Bloodsword: 3 - Opportunities

Days passed, uneventful, though he started hearing more and more whispered rumors about the scribe who was more than he seemed. He did his best to ignore such things, hoping that, like with most rumors, it would pass in time. Kinedra and her group ignored him, even avoided him, and he realized he liked that just fine. He had thought the lady Kinedra beautiful, true, but when she said nothing, did nothing, except giggle at the antics of her "friends," he had little to admire.

Silea, on the other hand, spent less and less time amongst the aristocracy and more and more with him and his friends, mostly servants and other such laborers. She seemed more at ease around him, though he occasionally caught her staring at him. No doubt she wondered about the story surrounding his sword and what really happened. Luckily for him, the guardsmen and other soldiers had long ago buried the story regarding his unfortunate accident. They looked after their own, even if he no longer walked that path.

It was one sunny day when he was eating lunch in the courtyard of the Arcanum with a few friends, Silea included, that his old master came striding up with a purpose. He was surprised, of course, as she was accompanied by one of the Guardians of the city.

"Lady Oalina!" Purah exclaimed, jumping up and bowing. "What can I do for you?"

Oalina was old and wise, her hair turning silver and her eyes full of knowledge. She was tall for a woman, and though the Quel'dorei do not wrinkle or show any real physical sign of aging, she carried an aura of great wisdom that could only come with many years of life.

"Purah Lightsword, this is Guardian Rad'ith. He is here on behalf of the Farstriders. They seek a scribe to help them with a few military endeavors. When they came to me for advice, I suggested you." She stepped aside to allow the Guardian to speak.

"Correct," Rad'ith said, his voice a little clipped. "You come highly recommended. The details of the job, however, are not mine to give. If you're interested, please come with me, and everything will be explained."

Purah was surprised, to say the least. Silea looked concerned, but remained silent, and his other friends simply looked bewildered. Purah finally spoke up, "While I appreciate the offer, sir, my job and my place is here." He turned to Lady Oalina, to thank her for her confidence in the recommendation, but stopped. There was a look on her face that he didn't quite understand. She seemed to be filled with apprehension and a sense of urgency. "Although... I suppose speaking to the Farstriders about the position couldn't hurt. Perhaps I can do both jobs." He grabbed his pack from the bench where he had been sitting. "Lead the way."

The Guardian, clad in the colors of the city, stood out quite clearly. Oalina kept easy pace with them both, even for her age. Purah felt very out of place between the two of them, but stayed silent as they walked the street. As they turned the corner, Oalina sighed and the Guardian grunted in response. "Looks like you've got a decent head on those shoulders, boy. For a second there, I didn't think you'd come along."

Confused, Purah looked back and forth between his old teacher and the soldier. "Pardon?"

"You obviously picked up on the lady's expression. Means you're observant. Means you aren't a complete idiot and may actually fill our needs quite well."

Still terribly confused, he looked to the Lady Oalina for a better explanation.

"I can't give you any details here on the street, Purah, as the information you'll be handling if you get the position is classified and confidential. When you speak to the commander, you'll understand. I recommended you because you have a level head, you're intelligent, and you'll do a good job."

"My lady, while I appreciate the praise a great deal I'm not so sure I can do anything for the military. My past-"

"Completely irrelevant, Purah. They won't be asking you to touch a weapon, much less pick it up and swing it about." She sighed again. "Though, based on the information they're starting to get, your previous skills would no doubt be welcome."

She refused to elaborate further, which only piqued Purah's curiosity, but he didn't press her, knowing her sharp tongue. Indeed, if the information was confidential, it was a huge risk to tell him even as much as she had. Whatever it was, it must be rather concerning.

The Guardian and his former teacher led him to the Farstriders Enclave, an area of the city that acted as the military center. Politicians came and went, members of the Convocation greeting each other or having debates. Further in, more and more soldiers could be seen. They also wore the colors of the city, though they were more heavily armed than the Guardians. Some of them were the Rangers, led by Sylvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of the Quel'dorei. She was practically legend with her bow and leadership, a true hero of the people, though there had been very little need for fighting as of late.

