Thieren James sat down heavily in the stringy, pale grass, groaning audibly and stretching out one booted foot, flexing her stiffened joints.  For a long moment she sat back on her haunch, balancing on her mailed palms and stared up into the ever pleasant gloominess.  She breathed easier, and the shockwaves of pain that raced up her spine from her other leg slowed to a dull, hideous thump.  At least, she thought ruefully, she didn’t feel like vomiting anymore.

After a long moment, she sighed in mild frustration, and folded her bad leg up at the knee so that she could examine her badly mauled ankle once again.  No, no bite marks, but the beasts jaws had been powerful – scarily so, she decided – and already her ankle was turning an ugly purple color.  It was beginning to swell, too.

She sighed again.  A fine mess, true, but one that was proving to at least be tolerable.  She hazarded a quick glance twenty feet to her right where the beast – though in in the semi-darkness, crumpled over the two arrows she had sunken into its pelt, it looked a bit like the man it had once been – lay dead, the rock she had caved its skull in still laying by its side.

She laid back in the grass, closing her eyes and allowed herself to drift.

It had been a mistake, she decided, to not have brought the girl along.  Honestly, that’s how she thought of her these days, a girl, though they were the same age.  Something about being behind the wall or the infection had put a damper on her will.  She seemed testy and indecision to Thiery, almost shy and jumpy.  Even worse, perhaps, was that she thought of her as indecisive.  She would commit to something, but not to the cost, almost as if she were afraid.  It was that way with her brother.  She wanted to find him if he was alive, but the obvious path was avoided.  For what reason?  Because the man who might know had abandoned her?  Because he was a traitorous dog?

Now, now, she thought.  He may have thrown in his lot with the rotting hand of Lordaeron, but he wasn’t a dog.  Other Gilneans held that title, even if it was an unfair one.

She glanced back at the dead worgen and frowned.

It wasn’t always unfair, she decided.  Bloody animals, these feral ones were.  If they were fighting over food they were fighting over rutting rights.  They were as viscous with one another as they were with anyone who happened to cross their path.  Not like a wolf or dog, really, but something that had gone full tilt towards outright meanness.

In anycase, she’d have to ask that she come.  She wasn’t getting anywhere here on her own, and Renawyn was best kept in the dark as much as possible.  Worse, the others, the dwarf and the elf, seemed a bit off to her.  Unreliable, at best, she had decided.

She’d be upfront and truthful with her on this.  The girl was scared of whatever lurked in the shadows of her own curse, and while Thiery didn’t understand it to the fullest extent – though, she noted, she would have had a large rock not been within reach – but the girl was terribly frightened of it.  Fear, hones to goodness fear, was something Thiery could respect.  The way you could taste it in the back of your throat or the way it coated the inside of your mouth.  She was familiar with fear, alright, and though she often was frustrated she loved the girl the way a sister would.  She respected that fear, and felt an almost maternal drive to protect against it.  That had surprised her, actually.  She’d gotten used to the idea that she was almost all hard edges now.  Whatever nuturing behavior she’d been born with she thought she’d left broken in the desert or amongst the crags of her homeland.  But, here it was in full bloom.  Not so hard afterall, hm?

She consciously snapped back into herself and sat up.  The wave of pain from her swelling ankle had faded a bit further, and felt keenly aware that she was laying in the middle of the bloody woods waiting for another of the bastards to come along and take a bite out of her hide.  Wouldn’t that be just dandy?

She exhaled and slowly pushed herself to her feet, gritting her teeth against the pain as she balanced against the vertigo.  She put wait on the bad ankle, and smiled softly.  Not broken, and she only felt a bit like heaving.

Balancing on a tree branch she limped towards the road, her chewed boot in one hand.

Bloody hell, it was a long walk back to Darkshire, she thought sullenly.

I like to think I’m above grudges and blood feuds; that the way of the vendetta runs against my better nature and my desire for something approaching justice and order.  This, though, is something that I cannot ignore and I cannot escape.  This is dark work, and I already feel that I’m walking away from the Light in pursuing it, but damnit, is there a choice in the matter?

