Okay, I know I said my last entry was going to be my final one, but here I am again. Since then, I’ve been busy running around the Broken Isles, checking off tasks like they were groceries on a list. You know the drill: fetch this, kill that, collect some vaguely significant trinket. And let’s not kid ourselves—if you were hoping this would read like some grand action thriller about a heroic paladin with perfect form and a snappy one-liner for every enemy, you’d better put this down and pick up something else. Because combat is messy. Combat is rare. And if it’s not rare, it damn well should be.
Let me tell you something real: if your combat instructor has never stared death in the eyes, you’re learning from a poser. Combat isn’t just about swinging a sword or flinging spells; it’s about that split second when you’re up against something that wants you dead. I’ve been in that moment more times than I’d like to count. That look in their eyes—Legion demons, Scourge ghouls, Scarlet zealots, Alliance footmen. I’ve seen it all. And every time, there’s that fleeting flash of panic, the kind that makes even the best-trained warrior forget everything they’ve ever learned.
I remember a time in Northrend, facing down a hulking abomination in Icecrown Citadel with a group of adventurers. We’d been tasked with taking down one of the Lich King’s lieutenants—some towering mess of stitched flesh and rancid guts that smelled like it had been fermenting for centuries. Our mage, a cocky little gnome named Fizz, thought it would be hilarious to turn the thing into a sheep mid-charge. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he said. Famous last words. The sheep didn’t just bleat; it exploded, reforming back into the monster mid-air and sending Fizz flying into a wall. His only spell after that was groaning in pain, and our healer was too busy laughing to help. Moments like that remind you real combat isn’t scripted; it’s a chaotic, bloody mess where the plan falls apart the second your enemy does something unexpected.
I’ve fought alongside rogues who would stab you as soon as shake your hand, warriors who swing their swords as if they’re trying to cleave through their own nightmares, and warlocks who smell like brimstone and bad decisions. I remember this one blood elf warrior, Kael’thar, who was obsessed with talking about his “mighty swing.” I always told him, “Kael, it’s not the size of your swing, it’s how you use it.” He’d laugh, but that laugh stopped when he got too cocky in a raid on Black Temple and took an axe to the gut. I tried to pull him out, but sometimes there’s no spell strong enough to bring someone back from their own arrogance.
And don’t get me started on the time I was with a Draenei priest in Nagrand. She was more interested in philosophizing about the Light and mercy while we were actively getting charged by ogres. “Violence isn’t the answer,” she said. I had to interrupt her moral musings with a quick shield bash to the skull of a six-hundred-pound ogre, sending it reeling backward. “Right now, violence is the answer,” I told her. She didn’t argue after that.
These battles aren’t heroic showdowns—they’re survival, plain and simple. When I talk about the Legion, the Scourge, the Scarlet Crusade, the Defilers, or any of the countless factions I’ve bled against, I’m not doing it to sound impressive. If anything, the fact that some of these names mean nothing to you just means I did my job right. Or that someone else did. These groups come, they kill, and they get killed. The wheel keeps turning, and every day I’m just another cog keeping it spinning.
So, if you’ve made it this far, maybe you understand. Or maybe you’re just hoping for that one perfect swing where everything clicks. But let me tell you: it’s not the swing that makes you a fighter. It’s the hits you take, the failures you endure, and the scars that remind you that you’re still here. That’s the reality. Not some neatly packaged story with a victorious end. It’s just the job, and sometimes, it’s a damn hard one to keep doing.
It’s the job—you see people changed by war, and you learn to switch off, turn it on like a light you control. But no one kills as much as I have without breaking somewhere deep inside. To survive, you have to become something else. Something monstrous. I know that those I fight against might not feel love the way I do, or hate like I do, or fight as hard as I do for the same reasons. But I’ve seen things—bodies that should never be on a battlefield. Children. And in the thick of battle, my tunnel vision keeps me from feeling that weight, but the Scarlet Crusade, they’ve used kids as bait before. And in that last siege on the Exodar, the Legion threw child Man’ari Eredar at us, little red Draenei with soulless eyes, hoping to break Velen’s resolve.
Sometimes, children just appear in the middle of a war, and you don’t know why. You try to shut it out. You tell yourself it’s not your fault. But the doubt creeps in, and you wonder. You wonder what kind of monster brings a child into a battlefield. You wonder what kind of person you’ve become. I used to think that all zealots were some kind of cigar-smoking, overconfident warlord—alpha wolves who took what they wanted. But every man who’s seen my face on the battlefield, what did they think of me? Did they picture me as a butcher? Or did they imagine me somewhere else, in a kitchen or tending to soldiers in a medic tent? Would they ever guess that once, I dreamed of those quieter places too?
There was a time when I wanted that. A time when the idea of home meant more than a place to rest my sword. I remember the appeal of it, the draw of a life filled not with battles and bloodshed, but with something gentler—something enduring. To know exactly where you belong, to be surrounded by people who love you and depend on you, not because of what you can destroy, but because of what you can create. There’s a strength in that, a quiet legacy that doesn’t need glory or grand deeds. Just the simple, solid legacy of sons and daughters.
But I’m not that person anymore. I wanted that life once, but war has a way of stripping those wants down to the bone. It reminds you, over and over, of what you can’t have. And maybe that’s why I keep fighting—because competency in combat is straightforward. It’s predictable. You know the rules, you know your place. But that other life? It’s something I’ve convinced myself I don’t need. And maybe that’s a lie I have to keep telling myself, just to keep moving forward.
