Tales From the Nightsabre Hall

She stands where he left her, watching him until he’s completely out of sight, believing at any moment he will walk back and argue his point some more. She can’t remember a time he has just walked away. It feels like the others, the ones when she knew people were tired of being around her. The ones where she knew they were done trying to be nice to her and had decided they had better things to do with their time.

 It felt over.

Had she managed to run off her one friend? The thought makes her feel hollow. So much so that she can’t even seem to summon up a reason to move. So she simply remains standing there, her mind running over with thoughts and emotions even though none of them touch her face or show in her eyes.

((So, I may or may not have been thinking clearly. I don't know if this will go anywhere, but it might.))

She awoke with a start, that long-familiar voice chiming in as usual, Which dream was it this time, the goat or that other woman?

Leshana snatched up her cloak and wiped her face down, responding to the voice verbally, “The goat.” She shuddered, “That creature, so black, so… alien. I do not know what to make of it, even after having seen it so many times.”

 She leaves her bag of things she quickly packed at the Temple on the chair that became her favorite not long after she became a Nightsabre. Stepping quietly and carefully, she moves to the hearth to tend the fire, making sure the flames are fed. She's been back once or twice to the Hall since she moved to the Temple to take care of the children Mr Vinguld put in her care but had only gone in once to speak with Tamlin. She had avoided everyone else.. everywhere else. But this... this she could not ignore or avoid.

The floor is warm where she settles herself and his fur is warm under her hands. The mask she has learned to wear, to hide her self-doubt, her fear, her loneliness, slips away as she looks down at the old lion.

The Blood Elf male wiped his sword down, satisfied with his latest conquest. The paladin examined his kill, another male, this one of Kal’dorei descent. The fight had been swift and clean, the Blood Elf delivering a decisive blow almost as soon as the other had attacked.

Foolish Night Elf, when will you realize Ashenvale is no longer yours?



I see it when I dream at all; the same place, the same emotion, the same colors, heat and pain. A soft dream, it must be. When hunting, to know the nature of the land around you, what it tells you in track and scent and insult to trees is invaluable. It is the reason that Kal'dorei hunters are given a place in human warbands as guides, I believe, as I was in the Highguard. Their own scouts cannot hear and watch the temper of the earth. Is it enough then, knowing the land I was born to walk, to escape it if I must?

Routine.

Up at a certain hour, breakfast, training, learning, lunch, playtime, silent time, dinner, baths, bed.

It was something Aurry had learned was essential to help the broken children Mr Vinguld brought to her. It gave them a sense of safety, of normalcy, something their short lives had been desperately in need of. So she gave it to them. Everyday was the same. Everything set in stone, every plan freely shared with the little ones who looked to her with eyes filled with the pain of more years than their bodies had lived.

The sun is too bright, making it difficult to see. The ground is a patchwork of white spots and dark shapes and splashes. Tamlin can discern that much. He is dripping with rank ichor and gore as if at war for a seven-day and these two things are disconcerting enough without the fact that he also cannot determine how he returned here. His ears still ring with the roar of the wind that bore him up when the shadow wolf died. He remembers vaguely strange voices that spoke about him. Head spinning and coming to terms with the certainty that he is going to be physical ill within the next few minutes, Tamlin draws up short. The dark skinned druid that leads him by the upper arm glances back, eyebrows lifted as if curious at the halt. “I am not yourrr son.” Tamlin rumbles and flattens his ears.



He is high above the earth held aloft for a moment in weightless space. Breathless, Tamlin looks down to measure his chance of surviving the fall that his logical mind knows is coming. The cyclone swirls below. The column of stillness he is hovering above extends far, nearly past the limits of his own powerful sight. There is ground perhaps, but it is only a smudge of distant solidity. Then, sudden and rapid descent, and the wind catches him again, hurling his body downward in a spiral of ever increasing speed and force.

Canine teeth fill his sight, snapping together so close and with such force that black saliva like hot oil spatters over his face. The beast above him growls loud and low, quaking the very ground he is pinned upon. Past the impressive teeth, the shadow they belong to swells. Tamlin braces the haft of his spear two handed to hold the horrible maw from him. He turns his head slightly, but he cannot see Eshe. The nightsabre's sounds of distress are drowned out by the thundering growl. The shadow coalesces to mimick a wolf shape. Tamlin endures a gust of fetid nether stink followed by another hail of burning spittle. He can feel the massive paws on his chest suddenly, blunt claws digging into his mail. Where his fists meet the giant furred throat, shadows swirl.