Time will tell, I suppose.  For now, I have a worgen to catch.

Dawn came hard across the sky, and Thieren James felt right again; her focus trained for the first time in weeks. Her perceptions had narrowed, and in a flash of recognition she found what had eluded her in Stormwind these past months: the way forward. She felt tangible and real, and enjoyed the sensation and rhythm of her own heart beat. Steady, predictable, and reliable. These were words she had come to associate with herself over the years, a consideration of practicality in facing this life from her perception. Some people thought her cold, and others, she knew, were simply at loss to explain such distance. It wasn’t that she didn’t care or that she didn’t feel things — she did, in fact, feel things intensely – but rather she saw little point in putting these things into words anymore. Words had carried so little weight in the past, dying on the breezes of fate and lost dreams. Promises to return, words of love, and declarations of friendship. She could appreciate such things, and she did value words, but in so many cases these words remained unfulfilled. The greatest demonstration of truth, she had decided, was to act upon how one felt. Action, she had decided a long time ago, was the true legacy of the heart, and determination applied to that action was the most potent means of display. It one intended to return home one did so. If one loved, they showed that love.

She shifted her weight, planting one foot against the shattered log that concealed her and drew an arrow from the quiver on her side. She flexed her fingers, working the stiffness from her knuckles and welcoming back in the heat into the tips of her fingers. The air had a bite, winter was still hard on the land, even this far south, and she could see her breath rise up into the orange tint of the sky. She pulled her hood down a bit, but did so more out of habit rather than any sort of conscious desire to further hide her presence. Jeremiah Rowle might have hunted the moors for fox with his dogs, but he hadn’t fought Alterac and the trolls amongst the crags, and he hadn’t seen the wastes of Silithus or the crazed lunacy of the Hammer in that desert. She knew the advantage was hers if the situation turned dire.

And, she did expect the worst. Even back in Darnassus she could see the path ahead quite clearly. The traitorous dog who abandoned his own daughter, his king, and his homeland; who had sided with a foreign, alien invader that had attempted to murder his king and had succeeded in doing so with that monarch’s son. There was little room for mercy or pity here, and she wouldn’t grant any at the first site of a rifle or pistol. But Leli, she knew, sought such things, and though she had begun to wonder if she had somehow forgotten such a quality in herself she found herself in admiration of her cousin’s display. To forget grudges written in blood — to forgive grave trespasses against both the heart and decency – had seemed out of reach not so long ago, but the cousin who had been like a sister so long ago had left her mark in recent months. When she had first surveyed the board, planned her initial moves, and set into motion that which resulted in today she had thought she would enjoy punishing this traitor, but now, she wasn’t so sure.

Absently, she nocked the arrow in her hands, and settled back, watching over Lellian Rowle as her cousin waited for her father.

I firmly believe that she and my father were like night and day despite their shared blood.  My father had found prosperity in the military, first for the fine bows his family had produced for generations and then in the son who earned a commission — a striking achievement, he felt, for a family not of noble blood.  Aunt Marion was different, however.  It was under her wing that I learned to fire my family’s recurve, to search for the telltale tracks of the beastly trolls who plagued our borders, and how to survive amongst the granite crags of my homeland.  All skills, I admit, that are useful in such dark times as these.

What I remember most was an overnight trip into the Highlands one frigid November evening to deal with the marauding wolves that troubled her flock.

* * *

She built a fire, and we sat in silence.  I stirred the coals with a long stick, and felt melancholy.  Long minutes passed.

“If this were your brother he would be celebrating,” my aunt said, finally.

I shrugged and prodded the fire again, pushing the stick in deeper to elicit a sharper crack of the flames.

“What’s on your mind, kiddo?”

I slumped and then looked across the fire at her.  “Just because something is necessary doesn’t mean I should celebrate.”

She smiled, her lean face illuminated in an orange glow.

“I don’t think there is anything to celebrate in killing another living thing, Thiery,” my aunt said.  “These fools — rich fools mostly, who do not have to work for what they own — who talk of war and honor, or glory and coin…. They’re not like us.  If they had something they created to defend, maybe they would be different.”

