Her hands moved in a set rhythm, inured against both the chill and the occasional prick of the needle. Ketlan was no master tailor, but repairing her own robes was a familiar task. The once pristine robe was riddled with a series of mends and patches. It was mismatched, pieced together from different sources. Each stitch was memory, as was every faint stain, which no scrubbing could remove.
Today, however, was a mundane repair. A branch had caught her hem. Such a distraction might have cost someone’s life at one time, but there were fewer skirmishes in the months since the Lich King’s fall. The Alliance had recalled many of its troops, but there were still outposts scattered throughout Northrend that needed, for some reason or another, to be manned, and a priest was always welcomed. She felt no rush to leave. She continued her mending without much conscious thought.
A letter lay open by her side. A mere page long, it was more of a note than a proper missive. The actual wording didn’t matter; she was being called home.
She finished the final stitches and added her sewing kit to the top of the small pack that contained her belongings. Tomorrow she would set sail.
---
Stormwind’s silhouette was wrong.
Ketlan struggled to see the outline of Stormwind’s towers as the Blue Maiden approached the harbor. It was misshapened, disfigured. Chunks were missing yet from its pristine façade. She’d heard reports of the damage, but had not been prepared to see a chunk of the city simply missing.
The chilly sea breeze whipped around her, but she continued to stare at the remains of the park district.
When the ship docked, she resolutely turned her face away from the sight. She noted that the dock workers continued their trade exactly as before, and that no one else stared at the conspicuous rubble. It was bad enough to be returning to the heart of civilization dressed like a refugee; she would not act like a bumpkin as well.
Her pride was forgotten as the wind shifted, carrying the scent from inland. She grimaced, quickly covering her nose at the stench. By the Light, what was that smell?
One of the dock hands noticed her actions and grunted in annoyance. “That would be stink bombs you’re smelling. Damned Horde decided to sabotage the festival.”
Thank the Light, Ketlan thought to herself. This wasn’t the normal city smell.
“Wait. What festival?”
“Hallow’s End. The Gilneans have taken over the gates, doing some ‘old fashioned’ celebrating, they say. That giant man of theirs is just asking for trouble.”
She’d heard about the Gilneans. They’d walled themselves up inside of their homeland, turning on the rest of the Alliance. Only recently, they had been besieged by a series of misfortunes that cost them their homeland and, for many, their humanity. The night elves had taken them as refugees, and so they had returned to the Alliance. Ketlan had yet to see a Gilnean afflicted by the worgen curse, and had no great desire to seek one out.
“Thank you. Light be with you,” she said automatically to the man and began the trek upwards into the city, hand to nose.
---
The next morning, Ketlan sat stiffly on one of the cold stone benches inside the Cathedral. Unnaturally white and black garments rustled whenever she shifted positions. Brother Benjamin said nothing, while the light of the stained glass moved across the floor.
“I haven’t given it much thought,” Ketlan finally answered. “There wasn’t much time to think about such things.”
“You have time now,” Brother Benjamin gently reminded her. “I suggest you use it.”
“It’s not easy to answer.”
“Worthwhile questions rarely are. But, if you wish to serve the Light, it is a question you must be able to answer. Not to me, but to yourself.”
He stood from the bench and faced her. “There is a lecture tonight on the Light, by the gazebo. Many of the local residents participate. You should attend, get to know the people here.”
She nodded slowly. “I’ll do that. Before you go, can you tell me what your…” The question faded away, as she realized that it’s not one that he would answer.
Brother Benjamin shook his head. “I know who I am. I hope you find your answer as well.”
Today, however, was a mundane repair. A branch had caught her hem. Such a distraction might have cost someone’s life at one time, but there were fewer skirmishes in the months since the Lich King’s fall. The Alliance had recalled many of its troops, but there were still outposts scattered throughout Northrend that needed, for some reason or another, to be manned, and a priest was always welcomed. She felt no rush to leave. She continued her mending without much conscious thought.
A letter lay open by her side. A mere page long, it was more of a note than a proper missive. The actual wording didn’t matter; she was being called home.
She finished the final stitches and added her sewing kit to the top of the small pack that contained her belongings. Tomorrow she would set sail.
---
Stormwind’s silhouette was wrong.
Ketlan struggled to see the outline of Stormwind’s towers as the Blue Maiden approached the harbor. It was misshapened, disfigured. Chunks were missing yet from its pristine façade. She’d heard reports of the damage, but had not been prepared to see a chunk of the city simply missing.
The chilly sea breeze whipped around her, but she continued to stare at the remains of the park district.
When the ship docked, she resolutely turned her face away from the sight. She noted that the dock workers continued their trade exactly as before, and that no one else stared at the conspicuous rubble. It was bad enough to be returning to the heart of civilization dressed like a refugee; she would not act like a bumpkin as well.
Her pride was forgotten as the wind shifted, carrying the scent from inland. She grimaced, quickly covering her nose at the stench. By the Light, what was that smell?
One of the dock hands noticed her actions and grunted in annoyance. “That would be stink bombs you’re smelling. Damned Horde decided to sabotage the festival.”
Thank the Light, Ketlan thought to herself. This wasn’t the normal city smell.
“Wait. What festival?”
“Hallow’s End. The Gilneans have taken over the gates, doing some ‘old fashioned’ celebrating, they say. That giant man of theirs is just asking for trouble.”
She’d heard about the Gilneans. They’d walled themselves up inside of their homeland, turning on the rest of the Alliance. Only recently, they had been besieged by a series of misfortunes that cost them their homeland and, for many, their humanity. The night elves had taken them as refugees, and so they had returned to the Alliance. Ketlan had yet to see a Gilnean afflicted by the worgen curse, and had no great desire to seek one out.
“Thank you. Light be with you,” she said automatically to the man and began the trek upwards into the city, hand to nose.
---
The next morning, Ketlan sat stiffly on one of the cold stone benches inside the Cathedral. Unnaturally white and black garments rustled whenever she shifted positions. Brother Benjamin said nothing, while the light of the stained glass moved across the floor.
“I haven’t given it much thought,” Ketlan finally answered. “There wasn’t much time to think about such things.”
“You have time now,” Brother Benjamin gently reminded her. “I suggest you use it.”
“It’s not easy to answer.”
“Worthwhile questions rarely are. But, if you wish to serve the Light, it is a question you must be able to answer. Not to me, but to yourself.”
He stood from the bench and faced her. “There is a lecture tonight on the Light, by the gazebo. Many of the local residents participate. You should attend, get to know the people here.”
She nodded slowly. “I’ll do that. Before you go, can you tell me what your…” The question faded away, as she realized that it’s not one that he would answer.
Brother Benjamin shook his head. “I know who I am. I hope you find your answer as well.”