The concerning news was revealed to him soon enough. They had finally come to a stop near what was obviously a runner's station for getting messages out to the soldiers in the field. It was a small building, with a few offices, but mostly desks where scribes could write copies of orders and reports to send out via fast messengers. As they entered, he could already see several scribes frantically scribbling away, as well as runners coming and going out into the city and through the nearby gate.

The commander of the post was a tall, thin, and stern-looking elf who introduced himself as Runner-Commander Bur'ir. He thanked the Guardian for the escort and dismissed him, leaving just Purah and the Lady Oalina sitting in the small, slightly stuffy office. He sat at the large desk opposite them and stared for a moment at Purah.

"Well. The Lady says you'd serve us well. Ever been a solder, boy?"

Purah shook his head. "No, not officially."

Bur'ir said nothing at first, then nodded. "Yes, the Lady explained your tale to me. An unfortunate thing, that. If you choose to work for me, though, you'll need not worry about weaponry. None of my other scribes have ever learned to fight. Ha! I doubt they'd know which end to hold." He chuckled at that for a moment, obviously finding more humor in his joke than either Purah or Oalina.

Once he settled, however, he stood to close the door and then spoke plainly.

"Purah Lightsword, the information I'm about to reveal to you must be kept secret, do you understand? We don't want to concern the citizenry over what may end up being nothing."

Purah nodded. "Yes, sir. I understand."

"Very well," Bur'ir nodded. "There have been some rather strange and concerning events occurring in the Human lands of Lordaeron...

Bloodsword: 2 - Dreaming

The practice field was wet from recent rain. Weapon racks stood empty, as all the practice swords, maces, and ranseurs had been brought in to protect them from the weather. The breeze was nearly still, only stirring occasionally, and when it did it was cold and damp. Young initiates of the guard were warming up in one corner of the yard, a master watching over them. A few older students were already practicing one-on-one, their wooden swords clacking together in the still morning, the only sound that carried in the heavy air.

He stood silently, a sword in his hand. Not a wooden one, no, this one gleamed silver, it's keen edge glinting. He looked down it's length, his eyes tracing every part of it, every inch of it's perfect blade to the tip and back again, the hilt simple and unadorned. It was a master's weapon, a well-crafted beauty of death and violence. And it was his.

He began the dance to warm up and loosen his muscles, the sword practically singing in his hands. He slowly picked up speed, flowing from one form to another, his innate grace beautiful to behold. Not much older than the initiates in the corner of the yard, he had already surpassed them all, brilliant and strong and perfect.

No. Not this...

Not a single step out of place, not one mistake. Faster, now, again and again, increasing in speed until the sword was a blur of steel, a perfect whirlwind of death. From the corner of his blue eyes he saw his swordmaster silently nod, pleased. He didn't let it distract him, didn't allow himself anything except the dance, and the blade, and the movement.

Please... please, don't do this...

No one moved, now, all of them enthralled by his movements, his dance of death. Every form flowing into the next, every moment suspended in the gray morning. He was nearing his top speed, a climax nearly as sweet as any he had shared with a woman, and everyone watched. Everyone but him.

Oh, gods, forgive me...

As quickly as it began, it ended. He was looking down the blade once again, this time in shock, his blue eyes tracing the blade's keen edge, now red with blood. The wooden clacking of the practice swords had stopped, replaced now by screaming, the screaming of a dieing man.

The man lay in a growing pool of his red blood, some human nobleman who had walked by and stumbled, stumbled into his deadly dance. The sword's perfect edge had cut him near in half. Men were shouting, gathering around, yelling for healers and priests, but he could barely hear over the ringing in his ears. Loose fingers dropped the blade and it fell, so slowly, slowly, to the ground. He closed his eyes...