“Defense or not, I feel bad.”

“I’m glad you do, I am.  I’ve told you the story of our people, haven’t I?”

I nodded.  She had, many times.  It was here, in the Highlands that human civilization took root; was born and found strength and prosperity.  It was also here where that empire splintered, and so many left.  Who stayed?  Those who had invested the most, who cherished the walls of the city and found communion with a thankless and hard, rocky soil that broke plows and spat out granite rocks that had to be collected from the fields every planting season.

Despite this, many of those who called the land home stayed.  Why?  Because we understood the land, and it understood us.  Those who had no attachment simply left, and our empire unraveled.  Our attachment to the Highlands had only strengthened, though.

“Then you understand,” my aunt said.  “Let the foolish fight for honor or title, and let the morally bankrupt kill for coin or contempt of life.  We fight for our land and our people, and those of us who are good hearted do so with reluctance and regret.”

I stared at her across the fire and let the faintest hint of a smile cross my lips.

“I’m glad that you’re good hearted, Thiery,” she said.

I genuinely grinned.

She rose and shouldered the bow I’d just used not an hour ago to end the life of one of the wolves who had, for so long, tormented her flock.

“There’s one more lesson in this, kiddo.”

I stood and glanced up at him.

“Tonight, the wolves will have to eat their own, and it is a warning.  If you must fight, make sure your enemy knows only blood and sorrow.  Fight to defend what it yours, and end any threat to it when you have no other choice.”

I trust this letter finds you well, and your research is proceeding as planned.  I know I have been lax in my correspondence as of late, but with the war and my decision to return to the Eastern Kingdoms I’ve found myself a bit preoccupied with events around me.  Such an excuse is hardly adequate, and I hope you won’t hold it against me.  If you happen across Lesara please pass along a similar message, if you would.

Anyway, I write for a reason.  I am looking for a particular individual, a former Gilnean to be exact, Jeremiah Rowle.  He was apparently amongst the rebels who attempted to unseat King Genn during the war with the Forsaken,, and while such a loathsome individual might be best left forgotten I have my reasons in seeking him out.  I am beginning my inquiries amongst the ranks of the Gilnean refugees and those who remain in Gilneas to resist the Horde’s efforts, but I suspect that he is no longer amongst the living nor the ranks of the Alliance.  I know you have contacts within the Reliquary from before the current conflict, and I hope the war hasn’t soured such relationships.  If you could make inquiries in regards to this individual I would owe you a tremendous debt.

Your friend,
Thieren

I can understand that;  I understand burdens that one must carry around always.  Like I told her in a rare bit of earnest conversation, we all take what we have and tend to it.  The human heart is not unlike the soil of the Highlands.  My earliest memories are of carrying the large granite rocks that surfaced in our field each year until my hands were swollen and numb.  I like to think I have a rather large pile of such imperfections set aside within myself, but more always appear.

Still, I’m not sure what I said had any impact.  More and more I wonder if she even considers herself human anymore.  Maybe that’s what she’s really afraid of.

Anyway, what hurts is that she is so ready to leave.  I realize that I am different and that she is different, but she is all the family I have left.  We were closer than sisters as children, and while the years have brought distance I thought maybe I could enjoy having my blood around again — if only for a little while.  But, she wants to travel, and I am sick of wandering.

I feel the tug of loyalty, I suppose, and I’m accompanying her to Darnassus to search for signs of her family.  From what she has said I think my greatest fear is that this particular road will lead us back into the jaws of Lordaeron.  My prince is dead and raised by their rotten hand, and their armies remain unchecked as the shadow of corruption hangs over Gilneas and Stromgarde alike.  For the life of me, I cannot see any good coming of such a journey for either of us.  I think we’re both afraid of what we might find, and it is something far darker than the undead.