I can imagine a lot of men would trade places with me in a heartbeat. The power, the strength, the title of Highlord—it’s like being the hero of your own epic tale, invincible and untouchable. Yeah, sure beats having cancer. But the truth? I’m still not sure what it all means to me. I’ve been on this path for so long, watching people behind me trying to catch up, running to get to my level, hoping I’ve got some secret wisdom to share, some magic words that make it all make sense. But here’s the kicker: being a Highlord? It’s really just an opinion, an inflated job title. There’s no grand manual for heroism, no checklist that makes you feel like you’re truly doing it right.
Sometimes I catch myself wondering what people see when they look at me—the invader, the hero, the one who doesn’t flinch at killing when needed. It’s a complicated picture. For almost two weeks now, that guilt has been gnawing at me. The grunts set up their camps, the guards patrol, and all that’s left is for me to do what needs to be done. But it’s hard to shake the feeling that I’m just playing the part that everyone expects, even when I don’t feel like the heroic figure they see.
So what do I really need to do? Be honest. Be reasonable. Not because I want a reward or some shiny medal, but because someone has to be. And when I say step into the light, I’m not talking about the kind that granted me my paladin powers. No, I’m talking about that quiet light you find when you’re knee-deep in misery and darkness, when you’re at your absolute lowest and you have no choice but to confront who you really are. I’ve been there. And let me tell you, it’s not glamorous.
I remember one time, deep in the Plaguelands, during a siege that should’ve been routine. One of the newer recruits looked up to me like I was some kind of legend. Poor kid had all the guts but none of the sense, and I was too busy playing the role of invincible leader to see that he needed more than just a pep talk. The first volley of arrows came, and before I could even draw my sword, he was down, blood pooling around him like a sick joke. It was the first time I realized that all this power doesn’t mean a damn thing when you can’t protect the people who believe in you. And it’s moments like that—where you’re forced to reckon with your failures—that forge whatever “light” I’m talking about. It’s messy, it’s painful, and it’s the only thing that feels real.
I guess that’s why I can’t stand people who go around acting like they’re some rare diamond, predestined for greatness. Most of them are too busy whining about what they don’t have, chasing revenge, or pretending they’re the victim in their own twisted drama. And sure, I’ve been guilty of it too. You get lost in the grind, in the battles, in the endless desire to be more, do more, prove more. It’s all noise if you never look within, never face your own damn reflection and all the ugly truths staring back at you.
But here’s the kicker: it’s not about being a diamond. It’s about becoming one. And that takes a hell of a lot more than swinging a sword or barking orders. It takes staring into the abyss, laughing in the face of your own doubts, and making the conscious choice, every single day, to keep going, even when you’re not sure if it’s worth it. And maybe that’s the real test—not the battles, not the glory, but what you do when no one’s watching.
True change and catharsis? Yeah, that’s the real treasure chest we’re all digging for, isn’t it? But here’s the catch: it’s not just about swinging a sword or healing a wound; it takes guts. It takes standing your ground when the whole world feels like it’s sinking, and still trying to do the right thing, even when it’s easier to just let the darkness swallow you whole. And trust me, it’s so damn easy to slip into that darkness. It’s like a warm, inviting bath—until you’re in over your head.
You ever look around and see how many people are already living in their own personal hells? The ones stuck in their heads, trapped in loops of anger, fear, and desires that gnaw at them like a hungry wolf? They’re everywhere. Hell, I’ve killed enough of them to recognize the look. The ones who never found a way out of their own misery, who gave in to every dark impulse and made it their whole personality. And that’s exactly what your so-called tyrants, your “oppressors,” want. They want us distracted, fighting each other over race, gender, who loves who, or who’s got the better weapon. It’s the oldest trick in the book, and we fall for it every time.
So here’s the kicker: love is the only way out. Not the mushy stuff from romance novels—although, to be honest, I’ve read my share of those, too—but the real, gritty kind. Love of the craft, love of the fight, love of your comrades, even love of something as stupid as a well-made sword. You can feel it when someone pours their heart into something. A piece of art, a well-crafted blade, hell, even a good meal—there’s a kind of magic in things made with love that you can’t fake. It’s not flashy; it’s not a spell. But when you feel it, you know.
I’ve seen the opposite too. You know those undead abominations with all the life sucked out of them? Yeah, it’s like that but with people’s souls. When you lose touch with that light inside you, you become a husk, a walking vessel for someone else’s agenda. You think I haven’t been there? I’ve looked down the barrel of that gun more times than I’d like to admit. But it’s usually in the darkest pits that we start to claw our way back to the light, even if it’s just a flicker.
There was a moment, way back when I was still new to this whole paladin gig, right after losing someone I cared about more than I’d ever admit out loud. I was spiraling—hard. I thought if I just kept swinging, kept fighting, maybe I’d find my way back. But you don’t fix yourself by stabbing things, no matter how good it feels in the moment. It wasn’t until I learned to sit with that pain, to stop looking for someone to blame, that I started to see the light again. And that’s not some fairy tale; that’s just the hard, messy truth.
Life is hard for everyone, and that’s the second greatest truth you’ll ever learn. Doesn’t matter how much gold you’ve got stacked up or what fancy titles they slap in front of your name. Life ends, and it’s always messy and tragic. You can build all the walls you want around your heart, but it won’t save you from that. So what do you do? You keep going. You fight, not for happiness, not for peace, but for truth—the kind that can’t be bought or sold, the kind that lives deep inside and refuses to die, even when everything else falls apart.
So yeah, you can call me preachy if you want, but I’ve earned the right to preach. And if you’ve made it this far, through all my rambling and half-finished stories, maybe you’re not as lost as you think. Maybe there’s something here worth hearing. Because this isn’t some grand speech to save the world; it’s just me, trying to make sense of it all. And if I can help you do the same, even just a little, then maybe it’s worth the ink.