... And opened them, nearly screaming, his body drenched in sweat. Purah was back in his apartment, on his low couch. He couldn't remember falling asleep, but it had just been a dream, a simple manifest of memories he did his best to forget. The elf took ragged breaths, trying his best to calm his pounding heart as it seemed to rattle against his aching ribs. Oh, gods, why? He cradled his head in his hands. Tears streamed down his face as he was forced to remember that day.

The nobleman had been passing by, distracted by something or other. No one ever fully understood what had happened. They just know he had stumbled and fell right into the path of Purah's blade during his morning exercises. All the soldiers and guardsmen knew that Purah preferred to practice with a naked blade early in the mornings and no one ever came close to him. His master had even told him that it wasn't his fault, that the fool human should have known better than to come that close to a practice yard, especially to the area where he had been practicing with his blade, that there was nothing he should or could have done differently.

Still, Purah had never forgiven himself. He had been young by his people's standards, was still young by his people's standards, but the nobleman had only been twenty-three. Twenty-three! So very young, too young, to die. And he had killed him, accident or no. He remembered all the condolences, all the advice, all the preperations and talk, but none of it mattered. He felt empty and alone, and he had called it quits.

It had been both the hardest and easiest decision in his life. Hardest because he thought that all he was, all he could be, was a swordsman. He thought that there was no other way, no other choice, but, thankfully he was wrong. It was also an easy decision, easy to say, easy to do. He set it aside, hung the sword up on the wall as a reminder, and never felt the need to touch a sword again. He picked up a quill and never looked back.

Lucky for him, his skill with the sword was not the only skills he had. His penmanship was nearly as perfect as his fencing, though he admittedly had to work harder at it. He had found a master to teach him illumination and translations of ancient texts fairly quickly in Silvermoon. His job at the Arcanum was simple and fulfilling.

Still, there were days where he desperately wished he did not fear the sword. Like last night. Drunken bullies or no, he could have easily put those upstarts in their places, but didn't. The idea of physical violence now made him ill... and sad. He remembers the young nobleman, the human who got too close, and he wishes... What? That he hadn't been a fool? That I had been more aware of my surroundings? That the world were fair and just and right?

Purah sighed and stood, rubbing his face and turning to face the gleaming sword on the wall. His eyes traced it's perfect edge, from point to hilt. Even in the moonlight that came through his thin curtains, the blade seemed to glow. It could not be any more enticing even if it whispered to him. But he passed it by, ignoring its allure, instead going to a nearby chest and pulling out his work clothes.

The sun was still hours away, but he couldn't sleep now. He'd go for a long walk in the city gardens, then work early. Perhaps, if he finished some of the backlog requests, he'd get to leave early and spend some time with friends in the tavern. Real friends, not some aristrocrats who care more about shiny baubles and foolish magics than simple common sense.

The First Battle: 4 - The Zeppelin

Heavy underbrush dragged at her armored legs as Caliburn crashed through the jungle towards the northern Horde outpost known as Grom'gol. Little more than a circle of tents within a wooden palisade, the Horde station was crude but strategically very important, as the Goblin Zeppelins would land and take off from the tower constructed in the center of the outpost. Two came and went, one to the Forsaken home of Undercity, once known as Lordaeron, and one to the Orc stronghold of Orgrimmar, and the seat of the Horde's power.

Seona had once again lagged behind, as Caliburn didn't have quite the endurance to keep up with the more experienced and older steeds, so she came upon the carnage of battle a little late. Still, there was plenty to do. She summoned the Light as she leapt from Caliburn's saddle, blessing those near her and healing a few less grievous wounds. The orcish guards were taken entirely by surprise and were easily swept aside by the Alliance fighters. Any civilians had fled, or, if they were foolish enough to fight, already slain. The bonfire in the camp burned bright, and as the fighting began to die down, they all gathered around it for a moment's rest.

