that flew from Cellian's side and at the elf. Fury and vengeance radiated from the paladin, melting the overhead snow into a warm rain. “FOR THE KING!”

Her vision swam. She tried to gather her legs beneath her, but something gave with a wet impact and she sprawled again. Yet Cellian could not take what remained of her vision from the spectacle.

They crashed into one another, trading a hundred inhuman blows in seconds. The rain fell and a cross-bearing shield of shimmering light beamed from Sir Ruan's arm. His silver weapon, the blessed bladewhip Truthlash split raindrops in two as it flew in terrible circuits, describing masterful figures of eight. The Sin'dorei collided with a terrible scream (or was it laughter? To her deafened ears, she could not be certain which). A massive sling strapped to his lower back produced weapon after weapon. Brandishing a pair of savage axes too cumbersome for any sane mortal to wield one-handed, he struck and struck and danced away only to dive forth and strike again.

Sir Ruan gave no ground. He flourished in an expert disarm, singing a hymn of battle. It filled him with impossible vigor, closing his wounds. It would close them but not mend the pain of the blow, he had once confided. He would still feel each cut as though it remained, regardless of the healing done to his body.

Truthlash coiled around one of those horrible axes and twisted it away. The elf let it slip from his grasp, taking up a hooked longsword in its place. A hundred of Sir Altwulf's wounds had closed. A thousand.

Rain fell, and beneath the cruel brutality of that blonde creature, Sir Ruan Altwulf fell also.

The conjured shield absorbed a blow that would fell any lesser man, before cracking in magical splinters. The following backhand sent the great paladin spinning, until he collided with the wet snow just a few yards away from broken little Cellian. He struggled gasping to his feet, metal hanging from his powerful body.

The elf seemed to stroll forward, but Cellian must have blacked out for a bit, because suddenly he was before herself and Sir Ruan. Those eyes, those poison eyes. She made to scream but found she could not breathe.

Sir Altwulf, Lord Ruan. The dark-skinned man whose smile rivaled the brightness of the moon. Whose laughter bubbled up in his chest, but lordly restraint captured before it reached his perfect lips. Who shaved his head each morning to remember humility, who worked his body into a hard, living weapon to never forsake duty.

Sir Altwulf stumbled towards her, reaching and pressing his broken metal gauntlet into her belly. He spoke his last in psalm, drawing from his faith alone a holy, all-covering shield of impenetrable light. While it held fast, nothing could pierce nor penetrate it. From within it, Cellian Clickhavoc could only writhe and scream as her hearthstone responded to his activation, and he threw himself bodily at the creature who had slain them all.

Rain became snow again.

~~

Regarde inspected the whip-blade that big black man had been swinging so proficiently at him. It had stung where it touched him and gouged where it had not. A few new notches on his armor. He heaved a sigh of resignation.

The big one barely fit in his grave. Digging that had taken him nearly an hour. When at last he turned over the last patch of soil, he stretched the weariness from his limbs and reviewed his work. Three unmarked graves carved in the side of a Winterspring hill.

If only you had valued life, you would not have sought mine, and I would not have parted you from yours.

Beneath his jaw-mask, he issued a low, irritated sigh. Bloodwing would not be pleased. But, needs must.

Regarde rolled the clothes he had stripped from the red-haired rogue into her cape and slung it over a shoulder. He spent a few moments more looking over the big paladin's weapon before slipping it into his sling and turning to stalk toward the cavern where he had stashed Azheira.

Suddenly feeling as if it would be imprudent to be seen, Azheira moved so that she was behind the copse of trees. She leaned against the evergreen on her left as she peered through a large gap between the firs. With what appeared to be an unconcerned stroll, Regarde approached the cart. He spoke first, but it was in the same language in which he had conversed with the raven. Thalassian, she presumed, but had no knowledge of and therefore could not understand a syllable. She wondered why he did not speak common to them as he had with her.

A slight gust pushed through the fissure, pelting her face with soft snow and whipping her hair, covering her soft blue gaze. She lifted the hand without the beads to tuck the strand back underneath the hood of the cloak while she waited to see if the quartet would respond to the elf.

The smallest of them, a gnome, cheeped a reply in the foreign tongue. More words exchanged. Azheira pressed herself closer to the opening, scraping the heel of her right palm on the bark, with the false hope she would gain comprehension by being a few inches nearer. A woman, about her size, stood in the back of the cart. As the claret haired female rose, so did the tension, or so it seemed to Azheira. In the cart, weapons were drawn, but Regarde just stood there, lazily, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Could he not see the glint of metal shimmering off the pistols? Did he not realize the red-haired female had knives? And what of the whip that would have a reach long enough to disarm Regarde from that distance? Azheira had seen men like him before. So calm before a battle. She wondered if this elf were as dangerous as the others she had known. Warriors who blustered before a fight were usually the first to go down. Those who remain composed and kept a cool head usually survived many a war.