So how do you know when someone speaks the truth? It’s not always about the words—they lie easily. Especially when there’s glory, pride, or coin on the line. But if you’ve been around long enough, fought hard enough, you start to see the cracks. Men follow orders, even when they’re bad, even when they know better. Why? Because they’re told to, because they don’t question the ones above them. (And believe me, I’m guilty of that too.) But sometimes, the truth isn’t in what they say, it’s in what they do when no one’s watching.
I’ve seen commanders preach honor and justice in front of their troops, then turn around and belittle the very soldiers they rely on. Hypocrites who flaunt their morals like a shiny badge but have nothing inside to back it up. And then there are the weak leaders, the ones who crumble under pressure, who lash out because they’re too afraid to face themselves. I’ve been belittled, knocked down, and left in the dirt by those same kinds of leaders. I’ve seen them deny their own failures, spin tales where they’re the hero, or worse, the victim. These people are beyond lost; they’ve bought into their own lies so deeply, they’d rather sink than admit the truth.
But pity them if you want, envy their delusion, or just let them rot in their fantasies. Never, ever follow them. You want to talk about pain? About facing yourself? It’s like cutting out a rotten piece of your own flesh—necessary, but it hurts like hell.
The Light I wield? It’s not about just blasting undead or shielding the weak. It’s a mirror, a force that makes you confront your own darkness. When you have power, real power, it’s so damn easy to use it to dominate, to control, to feed the beast inside that whispers, “You deserve this.” But power without purpose is just brutality with a fancy name. If you’re going to wield it, you better know why, and you better be ready to pay the price.
And here’s the ugly truth: not all Highlords are great. Some are just as lost as the rest of us, clinging to their titles and rituals because it’s easier than admitting they don’t have a clue what they’re doing. I’ve been there, standing in a line of grunts, watching leaders make decisions that got people killed, wishing I had the guts to say, “No, this is wrong.” But fear keeps people in line. Fear of losing their place, fear of stepping up.
But someone has to step up. Every paladin, every squire, every damn knight—learn to stand, not just in body, but in spirit. Defend yourself, defend others, and remember, it’s not just about swinging a sword. It’s about holding to something when everything else falls apart. Honor’s not just an old word, it’s a lifeline. I’ve seen men break under the weight of their own guilt because they watched when they should have acted. And it’s not just them—sometimes, it’s been me.
I’ve lost faith more times than I can count. In myself, in my orders, even in the Light. Because when you see enough, when you’ve been battered, bruised, and buried under the weight of it all, it’s easy to ask, “What’s the point?” I’ve watched allies become enemies, seen the weak trampled, and I’ve been both the hammer and the nail. And still, I’m here, trying to figure out what the hell it all means.
I get it. Not everyone’s been blessed—or cursed—with paladin powers. Not everyone has felt that rush of Light searing through their veins, forcing them to confront who they really are. Maybe for you, love is just a word, another thing that gets in the way of whatever you’re chasing—money, power, a better position in this messed-up world. Who am I to tell you you’re wrong? I’ve seen what greed can do. Hell, I’ve used it, weaponized it, to get what I needed when the Light wasn’t enough. So if you think love is just another liability, I won’t argue.
But here’s the thing: every day, we’re all marching toward the same end, and there’s no amount of gold or titles that can buy you out of that. You can pretend it doesn’t matter—hell, we all do sometimes—but deep down, you know the truth. And that truth? It’s in the moments, the people you hold close, and the times you find yourself feeling something real. The fire that’s kept me alive—through every nightmare, every battle, every damn time I thought I couldn’t take another step—it wasn’t just my strength. It was love. Not just mine, but theirs too. The ones who believed in me, who stood by me even when I had nothing left to give.
I’ve fought more battles than I care to count, but the hardest ones were always with myself—trying to figure out what the hell I was fighting for. It’s easy to get lost, to let the darkness swallow you up, to forget the good that’s still out there. But if I’ve learned anything, it’s that you have to hold onto whatever light you’ve got, even when it’s just a flicker. And it’s not always about grand gestures or saving the world. Sometimes it’s as simple as sitting under a tree, feeling the sun on your face, and letting yourself breathe.
I wish I could say all the things that sit heavy on my chest, the stuff I can barely admit to myself. But maybe writing it down is the first step. Maybe it’s enough to know that someone might read this someday and feel less alone. If there’s one truth I can share, it’s this: don’t let go of who you are. Your integrity, your love, your flaws—they’re your freedom. And yeah, that sounds preachy as hell, but I’m done pretending to be anything other than what I am.
Life’s not about being the strongest or the richest; it’s about being true, even when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard. So, if you’ve read this far, whether you’re an ally, an enemy, or someone I’ll never meet, just know—I love you. Every broken, scarred, beautiful piece of you. I don’t need to know your story to say that. And if I’ve made a mess of my own, maybe that’s just part of it. I’m still figuring it out, but I’m here, and I’m trying. And if this is my last log, then so be it. It’s not perfect, but neither am I. I’ll keep fighting, keep loving, and keep being the flawed High Elf noble who never quite fit the mold.
I felt a strange kinship with the Sal’Dorei, or as most call them, the Nightborne, ever since I stepped into Suramar. They’re like Night Elves but a little more… malnourished? Some of them have been alive for thousands of years, yet many of them had fallen into mindless, ravenous forms, endlessly hunting for mana like it was the last sweet roll in the bakery. I knew exactly what that was like—watching your friends and family twist into something unrecognizable. At least the Nightborne got to look like sleek, hairless purple dolphins. Me? I still have to shave my legs, toes, and everything else on a weekly basis. So much for ancient elven grace, huh?
Even now, wielding the Ashbringer, I can feel the pulse of arcane energy from every undead or demon I strike down. It’s like drinking in light itself, but it’s more than just feeding a hunger. It’s a reminder that I’m not just some junkie Highlord looking for a fix. Well, not entirely.