"We'll take the tower next. Watch out for the goblins. Though small in stature, they are devilishly clever and often fight with nets." Small groups then made for the tower, staying together in the tight fighting quarters. Seona followed soon after, with a druid, Gildaroy the paladin, and the young rogue Anaara. Truly the goblins were prepared for them, and thanks to their greater defensive position were even able to hold them off for a time, occasionally pushing soldiers off the tower or entangling them in nets, but were defeated, in the end.

The tower and the outpost were theirs. Cheering in triumph, the soldiers lifted their weapons and fists. "We'll hold this position until further notice. No Horde will use the zeppelins to reach their cities while we are here."

Soldiers sharpened swords or bandaged wounds while they waited. A returning Orc scout would occasionally charge into the group, only to be cut down almost immediately. The leaders of the party sat around the bonfire, bodyguards keeping a wary eye, while they strategized the next move. What only was a short moment quickly seemed like an eternity to the young, Dwarf paladin. She made the rounds, healing and blessing the soldiers to keep from nervously pacing.

When the group leaders shouted out new orders, she nearly jumped out of her skin. "New orders. We're heading to Orgrimmar. It's time we made a stand at the gates of Thrall's city."

It surprised Seona, and frightened her a little. She had never been to Durotar, much less the Orcish city Thrall had built, but she had promised to follow this through to the end. The group moved up the ramp again to the tower and took control of the zeppelin to Orgrimmar. Eager warriors readied their blades and mages prepared spells. Seona again did what she could, calling holy Light to bless the soldiers before the battle.

Finally ready, the zeppelin was shoved off from the tower, dipping low for a moment before rising up again into the sky and soared over the ocean, carrying the soldiers towards the distant continent of Kalimdor. The winds picked up speed and the huge engine spun the rotating blades to propel the flying machine out over the blue water. Seona looked below to see the moonlight glittering over the waves. For a moment, at least, the journey was peaceful, though she could see huge stormclouds in the far distance.

"The Maelstrom. We'll steer around it, no worries." A grizzled, human warrior stood next to her and had noticed the direction she looked in. "With this favorable wind, and the subdued goblins easily steering our way, we should actually make Durotar in a few hours. The battle will be glorious."

Seona wasn't so sure, especially seeing the glint in the warrior's eyes, but simply nodded, looking once again out over the sea. A few hours, she thought. A few hours and I'll be before the gates of Orgrimmar, the home of the Orcs, the damned beasts who took my father from me. She sighed. Still, I have little chance of helping these soldiers. One day, though... One day I'll face the Orcs and I'll show them the mercy of the Light. The same mercy they showed my father.

Grim determination set on her features, and her heart pounded in her chest. In her mind, the zeppelin could go no slower. Mercy, indeed.

Bloodsword: 1 - The Scribe

Sunlight filtered through the dusty window, falling warmly on the many, messy stacks of papers, parchments, scrolls, and ancient tomes in the office high in one of the Arcanum's towers. It was early morning, before the classes had begun, and Purah Lightsword had only just come in for his day's work. Setting his small pack by the door, he sighed quietly and began setting up his workstation for the day, organizing his inks and quills and getting a new stack of vellum out from a nearby cabinet.

Birds chirped outside the window and a few students walked slowly and sleepily into the courtyard below for early classes. For a brief moment, Purah envied them, learning great magics and other secrets of the Arcane, but he shook his head and returned to his task. He wasn't meant for such things, and he knew it. His talents were better served here, in the scribe's tower, doing simple, mundane paperwork. Mundane, yes, but peaceful and satisfying.

He deftly tied his long, golden hair back with a leather cord, ensuring it wouldn't get in the way of his work. His face was angular and thin, but well proportioned and glowing, with an easy smile. His shirt was spattered in ink stains of various colors, some bright, others faded. His hands were calloused and clean, though by the end of they day they'd be as ink-stained as his shirt, he knew.