Stabled Pets
6.) Sive (F) — Red Serpent
7.) Hiolair (F) — Spirit Beast
8.) Eistir (F) — Pink Shale Spider
9.) Malloy (M) — Black Spiked Raptor
10.) Doyle (M) — Purple Wasp
11.) Sybil (F) — Red Warpstalker
12.) Isibeal (F) — White Stripped Cat
13.) Elroy (M) — Purple Tallstrider
14.) Rooney (M) — Green Corehound
15.) Ward (M) — Black Devilsaur

* Primary roleplay pet
** Primary grinding pet
*** Primary instance pet

Full Name: Annina Marie Sedgwick
In-Game Name: Annina

Race: Worgen
Class: Warrior
Alignment: Chaotic Good
Affiliation(s): Alliance; Gilneas
Professions: Mining and Skinning

Age: 23
Gender: Female
Relationship: Single
Hair Color: Brown pelt
Eye Color: Brown
Height: 6’5”
Build: Athletic

History: Annie Sedgwick was born twenty-three years ago just south of Keel Harbor, Gilneas to Jeremiah and Ruth Sedgwick, a pair of self-proclaimed “odd ducks” and general outcasts amongst Gilnean society.   Her father, a land owning farmer and self-taught botanist, greatly valued his privacy and that of his family.  Her mother, a quiet and kind woman ten years her father’s senior, wanted little more to have a family and a life with the man she loved.  Despite her mother’s kindness and largely because of her father’s arrogant pride and interests the family was often subjected to rumors of demonic meddling and Light-forsaken practices.

As she grew, Annie proved to be a vivacious and friendly child, but the stigma of her family name carried over into her young life.  She was often ostracized and left out of life, both in school and within the village itself.  As she matured, she turned inward, adopting her mother’s quiet demeanor but never finding comfort in her life outside of Keel’s social circle.  Such was her life when the worgen curse began to race across Gilneas.

Jeremiah Sedgwick had decided to wait out the curse, believing that his farm’s isolation would protect his family from the cursed beasts.  For quite some time his plan worked, but when Gilneas City fell and the surviving Gilneans retreated into the mountains the afflicted population spread out across the countryside.  It wasn’t long before the Sedgwick household came under attack early one evening.  The family held the farmhouse long into the night, but the worgen finally breached there defenses early into the morning.  Annie, wounded and terrified, escaped the melee as her parents were torn apart.  She fled north into The Headlands before the curse itself overtook her.

Her stint as a bestial worgen proved to be short, and only a few short weeks after succumbing to the infection she was trapped and administered the alchemical cure that brought back her sanity.  Still cursed, and more a feared outcast than ever she volunteered to aid the search parties scouring the Highlands for those newly afflicted.    It was out there, alone, that she felt the earth begin to tremble and the entire peninsula begin to give way as the Cataclysm tore the world apart. She was cut off entirely from the surviving population as they fled east from Duskhaven and confronted the invading Forsaken.

In the months that followed Annie returned to her childhood home and eventually made contact first with the Gilnean Liberation Front and then the Seventh Legion.  She has resumed her jaunts into The Headlands and other parts of her homeland, hoping to find stray afflicted and aid them in regaining their sanity.  She has also taken to attacking the occasional Forsaken invader.

Personality: Annie is the consummate outsider despite her desire for acceptance.  Her childhood isolation has left her introverted and uncomfortable in social situations, and the realization that so many of her kin view her as a monster has heightened her feelings of isolation.  As a result, she has, to a degree, embraced her curse, often times relishing the beast within.  She can be moody and bitter in her dealings with people, particularly other Gilneans, but underneath the savagery and anger she is still in possession of the kindness her mother passed on to her.

And an old story about her I love:

Islanded in a Stream of Stars

It had started to snow an hour ago, the large flurries coming slowly, and then gaining momentum as the sun began to set.  In a more southerly location, she might have approved, enjoying the beauty of a cool winter.  But here…. Here the snow was ugly and gray, the same steel-green color as the clouds that blotted the sky overhead.  What did fall didn’t stick, anyway, but instead melted, making the broken stone all the more slippery or the mud even thicker.  Moreover, it added to the smell.  The whole place stank of death; of rot, and man’ari.

Echesii flexed her fingers, stretching them out against the cold in a futile attempt to keep them limber.  The blue blood – not her blood, but Draenei blood still – was beginning to freeze under her nails.  Bitterly, she noted, Draenei were not built for the cold.