And then there was Illidan Stormrage—a name that still makes my skin crawl. It’s not just because of the things he did to my people; I hated him because he was the embodiment of everything I despised. Privileged, arrogant, and always thinking he was better than everyone else just because he had the fancy fel-infused toys. I know, I know, I’ve got no business throwing stones, but hey, I like to think I have better taste in friends. Also, I killed him. Six years ago. Did I mention that? I think I glossed over it.
Let me set the scene. There were about twenty-five of us—an odd assortment of every class, race, and probably a few with commitment issues—marching into his private hideout. It was his little “thinking spot,” as I like to call it, and as soon as we barged in, he gave us this deadpan look and said, “I’m not happy to have this many guests right now. Also, who gave you the keys to come in here?” Seriously, who talks like that when they’re about to get ambushed?
But whatever, we got the keys, we got the party started, and I was doing alright. Crossed swords with him a few times, got stabbed—no big deal, healers had my back. We were treating him like some oversized muscle piñata, just whacking away at him. That’s when things took a turn for the worse. Illidan got mad and morphed into some hulking, four-story, bat-winged monstrosity, and suddenly, our melee group was scattering like chickens in a thunderstorm. Formation? What formation? The healers were overworked, the tanks were barking orders, and nobody was listening.
Then it was just me and him. He was swinging those fel-infused warglaives like they were extensions of his arms, and I was getting tossed around like a ragdoll. He knocked my helmet clean off, and I remember cowering, my arms over my head like some cornered rat about to be swallowed whole. I should’ve been dead ten times over, but he stopped just short of finishing me off. He looked at me, his demon form melting away, and said, “You are no— Y-You’re just a little girl?”
Yeah, that’s when I lost it. I made sweet, violent love to his chest cavity with my longsword, planting it in him like a flag on conquered ground. Our leader called out, “Now!” and I just hung on, every spell from our group raining down into his back. I didn’t let go until I felt his heart stop. Out of the twenty-five of us that went in, only fifteen crawled out alive, and five of those didn’t last the week. Me? I got hit with a long list of broken ribs and busted kidneys—47 ribs and 12 kidneys, don’t ask how. Doctors said I had three months to live. Turns out, I bounced back in two with some healing, physical therapy, and sheer stubbornness. They say the mind is a powerful healer, but I think they just don’t know what to do with someone like me.
Oh, and Maiev Shadowsong and her Wardens? They were around but didn’t do much except show up at the end like they were the heroes of the day. Classic. But hey, we got the job done.
Do I hate Illidan less now that he’s gone? No, not really. I think I hate him more because he made me see something I didn’t want to—a scared little girl underneath all the armor. But I don’t talk about that. I don’t talk about a lot of things. That’s not what people want to hear from a Highlord, is it? They want the glory, the battle, the big bad evil getting slain. So I tell them that part. The rest? That’s just for me, buried under the weight of broken swords and empty words.
I can only imagine how awkward a reunion with Illidan would be. Something like, “Oh my Light, I remember you—you’re the one who killed me! Look how much you’ve grown. You look old enough to stab back now.”
As for Alexandros Mograine, the rightful wielder of the Ashbringer? He should be the one leading this charge against the Burning Legion, not me, and certainly not Illidan. The Ashbringer wasn’t forged for my hands, and every time I hold it, I can almost feel a sliver of Mograine’s soul whispering inside me. Maybe that’s why I’m still here, alive and kicking, when I probably shouldn’t be. It’s laughable, really, that the naaru can’t see that Alexandros deserves a shot at redemption, even if it’s as a Death Knight. Let him rise, let him fight. He’s got debts to settle, not just with me, but with every Blood Elf still sucking down demonic energy like it’s the last bit of mana in the world.
I guess it’s the same line of thinking that made me believe in Garrosh Hellscream. I sat through his trial, hoping the Celestial Council would see the change in him, the wayward orc finding his way back. What a joke that turned out to be. But if we do manage to end the Burning Crusade, if I get to ram the Ashbringer into some corrupted titan’s eye, then Illidan and his Demon Hunters are next. Because who needs a bunch of self-possessed demon slayers when the real demons are inside you?
The sword is growing stronger, but so am I. Every time I wield it, I pray that I might come close to the knight Alexandros once was. And maybe I whisper a little prayer for a new boyfriend, because why not? It’s not like humans have to deal with the constant magic cravings like I do. The Blood Knights under my command don’t know that kind of hunger, not the way I do. After a mission, I come back to the barracks overflowing with light magic, so full it’s like being drunk on power, and yet, that’s not the real problem.
I found a new weapon, though calling it that feels like an overstatement—it’s more of a tool. A hammer, good for healing wounds, better than any shaman shield or priest club I’ve ever tried. But the Silver Hand has this side effect: every time I use it, it leaves me euphoric, like I’m walking on clouds. It’s nothing like the cold withdrawal I feel when I’m away from the Ashbringer, but it’s another thing to balance.
The sensation? Imagine being out of breath, your lungs expanding, your muscles tense, your head light. It’s satisfaction like you wouldn’t believe—almost like the aftermath of the best night of your life. That’s what it feels like when I heal the wounded at Light’s Hope. There’s this flood of light magic coursing through me, and I’m just pouring it into everyone around me. It’s not just healing; it’s like sharing something far more intimate. They rest, and I’m right there with them, floating in that same bliss.
It’s almost embarrassing to admit, but yeah, it’s that good. Being able to give back, to channel that power into something more than just combat—there’s a kind of peace in it that I don’t get anywhere else. I tried writing about what it felt like when I went a night without the Ashbringer, but those pages are lost somewhere, and maybe that’s for the best. I’d probably just sound like a recovering addict anyway. But what I will say is that night made me see the Emerald Nightmare differently, like it’s not just this far-off place but something creeping around the edges, something you can’t quite shake.