As he prepared for the day, he noticed some of his inks were quite low. He reached into the cupboard again, this time removing several plants and flowers carefully dried and preserved. Brow furrowed a bit in concentration, he used pestle and mortar to create raw pigments, mixing them with water to create new inks. Purah poured the new ink into a vial, his blue eyes reflecting in the glass as he measured by sight. Satisfied, he labeled the new ink and set it aside, ready for it's use. Finally sitting down at his workstation, he bent over an already-started project: copy work for one of the professors of the school. It required a steady hand and a clear eye, as every minute detail had to match perfectly.

A light knock on the door sounded and he said, loudly enough to be heard through the heavy wood, "Come in!" He did not look up from his work, but knew who is was regardless. "Good morning, Student Silea."

The young elf giggled and walked over to the desk, careful not to bump into it and interrupt the scribe's work. She had done that the first time they had met, ruining hours of his handiwork in a single moment, and hadn't gotten on his good side until weeks later. "Morning, 'Rah. What are you working on this fine day?"

Her red hair was fine and soft, framing her round, happy face. She, like all of the Quel'dorei, had blue eyes and they eagerly glanced over the various scribblings in the office, curious.

Purah didn't answer right away, as he was studying the passage he was copying ensuring all the words were exact. His specialty was translations and exact replicas of ancient texts, but it required far more concentration than most people realized, especially the younger, newer students. Luckily, Silea understood, especially after her first time in the office. "Nothing exciting, I'm afraid, Silea. Just a minor translation of an older text for Master Hath'ar." He blew lightly on the ink to dry it. "What can I do for you?"

Silea reached into a pocket from her dress and produced a crumpled parchment. "Oh, uh... sorry," she sheepishly said, handing it over to the disapproving scribe. "Don't get so bent out of shape over such a little piece of paper, 'Rah. It's just scrap." Silea said with a smile.

"Still, really, Silea, is it hard to keep it at least somewhat flat? I have to file all these requests, you know, and they don't keep well, all crumpled up..." His lighthearted chiding just made the young student giggle again. Purah quickly read over the short note. "Ah, from Master Far'lain? I have a few items finished for him already. Wait a moment, will you? You can take them along. That should please him."

Purah stood carefully from his desk and glanced quickly through a few of the stacks until he found what he had been looking for. He rolled several pieces of parchment up and placed them in a round tube of heavy paper to keep them safe.

"Here." Silea took the rolled papers carefully.

"Thank you, Scribe Lightsword. I'll ensure the Master gets these right away." Silea picked up her pack again and made for the door. "Oh! One more thing... A few of us are going to the Sweeping Broom tavern tonight to celebrate the end of term. You'll join us, won't you?"

Purah frowned again, a little sadly. "Silea, you know I don't mix well with the students, especially some of the ones who seem to have taken to you."
"Oh, please, 'Rah? Kinedra will be there," she pleaded, knowing he secretly fancied the lady.

Still frowning, he turned back to his work. "Fine. But... Just for a bit. I have to work tomorrow, you know, unlike you students who get the days off."

Giggling again, Silea thanked him and rushed out the door. Purah concentrated on his work again, the quiet of the office broken only by the scratching of quill on parchment.

_-.: * :.-_

The sun was setting as the Scribe packed up his inks and quills and stowed them away again. He was in good spirits, thanks to getting plenty of work done today. Master Far'lain had been very pleased with his work from earlier that morning and had sent a glowing letter of appreciation. His former teacher, now boss, the Lady Oalina, a master scribe and mage, had noticed the letter and even gave him a compliment, which had made his day. He remembered all too well her harsher words when he had been her student. Always pushing him to be the best, he silently thought she was a far harder taskmaster than any swordmaster he had ever had.

Thinking such thoughts only made him remember his past and he pushed old memories away, try as they might to rise to the surface of his mind. That part of my life is over. He told himself.Has been for ages. You'd think the rest of me would remember.

The walk down the tower and out of the school grounds was uneventful as he made his way to the tavern. It was nearby, catering specifically to the students of the Arcanum. Known for good prices that fit a student's budget and named after one of the first spells any student of the Arcane learned, the Sweeping Broom was busy. Silea and her friends weren't the only ones celebrating, it seemed, as several young guardsmen were also drinking and dining in the corner.

