Just three little stories charting the reaction of my three very different Priests to the events of Theramore.
Twisting the soft shining fabric of her robes, the Nightelf Priestess lent against the Temple Garden walls. Eyes closed she tried to bring peace to her turbulent thoughts. Every time she felt she was winning the battle, pushing her unchecked emotions back into the pool of her subconscious, the image of a dark blue haired elf rose like a drowning woman, gasping for air and vengeance. As a tide of rage washed over the Priestess, her magic rose to answer it’s song and for a moment everything felt right. Then opening her eyes, she glanced down to see instead of the familiar golden light bathing her hands, ribbons of shadows twisting around them. For the first time in her long life, fear enveloped her in it’s dark embrace. An alien emotion, it sat smugly on her tongue like a toad, poisoning her mind. She could taste it’s sourness every time she swallowed and in response, the shadows weaved around her like a shroud.
The heat of Orgrimmar was just as oppressive as it’s walls, rich red sand coated everything and turned even the finest food to ashes on your tongue. Not that particular issue was a problem to the Forsaken Priest surveying the city from her vantage point by the waterfall, watching the Orcs below as if they were ants on the dust. Stretching her aching bones, she moved to the shade, Garrosh was keeping them waiting on purpose, probably hoping the sun and the implied insults would push their tongues over the edge. He had a lot to learn, no one does patience like the dead. In dark crypts and in dusty coffins it pays to turn a blind eye to the passing of time, no point in measuring it out in cobwebs or decaying flesh. Hearing heavy footsteps, she looked up to see her escort heading her way, clearly it was time. Wrapping her long dark cloak around her boney shoulders, the Priest acknowledged their salutes and stalked towards her meeting with the Warchief. Once a soldier, always a soldier and for a brief second imagining the conflict to come, she felt almost alive again.
Scurrying through the Mage quarter, wrapped in her heavy cloak, the Gnome slid from shadow to shadow, drawing no attention. Past the increased military patrols and past the gossiping Mages sitting outside the Blue Recluse she hurried. Up the winding staircase she ran, stopping only in the safety of her own little apartment on the top floor. It was only then, in private as she unwrapped herself from the woolly cloak, discarding her gloves and scarf that she allowed herself to weep. Spilling hot salty tears for those considered friends now nothing more than dust in the wind. Poor Cassa Crimsonwing who had wanted nothing more than to fly with her gryphons and Spot, whose excited barking would no longer echo through the stone passage ways of Theramore Keep. Eyes red and sore from crying, she started to collect her bits and pieces. Spell books, herbs, warm clothes, cool clothes, dried Heaven Peaches from Darnassus and a jar of pickled eggs all disappeared into the travelling bag. Throwing her tiny green ragdoll on top, the Gnome proceeded to bounce up and down on the case until protestingly it shut. Justice and revenge, when it comes down to it, they’re sisters under the skin and in that moment, Sprout didn’t care which she got.