Walking into those forests was nothing compared to the sheer agony of arcane withdrawal—the pain, the visions, the constant pull of that craving gnawing at your soul. The Sal’Dorei, those Nightborne who’ve lived through millennia of this torment, feel like kin to me. They’ve been at it for thousands of years, chasing every last drop of mana, clinging to whatever keeps them from losing themselves completely. I’ve only been alive for 22 years, but I know that desperation all too well. It’s like watching your brothers and sisters slowly turn into something unrecognizable.
The Wretched—their transformation is a twisted mirror of what we all fear becoming. The Naga, with their serpentine forms, were shocking enough, but the spider-like abominations? I never imagined elves could fall so far. But the truth is, whether you’re feeding off arcane magic, drowning in a bottle, or numbing yourself with anything else, it’s all the same—it’s just a way to kill the voice in your head without killing yourself.
I want to help them, I really do. Because every time I see a Withered, I see what I could become—a mindless thing driven by hunger and madness, lost to itself. Maybe I’m on that same boat, drifting toward the same monstrous fate. And as much as I want to help the Sal’Dorei find their way back, I hope they’ll be there to pull me back if I start slipping into that darkness too.
—–
I catch myself thinking about all the orphans and refugees this war has churned out. It’s a never-ending cycle of missing parents and broken homes. And what about all the displaced pets? They’re probably forming some underground animal kingdom ruled by grumpy cats and rebellious squirrels. Meanwhile, I haven’t had a place to call home in forever. It’s all inns, tents, and sharing space with strangers who snore like chainsaws. People still cling to their material things, but instead of fancy clothes and art, it’s all about showing off exotic mounts and shoulder pads that could double as dinner plates. And while I’m out here risking my life, I can’t help but wonder…where are all the babies? When was the last time you saw a happy couple with a newborn? Yeah, me neither. War may be hell, but at least it keeps mercenaries like me busy. Who needs a home when you’ve got constant adventure and bloodshed? Just kidding—please send help.
Draka, Thrall’s mom, once told him, “War is a time where family should be right by your side.” Honestly, that’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. People die in war—parents, siblings, kids. I still can’t fully process what I saw during the invasion of Silvermoon when I was eight. Corpses stacked like bridges. The smell of death? That’s never left me. The Forsaken try to keep the Undercity clean, but that stench lingers, a faint reminder of what I’ve seen… or maybe just what I’ve tried so hard to forget.
Then there was the whole Emerald Nightmare ordeal. Malfurion got himself kidnapped… again. Is there a guild dedicated to rescuing that guy? He was holed up in Darkheart Thicket, which sounds like an emo band that never took off. And let me tell you, the Satyr creatures there are a whole new level of creepy—some burn with the Ashbringer, others just look like miserable, twisted souls trying to claw their way back to life. My Aunt Telavani would’ve said something about Light and Shadow being two sides of the same coin, but all I could think about was how exhausted I was of fighting this endless parade of demons, undead, and whatever the Twisting Nether spat out that day. It’s like doing laundry, except instead of dirty clothes, you’re stuck with demonic hellspawn.
The Nightmare? It’s like a winter that never ends, but replace the snow with festering corruption. Night Elves were crying all over the place, begging for help. Kind of ironic, considering how they used to look down on us for not having their fancy magic fountains. And Malfurion? That guy’s supposed to be this great druid but spends more time kidnapped than doing anything useful. Why does Tyrande put up with him? No idea.
Don’t get me wrong—I’m not here to judge. We all have our quirks. Thrall’s a gentle giant who somehow still manages to be terrifying, Sylvanas is undead but undeniably bad bee, and Malfurion… well, he’s just Malfurion. And then there’s me, Perfectia Dawnlight, Ashbringer Highlord, crashing through the Nightmare with a squad of blood elves dressed to kill in white priest dresses and blue gems. We tore through those Nightmare creatures like paper, which was kind of satisfying. Turns out those elves are part of this secret Silvermoon Senate thing. They invited me to join, and I thought, why not? Saving the world from the Legion is getting old, and I could use the change of scenery. Here’s hoping this new gig works out better than the last.
—-----
I don’t want to be sober. Sober sucks. And don’t even get me started on the hangover that’s coming for me like a fel reaver at full speed. I’m writing, rambling, whatever—this is gonna need proofreading if I survive.
They’ve locked me in my room. Highlord Perfectia, Champion of Azeroth, slayer of demons… now on bathroom lockdown. They want me to pee in a jar. A jar! I’m supposed to be saving the world, not auditioning for the role of “drunk prisoner number three.” Have you seen outside? It’s like a heavy metal album cover on steroids. If you’re not scared, you’re not paying attention—or you’re just really dumb.
Everyone’s like, “Hey, hey, hey, my farm’s got demons on it! My crops are on fire!” EVERYTHING IS ON FIRE, KAREN! Maybe don’t live next to the literal gates of hell? Move somewhere that’s not combusting for five minutes. My head’s spinning, my bladder’s threatening mutiny, and why, oh Light, why, is there no one in my bed? Am I not heroic enough? Doesn’t anyone want to cuddle a tipsy Highlord? My head is better than the pints of booze they were pouring.
I haven’t had… scribbling furiously Seriously? The book won’t let me write the word? more aggressive scribbling Oh, coitus, thank you Dr. Olisarra for the fancy medical terms.
I haven’t had coitus since I was on the Alliance side. Lost it to a Draenei. Those tentacles? Way softer than you’d think, like magic noodle arms. He thought I was just another High Elf, right up until he didn’t. Light curse it all, do you know how often I wake up with my… uh, weeping gash begging for some action? It’s a tragedy. Lock me up all you want, just let me find Boro’s room and maybe this stupid earthquake will stop shaking my brain loose.