Silea spotted the Scribe standing near the doorway long before he found her and she called him over to the students table. He recognized them all by sight if not by name, and made his way over, a bit shyly. Some of the students were nearly apprentices and much closer to his age, like Kinedra. They were also known as some of the wealthier students at the Arcanum, most coming from influential families within Quel'thalas, and were occasionally haughty and rude to those who were less fortunate, such as Purah, who came from the countryside originally.

"Purah, welcome. Take a seat!" Silea laughed, and pulled out a chair for him. The barkeep came to take his order of a light meal and wine, and he listened quietly as the various students spoke about their classes and recent tests. Kinedra eyed him with a smile, flanked on each side by rather handsome and attentive men and finally asked, "Tell me, scribe, why do you not also take classes? I've heard you've quite the mind for history and mathematics."

Purah, surprised by the sudden question, nearly choked on his meal. After he took a few quiet drinks of wine and calmed down, he explained, a little red-faced from embarrassment, that he had little talent for magics, which, in the end, was what the Arcanum truly taught. "Truely, Lady Kinedra, magic and I get along rather badly, I'm afraid. Little things are no problem, but anything much more complicated than lighting candles and such tends to blow up in my face."

One of the youths at her side, scowling a little at him, obviously a bit drunk and jealous, piped up. "Well, obviously. I mean, look at you." Purah involuntarily glanced down. "What about me, sir?"

"You're just some bookworm, all caught up in texts and scrolls. You've no ability to do practical things." He quickly conjured a rose from the air, red as the wine they all drank, and handed it to the Lady Kinedra, who giggled, "Thank you, Reth'al."

"Ah," said Purah, a little angry, "and I suppose conjuring roses is 'practical.'"

"Yeah, obviously." The second student then sniffed distainfully. "Plus, you're covered in ink."

Purah, at this point uncomfortable and embarrassed, stood to leave. "If you'll excuse me." He said a quiet goodbye to Silea, who apologized, saying they were just drunk and being stupid. "Yes, they are," Purah whispered. "I'll see you soon, Silea," he said, and made for the doorway.

Unknown to him, Reth'al and the second student had stood and followed him out to the street. The guardsmen who had been celebrating inside stood in a loud group nearby, saying their goodbyes for the night. Purah noticed his two shadows rather quickly, though, when a rough shove from behind sent him sprawling into the street. "Stay away from Kinedra, scribe." Reth'al sneered, drunk and totally indifferent to the guardsmen, who now turned to see what the commotion was.

Purah, wincing and angry, bit back a quick retort and pushed himself onto his knees. Dirt now coated his shirt along with the ink stains and his hands were a bit scraped up. As he stood, another shove sent him back to the ground, followed by a kick to the ribs, knocking the wind from him. He recovered quickly, ignoring the pain in his side, and reached out to pull his attacker down to the ground.

The old training from his past came right back, and he rolled and leapt up, ready for a fight. His attacker the second time had been Reth'al's companion, who now coughed from the dust kicked up in the street and was slow to get back up, being even more drunk than his companion. Reth'al, not thinking clearly, dove at the scribe, only to be surprised when Purah wasn't there, as he had easily dodged out of the path of the lunge. Other students from inside, including Silea and Kinedra, were standing in the street now, watching the whole thing unfold. From the looks on the lady Kinedra's face, she though it a good laugh, though Silea looked far more concerned.

The city guards waded into the fray, now, doing their best to keep it from escalating. The leader of the group did a double take as Reth'al got up, shouting about his father and something about how the scribe would be sorry. The guardsman must have recognized him for a noble's son, as he looked rather angry as he moved toward Purah, but his face changed abruptly as he neared the scribe. This guardsman knew exactly who Purah was, and the scribe winced a bit.

"Purah? Purah Lightsword?" Brushing off the front of his shirt, trying to make himself as small as possible, Purah didn't look up. It was Guardsman Thael'ar, a well known trainer of the Initiates to the Sentinals, and an old acquaintance of the. Reth'al, a bloody nose from stumbling past the much faster Purah, stamped over, huffing and angry.