“I could call for help,” she said, finally.  “I don’t think I can drag you any further, even if we stripped off all your armor.  I can try, though.”

She pushed herself back to her hooves to emphasize her point, using her crystalline bow as a balance against her bad left knee and split hoof.  She glanced down, staring into the ashen face of the Draenei man she had traveled all this way to help.  He smiled and chuckled up at her, though the light of his eyes seemed to dim as he did.

“Autuern….”

“I don’t think it matters at this point.”  He absently fingered the blood-saturated bandages and turned his gaze to the side, reaching out with his other hand to scratch Zharaa under the chin. “You still haul this poor thing around?”

Echesii chuckled and slide back to a sitting position, her left leg splayed out in front of her.  She propped herself up against a large block of stone.  “Always,” she said.  The warpstalker took a few steps forward and laid down, her chin resting in her claws a few feet from her hip.

For a moment Echesii allowed her eyes to close. “What do you want to do then?”

“Carrying me any further isn’t an option.  Not on that leg.”

She shrugged in response.

“If you’re in pain, call for help,” Autuern said.

“I’m fine.”

He heaved a sigh and sat up, one arm across his bandaged chest.  He propped himself up against the same stone as she, grunting in pain and effort.

“Then, thank you.”

“For what?”

“Coming here to rescue me.”

Echesii smiled softly.  “You’d have done the same.  Besides, I failed.”

“Maybe, but it’s the thought that counts.”

For a long moment they both stared into the creeping darkness.  What remained of what had once been the great troll kingdom lay broken and twisted.  For a short moment, Echesii felt almost sort for the brutes.

“I am almost ready to die,” Autuern finally said.

“Almost?”  Echesii flashed him a crooked smile.  “Joining up with the Crusade, coming to this place… You probably had your affairs in order back home.”

“My wife won’t forgive me for this.”

“She’s forgiven you for worse.”

“Maybe.”  He paused.  “Will your hear my regrets?”

“I’m not an anchorite, Autuern.”

“I know, but does it matter?  It’s a spiritual thing, yes, but there is no anchorite here, and I don’t wish for my soul to pass on burdened by regret.”

Echesii heaved a sigh, lying her bow across her lap.  She fingered the grip, stretching her numb fingers again.  “I already know your regrets.”

“True, but still….”

She shifted, pushing her back straight with her good hoof.  “Just talk.”

Autuern put his tongue in his cheek and looked down at his hands, balling his fingers into a fist to ward against the cold.

“I regret most of all what I did to you and your family.”

“You didn’t do anything.  It was my choice, too, you know.”

“Will you let me get through this, please?” He grinned, and Echesii laughed.

“I regret my being young and stupid and even getting involved with a married woman.  I regret even more the pain it caused my wife, and the pain it caused you.”

Echesii sighed and pushed her bow out of her lap.  “That’s a bunch of shit, and you know it.  My husband would have never left Argus, irregardless, and had I not known you I wouldn’t have either.  I’d have stayed and died, or worse.”

“What about your daughter?”

“She was almost an adult.  I’ve learned to live with that.”

“Such things we survive.”

Echesii signed and shook her head.  She stared into the distance, at the ragged trees and broken stones; the shadows of a fallen empire now beset my man’ari.  Absently, she wondered what Argus now looked like.  Was it still paradise – tainted yes, but still whole and beautiful, or was it a land destroyed, burned of life and its natural beauty.

“I also regret that I am your last connection to our home, and that you came out here to see me die. I know how you are, Echesii, and I hope you realize one day that the path you’ve chosen is a mistake. Even if Gheron is a fool, you still have a future.  There, done. Take a walk, and let me die in peace.”

She opened her mouth to protest, and then thought better.  Biting her lip against the pain she rose to her hooves, favoring her left leg.  She turned, limping off the stone path.

“Light Bless, Echesii.”

“Light Bless,  Autuern.  May the Naaru guide your path.  Zharaa will stay to look after you.”

“Thank you.”

An hour later she hobbled back, and the old Draenei lay slumped on his side, dead.