I love October, Brewfest, and drinking. It’s in my blood—literally. My father’s drinking as we speak, probably halfway through a keg of something strong and dark. “Oh, I need to cope with the mana addiction,” he says. Yeah, well, I need to cope with the fact that every time we go out, you embarrass me. That’s why I don’t want you in my life, Dad. Quit drinking so much.
And then there’s me—drinking at the Darkmoon Faire, again. Does the Faire cause my cycle, or does my cycle just show up because it knows I’m surrounded by creepy carnies? It’s like clockwork: no food, cycle’s late, and suddenly I’m spiraling into, “Did some random carnie have his way with me while I slept in that sketchy hostel?” But you know what? Getting shot out of the human cannon and riding the roller coaster seven times does the trick. A better alternative than the ol’ coat hanger method, or so I’ve heard. I’m not saying I’ve done it, but I hear it’s not the best experience.
Garrosh Hellscream made me promise not to look at a bottle. Days on end, shivering in a corner, sweating buckets but feeling like ice. He locked me up in Ragefire Chasm, chained me to stones, and I begged for something—anything—to warm me up. But no, not even a sip. Just lava glow, blinding me until I couldn’t see a damn thing.
The invasion, couldn’t save momma… couldn’t kill Arthas… Momma, I’m sorry. I’d see him in every fever dream, taunting me while I begged for the screams to stop. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and he refused to let me have any mana. All to keep my eyes blue.
How can anyone not want to drown out the misery of existence? Temporary or permanent—I don’t judge. If you say you don’t feel that urge, you’re lying to yourself. It’s not my worst fall off the wagon, but damn, I need someone to do my laundry. This armor is heavy, stupid, and I just want to wear a nice dress for once! Priests and mages get to wear flowy robes and look all regal, but nooo, I’m stuck in steel. Who in their right mind goes from priest to paladin? Night Elves are such idiots!
And don’t get me started on this place. I need a shower, a pee, and a bathtub. I swear, if they don’t have a bath ready when I wake up, this room is gonna be a disaster. Who took my horse? That one-eyed human? I swear, I’ll find you.
Oh, and this room? It’s filthy. Who keeps bringing in all this dust? Oh right, me. I’m the Ashbringer. I make everything dusty.
– o – o – o –
I sobered up and reread this, and I can’t erase it, and I’m sorry. Mental note: While I’m alive, I need to keep this locked up at all times and don’t try to write when you’re intoxicated.
Message for Xe’Ra
There’s something off about this naaru I’ve been chatting with. It keeps asking me, “Are you prepared?” like it’s auditioning to be Illidan’s hype man. Honestly, it’s starting to feel like some bad inside joke Illidan and Xe’Ra came up with during demon-killing happy hour. But there’s more to it than that. The Light I’ve always clung to—my trusty, glowing north star—is suddenly feeling more like a questionable sales pitch.
Fun fact: I never learned how to channel holy energy from any of those posh Blood Knights or self-righteous paladins. Nope, this Light-slinging is completely self-taught. Well, okay, my aunt Telavani Lovewood chipped in a bit, but she’s not exactly the “By the Light!” type of aunt. More like the “found washed up on the coast of Eversong Woods, completely clueless about her own name” type. Think Lifetime movie, but swap the melodrama with an unsettling amount of glowing hands and cryptic laughter. Dad used to say people thought she was nuts, and yeah, I get it—because when someone doesn’t even know their own name, you kinda start wondering if the cheese has slipped off the cracker. But hey, she’s nice now. Mostly. Except for the whole “talking like a Shakespearean riddle” thing. That part’s still pretty weird.
So there we were, running errands in Outland like it was just another day, and Aunty would start laughing for no reason. I’d ask, “What’s so funny?” and she’d just wave me off, “Oh, nothing, just thinking.” Yeah, sure, thinking—like whatever thought was rattling in her brain deserved a full-blown cackle. Then it got weirder. She’d break into song, no warning, like she was auditioning for Azeroth Idol. And the dancing… oh boy. Not your standard jig, either. It was fluid, like a mix between a belly dancer and someone who’s had way too much coffee. Sensual, too, like she’d been perfecting it for centuries. I swear she was half-smiling, half-daring you to join in every time she moved.
I caught her once, practicing with one of my broadswords when she thought I wasn’t looking. At first, I thought, “Oh, cool, maybe some priestly sword kata.” But then she balanced my sword on her head, moving her arms, her hips, her whole body in ways that should’ve been impossible. I half-expected her to break into some epic fight scene, but nope, just a one-woman performance art piece that made zero sense.
And she didn’t just dance—she changed her whole look to match it. Think flowing fabrics, all strategically revealing, swords balanced everywhere, even on her head. She looked like some kind of circus act gone rogue, but with this constant, unnerving smile like she knew the punchline to a joke you’d never get.
One day, I finally told her, “You know, Aunty, I kinda miss the way you were before all… this.”
She looked at me, all sly and sharp, and said, “You mean stupid? Are you sure there isn’t a man behind that keyboard?”
That was Telavani in a nutshell—always a bit too aware, a little too meta, like she was performing for some unseen audience, half there and half in her own world. It was creepy, if I’m being honest, but I learned a lot. She taught me the basics of this wild dance she’d perfected—fluid torso movements, hip drops, arm twists. It wasn’t just for show; it helped me feel the Light, channel it, even helped my sword swing get that extra oomph. I tried teaching it to some fellow paladins, but the guys all balked, “Too feminine.” Their loss. Power comes from the hips, after all.