Guardsman Thael'ar just turned to him, saying, "You're an idiot, boy, picking a fight with Purah Lightsword. Had he a blade, you'd no doubt be dead, or at least gravely wounded for the insults." Turning back to Purah he continued, "Didn't know it was you, lad. You should have said they were giving you trouble inside. I would have done something then before it moved to the streets."

Reth'al, shocked, sputtered something unintelligable. Purah would have found the whole thing funny, but several of the students had overheard and were muttering amongst themselves. Purah leaned closer to the guard. "My thanks, Reth'al, but I had rather you not mention such things here. I'm just a scribe, now, not a swordsman." His voice was quiet, but he worried it still carried.

"Right, right... about that. You should rethink your decision. You were far better with the blade than any student I've had since then. One accident shouldn't keep you from your destiny or-"

"No." Purah brushed himself off again and turned away. "Thank you for the help, Reth'al, but no. I'll never touch a blade again." He nodded to the other guards, who gladly gave way to him and he started walking home. He heard her come up behind, but didn't turn.

"Purah? Are you okay?" It was Silea. She sounded genuinely concerned and Purah was almost sorry. "I had no idea they would act like that towards you, you know that, don't you?" He sighed and stopped.

"I did try to warn you, you know. I don't get along with the students very well." He turned around to see Silea on the verge of tears.

"Oh, I was so worried about you!" She ran and plowed into him, hugging him tight and making him wince from the bruised ribs. "When I saw them get up to follow you, and then they pushed you, and you got hurt-"

"Silea! I'm alright." He gently pried her off and looked into her eyes. "I'm fine, see?"

She sniffed again, an occasional tear still rolling down her cheek. Purah sighed, then winced as his ribs began to hurt, which only got another gasp and apology from Silea. "Please let me help you get home! I feel awful about this, really I do." He was going to say no, but decided that it wouldn't be so bad, as he started feeling every wound anew.

He nodded and they walked back to his small apartment on the west side of the city. Opening the door, Silea quickly lit the lanterns inside with magical fire and he hobbled over to a small chest with ointments and bandages. Pulling a small pot of salve out with the bandage he sat on the low couch, and lifted his shirt. A large bruise was already forming and he hissed.

Silea, who had been quietly looking around his home at the simple decorations, especially a large, finely-crafted sword hanging on the wall, frowned and came over. "Oh, Purah, I'm sorry." She took the salve from him and with gentle fingers smoothed it over the growing bruise. "You shouldn't have fought them. You could have gotten hurt."

Purah laughed, but instantly regretted it as his ribs ached in protest. "My thanks for the concern Silea, but I would have been fine."

She looked up at the sword again, then, and quietly asked, "Is that what the guardsman was talking about?"

Purah frowned. "Silea... that's nothing but a fading memory."

She was quiet then, but he knew that once Silea became fixated on something she rarely let it go. Still, it seemed she was content enough right now to leave it be, concentrating on wrapping his ribs. She finished, tucking the end of the bandage in with gentle hands.

"Thank you," Purah said, after checking the first-aid job, satisfied.

"Good night, Scribe Purah," Silea whispered, glancing once more at the large sword on the wall, then walked out the door, closing it behind her. Purah just sighed and washed his hands, the blood coloring the water in the washbasin a light pink. Carefully putting ointment on the scrapes, he went back to the couch, leaning back and staring at the gleaming weapon that hung there.

Within a few minutes, his eyes closed, and he was lost in dreams.

The First Battle: 3 - The Dark Woods

The trees of Elwynn forest passed in a blur as Seona rode hard to keep up with the other soldiers. All of their steeds were the finest gold could buy, perfectly trained for war, swift and enduring. Poor Caliburn did all he could to keep up, but he was young and stumbled on occasion. Seona patted him, whispering soothing words to help him along, and they managed. Anaara, the young rogue, rode a beautiful battle-cat of the Night Elves, but her beast was also young and far slower than the chargers and huge steeds of the more-experienced soldiers. Seona smiled encouragement, though, and the rogue returned the favor.