But there were four of them and only one Regarde. Her lips parted to call out a warning. Directed at the four or the one, she knew not. That is, if it had come out. The cry caught in her throat when sudden movement around the cart startled her. Wood, snow and a gnome went flying. After that, everything seemed to slow down and speed up all at the same time. Red hair and her companion disappeared briefly only to materialize next to the elf. Azheira was disconcerted at their shout of her city’s name. She tried to get a better look at their faces, thinking she might recognize them as one of her neighbors, but alas, Regarde was too quick and they were gone. The large paladin took longer to dispatch, but soon enough, he too was a lump of decaying flesh on the snow.

Mesmerizing.

The elf's movements were deceptively beautiful. He was fluid and graceful and swift. The entire scene, from start to finish had taken less than ten minutes, Azheira gauged. Blinking, she watched with fascination as Regarde stripped the remaining woman of her clothing and began to dig the graves.

Closing her eyes and leaning more heavily upon the evergreen’s strength, she took a deep, steadying breath, trying to clear the flurries that still clouded her mind. Surely, the foursome had made the first aggressive move, but a man of his prowess would not have to kill to subdue.

Why kill them when he had not killed her?

In the rapidly fading twilight, she could barely make out the cave’s entrance in the far off distance. With him, she had food, warmth and some semblance of clothing. She shifted her gaze not quite opposite, to the east, to Everlook, which was much, much further away. It could not even be seen. In that direction lay many miles of snow and lack of sustenance, but also – freedom.

Choices.

Giving Regarde one more intent glance, she pushed herself away from the tree with no small amount of determination. A sigh almost escaped her lips, but she squelched it. Her decision was made. She would do this. She would live. Deliberately placing each foot firmly down on the rain soaked slush so as to not fall, the blue of her eyes now having a piercing resolve in their pale, almost lilac depths, she made her way southwest.

((Moar. These wordstuffs are beautiful.))

((Why thank you, you dear sweet tree with squirrels and ...kites?

<Blinks twice>

That is very kind of you to say.

<With a twinkle in her eye, she glances at Liothindas>

I do believe it's -his- turn.))

((That last one required an ICD of at least a week.

Thank you Finners. <3))

((<33 Lio.))

Azheira stiffened at the sound of a knock. She didn’t bother to get up from her cushioned chair near the windowed balcony doors. Nor did she put her book down. In fact, she didn’t even trouble herself to look up. It was better this way, she reasoned.

“Enter.”

A female Guttersnipe entered the room, bowing slightly. “Miss Lautrec, I have a message from the Dread Lord for you.”

Falchion’s raspy voice grated on Azheira’s nerves, causing her to snap. “Fine! What?”

“He requests the honor of your presence at dinner this evening.”

The book hit the floor with a thud when Azheira stood abruptly, shoving the chair backwards, scraping the legs on the floor loudly. Falchion jumped, her ever present sword bumping into her thigh.

“Oh! So. He’s kept me here for a week with nary a word and now – NOW he wants to see me?!”

“Yes, miss.”

“How about I just have my meal brought here to my cage.” Pointedly clearing her throat she adds, “I mean, my lovely room.”

“That wouldn’t be advised, miss.”

“I don’t really care what you advise, you foul, horrific thing. Leave.”

Falchion began backing out of the room as quickly as possible. Her gaze traveled to the stack of books on the bedside table. “He’ll be wanting his books returned to the library when you are done with them, miss.”

Finally looking in the general direction of the undead female but avoiding those lifeless eyes, Azheira suppressed a shudder. She refused to allow her distress to be seen by this or any of the rest of the Inquisitor’s Guttersnipes. Armoring herself with what she hoped was formidable fury, she stood a little straighter, took a deep breath and fired her words like bullets.

“I have been given free rein of this manse, these books, and probably even -you- if I so choose. Get. OUT!”

Whether she believed Azheira’s false claim of authority over the guttersnipes or not, Falchion bobbed her head in a nod and left.

Grasping the tall, spired bedpost for support, Azheira let the repressed shudder go, allowing it to rock her body with shivers.

“Why does he have to employ so many forsaken?” She vehemently muttered to herself. “Air. Fresh air.” Pushing away from the bed she took the necessary steps, albeit shaky ones, towards the floor to ceiling clear glass doors and flung them open. Drawing in deep, gasping breaths, she clung to the balcony railing as a lifeline. Spending a week in the snow drift as well as traveling with Regarde for almost as long had taken a strenuous toll on her body. Physically, she was better, but still recovering. Her mind, however…well, that was another matter.

Inhaling through her nose, the finely mixed fragrances of his garden below her small terrace teased her olfactory sense with promises of peace and tranquility. It was false, of course. He was Horde. How could it be truly serene here? Surely, treachery must be waiting for her around every corner. Nevertheless, the colors of the shrubberies below her stone balcony beckoned her with sweet assurances. It reminded her of her mother’s garden. Perhaps a walk would be a good idea, she thought.