So now, with Xe’Ra playing cryptic mind games and throwing Illidan’s supposed destiny in my face, I’m starting to wonder—are these naaru really the Light we all worship, or just some floating crystals with a god complex? Xe’Ra keeps showing me Illidan’s greatest hits reel, like I’m supposed to swoon over his “sacrifices” and self-made prophecy. She keeps pushing that question, “If you were in his position, what would you have done differently?”
Honestly? I don’t need to be some brooding anti-hero with glow-in-the-dark eyes to know the answer. I’ve seen what happens when you let power justify every terrible thing you do. The Ashbringer could drain the life from everyone around me if I wanted it to, turn me into a weapon of unmatched destruction. But I wouldn’t—couldn’t—do what Illidan did. I’d hold the line, even if my back was against the wall. I’d fight with the people who stood with me, not against them.
So yeah, Xe’Ra, if you’re listening—no, I’m not prepared. Not to sacrifice the people I care about for some predestined ego trip. I’m not some chosen champion who needs a cosmic cheerleader. I’m just me, Perfectia Dawnlight, and I’ll carve my own path, thank you very much.
The Burden of Command
No fighting today. Instead, I spent most of my time at the forge, wrestling with metal like it owes me money. I’ve been trying to put together that spooky, flip-flop grilled cheese Blood Knight armor—yeah, the one that makes everyone look like they’re auditioning for a haunted fashion show. But I’m still missing a few pieces, especially that iconic red shield they all parade around with. I hate being on the front lines; heavy shields and getting smacked around just make my neck hurt and my teeth rattle. Healing people from the back or swinging my big sword like a conductor in a blood symphony? Yeah, that’s more my style.
Boros tried to show me how to hold a shield properly—like, thanks, but no thanks, buddy. I’ve got two hands, and I’d rather they both be on a weapon that actually hurts things. I mean, when I see an opening, I strike. That’s just how it goes. But with a shield? It’s like trying to punch through a wall with a spoon. There’s this little voice in my head screaming, “Strike now!” and then the shield’s all, “LOL, no.” And let’s be real—getting hit still hurts. Even when someone heals you right after, those few seconds are like, “Oh hey, here’s a fun reminder that you’re not invincible.”
So, I’ve been crafting. Trying to make one of those blood-red shields the others have, but mine looks more like an angry toddler’s art project. I asked a knight where he got his. “Shattrath City,” he says. I light up, “Oh, can I buy one there?” He looks at me like I asked to borrow his underwear. “Nope, blacksmith’s dead. Shields are kinda rare, but you can find one if you look hard enough.”
Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.
Anyway, I tried to be all stoic about it, but the training dummy got the best of me today. I might’ve yelled some choice words at it—totally mature, by the way. Boros tried to get me back on it, and I just ran for the Ashbringer like it was my comfort teddy bear. “Perfectia, you need to work on your form,” he says, all diplomatic. I wanted to throw something at him, but instead, I just bashed some metal like it was a piñata filled with all my frustrations.
I handed him this mangled sword I’d just hammered together, “It’s dangerous to go alone, take zis.”
Boros just looks at it and then at me, “Perfectia, would you actually use this sword in battle?”
I stared at the sword, noticing all the dents and jagged edges that could snap it in half. “Don’t use it,” I muttered. “It’ll probably get you killed, or at least tetanus. I need you for ze missions.”
Boros, bless him, tries to keep a straight face, “I think you need to see a master at work—on something other than a wooden dummy.”
I rolled my eyes so hard they almost got stuck, “I work alone.” I knew it wasn’t true, but admitting that to a Draenei? Absolutely not.
“You’ll just reinforce bad habits,” he said with that annoying calm that made me want to smack him with my trash sword.
“Whatever, I’ve got the Ashbringer,” I snapped back. “What are you even doing here? Go lick some Alliance boots or something.”
Boros rolled his eyes, “Yes, I’ve heard of your exploits on Warsong, Arathi, Alterac Valley, and…”
“I am Horde and Sin’dorei,” I cut in, finally saying an ‘H’ word right for once. “My people, zey are important to me, zere lives matter. And while you are under my command, so does yours. I will not look down on shems, short stacks, knife-ears, or stag-breeds—zat’s 'umans, dwarves, elves, and draenei to you—but I know zat when we leave zhese 'alls, we are enemies. So, what’s your plan, vraiment?”
“You think I plan to betray you?” He looked genuinely confused.
I shrugged, half-heartedly. “I try to ignore ze bad zings in life. I push zem to ze back of my mind because… I don’t really know 'ow to deal wiz ze negativity.” I confessed, trying to brush it off.
He looked away, muttering under his breath, “At least not when you’re sober.”
I squinted at him. “Quoi?”
“Nothing.”
I sighed, trying to redirect the conversation. "Ze Ashbringer is of dwarven make, no? Maybe it should be in a dwarf’s 'and. Alexandros wielded it better zan any knight, a 'uman, and ze floating crystal is of naaru make. It’s ze heart of ze sword, oui? Your people are close to ze naaru, so maybe it should be in your 'ands, right?”
He paused, shaking his head slowly. “Very few people get admired for their hard work. Most folks will ignore you, some will hate you, and many will just tell you to quit. And Highlord… you’re crying.”
I felt his hand reaching toward my face, and I pulled back, swallowing hard as I tried to keep it together. I shut my eyes tight, wiping at my tears with quick, angry movements. “I ‘ave tried to 'eal our injured soldiers’ wounds. If people 'ate me for doing zis, zen maybe I am a bad ‘ighlord. Why was I asked, hein?”
Boros looked at me with genuine empathy but struggled to understand. “I won’t lie; I didn’t catch all of that. But the adventurers, the ones in grandstanding, they are eager to be ze new Highlord. Some are just scared, Perfectia. We lost so many good soldiers on ze Broken Shore.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of that memory. “Oui… it was a catastrophe.”