The light grew dimmer as they entered the thick of the forest. Seona knew this land fairly well, and slowed Caliburn before they plunged into the river that divided the Elwynn forest from Duskwood. Looking out over the slowly flowing river, she could barely see the dark and forbidding woods standing like dark soldiers along the opposite bank. A curse seemed to hang over the Duskwood, but the other soldiers were pressing on and Seona wasn't one to show cowardice. She urged Caliburn down the bank, and he obediently went, splashing down into the river and swam towards the other bank.

The deep dark enveloped them as they emerged from the water on the other side, and Seona shivered. A long howl echoed in the distance and something skittered away into the dark. Caliburn shook a bit and sidestepped, uneasy, but Seona steadied him and pressed him onward into the woods.

Huge spiders were in these woods, but they payed them no mind as they passed through to the road up ahead. Other soldiers were already climbing up the steep hill to the road and Seona followed suit, finally breathing a little easier as Caliburn's hooves clattered onto the solid, cobblestone road. Lantern-light flickered in the distance, evidence of the Darkshire militia and guard. They ran up the road to the small town, slowing to a walk as soon as the buildings surrounded them, protective.

She could see on of the leaders speaking with a member of the Darkshire guard, no doubt filling him in on what we were doing here, that they should keep their eyes open for the Horde. Milling about, Seona glanced around the town, realizing that not much had changed since her time here. The guard was still under-manned and under-supplied. She could have sworn that she had passed a scourge abomination on the way up the road, thankfully dead on the path, but obvious evidence that the dead refused to stay still in these woods. She shook her head sadly, wondering why Stormwind refused to send aid here, to its own backyard.

They waited for some time for more instructions, or from news of sighting of any horde, but there was nothing. Many of the soldiers were getting impatient and Seona was nervous. Was this normal? Were they just to wait here? She patted Caliburn's armored neck again, and checked her gear. Gildaroy noticed her nervous movements and asked her if she was okay.

"Just a little nervous." Gildaroy chuckled a bit and offered her a flask. "Thank you, but I'd rather keep my head clear." Seona smiled, declining the drink.

"You needn't worry. This is the best bunch of soldiers in all of Azeroth." The paladin nodded, "That I can see."

Commotion from the front line caught Seona's attention. Murmurs swept through the many mounted soldiers as curious citizens looked on. Whispers reached Seona's ears. -They retaliated?Where? -We should take them all out! -Waiting here is foolish, especially if they've hit the border. -What are our orders? -New orders are sure to come soon, be calm. -Steady on, men. - Horde have been spotted in the Jungle! -The Rebel Camp? Then, orders were shouted from the front. "We're moving out! We're riding to Stranglethorn! Show no mercy! Show no quarter! For the Alliance!"

"FOR THE ALLIANCE!" the soldiers shouted in response, and they charged out of town, riding full speed for the bridge to the south that served as the entrance to the hot, steamy jungles of Stranglethorn. Seona gulped and followed, doing all she could to keep her nervousness from showing too much. Anaara, urging her cat forward with the rest, kept near. I'll stick close to her on the road, at least, Seona thought, and urged Caliburn on.

The dark began to lift a bit as they neared the bridge where the trees thinned out. Clattering hooves echoed out over the woods as the front line charged over the bridge that spanned the gorge separating the jungle from the woods. Sounds of battle soon reached Seona's ears as well as the foolish Horde who had attacked the rebel camp on the border were dealt with. She followed as the group turned south again and plunged into the jungle.

"Onward soldiers of the Alliance! Onward to Grom'gol! Take out any Horde threat on the way!"

Seona charged and roared with the rest, the zeal and excitement of the fight and hard ride sweeping her along. Grom'gol was near and the Horde wouldn't know what hit them.