“You’re not the Highlord everyone wanted, but you are the one we need. And you tried to save Fordring.” His words were sincere, but I wasn’t buying it.
I laughed, but it came out bitter. “What of it? I cannot imagine 'im speaking kindly of me.”
He looked at me with a strange mix of sadness and admiration. “He said he could hear the whispers near you, but he couldn’t just hand you the Ashbringer.”
“Why not? You know 'e would still be alive if 'e just gave zis to me. Do you know 'ow painful it was to be near zis sword during ze Lich King’s campaign? 'Ow much pain and lives he could 'ave saved if he 'anded it to me? Even Garrosh Hellscream told me I would ‘ave stolen 'is glory.”
“You were too young, Perfectia. Sixteen, maybe. And imagine what Garrosh would have done if he knew you had the Ashbringer and could wield it better than Mograine.” Boros paused, his voice softening. "Fordring wanted to give it to you, but the Crusade needed a leader, someone to keep an eye on Sylvanas.”
“Don’t you dare bring 'er up,” I snapped, my temper flaring. “You weren’t zere at ze Broken Shore. It was a disaster, and she gets all ze blame for every life lost.”
Boros rubbed his temples like he was trying to keep a headache at bay. “And you would have been among the dead if you’d been given the Ashbringer. You’re not a leader, Perfectia; you’re just an adventurer. You don’t have the experience to lead on the battlefield, let alone hold a garrison together like Tirion Fordring did for years.”
I shrugged and looked away. “Zat is what I ‘ave been doing for years. If I was need-ed for some-zing else, I would be doing zat. I know I’m young, even by 'uman standards, but you’re wrong. I did most of ze paperwork in Draenor’s garrison, but ze burden of command is lonely.”
Boros pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “I’m sorry, but do you know your past tense? You keep saying ‘ed’ like it’s a magic word.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Why should I trust you? And you are a draenei, after all. 'Ow do I know zis isn’t some plan from ze Alliance? My people are very important to me, and zey need me alive, not die-ed or in prison. I add ‘ed’ for past tense, oui?”
Boros groaned. “Perfectia, you don’t just slap ‘ed’ on everything. ‘Ed’ is a human name, like Edward. And your Common could use a little work. Just saying.”
I lit up, ignoring his correction. “Oh la la, where? Where can we get zis shield?”
Boros chuckled, looking amused at my sudden enthusiasm. “I might need to reconnect with some old contacts in Shattrath City. It’d be good to revisit the place where the draenei and sin’dorei first stood together against the Burning Legion. Maybe it’s time we start trusting each other, even a little?”
I nodded firmly, putting on my best “I’m in charge” face. “If you’re going to escort me, don’t die. If you do, I’ll kill you.”
I skipped off toward my quarters, feeling his eyes on me, probably shaking his head. I knew I was acting like a brat, but Boros never gave me a reason not to trust him. Maybe I needed to stop assuming every former Alliance member was just waiting to stab me in the back. My people were still important, but so was treating all my soldiers with the respect they deserved.
Old Shattrath City
So, me and Vindicator Boros hung out in Shattrath City. My plan was to take a few portals this way and that way—zip around the universe in minutes like I always do. But Boros gets portal-sick if he takes more than one an hour. So, instead, we took the scenic route: a long flight path from the Eastern Plaguelands to the Blasted Lands, wasting most of the day. By the time we were halfway there, the green glow in my eyes started to fade, and I began losing track of colors. I hadn’t taken in any arcane magic or eaten all day.
I turned to Boros mid-flight. “Can we stop and get some-zing to eat?”
He looked over, surprised. “I’ve never seen you eat before. I thought you Sin’dorei just took in arcane magic!”
“We do, but we can still eat food… it’s just, I don’t like doing it… except for pizza.”
“Why not?!” he yelled back over the wind.
“Food gets stuck in my teeth!” I shouted, which is true.
“WHAT?!”
“Because anchovies!”
“Oh…” He laughed, still confused. “We’re almost at the Dark Portal. One more short flight, and we’ll be in Shattrath City. We can eat there!”
I was starving by then, and I missed Kylene’s cooking—it had been too long since I’d been to the World’s End Tavern. When we went through the Dark Portal, Boros looked a little woozy, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. “How you adventurers keep going through these things one after another is beyond me,” he muttered.
“Sin’dorei, remember? We don’t eat much, so no motion sickness,” I said, though everything was turning green. “Could we please eat now?”
“Right, what was I thinking, letting a young lady starve?” he said as we finally arrived in Shattrath City. By that point, I could barely see anything.
I summoned my horse, Lucy, and whispered, “Lucy, take me to the World’s End Tavern.” I leaned forward, clutching her mane like my life depended on it. When I dismounted, I kept my arms out, trying not to bump into anything.
“Highlord, what’s wrong?” Boros asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
Suddenly, I felt a jolt—like an electric shock straight through my skull—and in a flash, the world burst into color again. Standing before me was Haris Pilton, looking unimpressed.
“Ce sera 600 pièces d’or s’il vous plaît. (That will be 600 gold, please.)” she demanded.
Boros stared, bewildered. “What did you do to her?”
“J’ai dû désenchanter une de mes bagues pour le faire aussi. (I had to disenchant one of my rings to do it too.)” Haris said to me.
I rolled my eyes. “Ces bagues ne sont même pas chargées de magie, et tu le sais bien. Mais merci. (Those rings aren’t even magically charged, and you know it, but thanks.)”
Boros looked between us, lost. “Wait, what did she say?”
“Haris is trying to… 'ow you say? ‘Import’ money from me.” I said with a shrug.
“You mean ‘extort,’” he corrected.
“I know what I said.” I nodded, unfazed.
I rolled my eyes, “Ces anneaux ne sont même pas chargés comme par magie, et tu le sais bien, mais merci. (Those rings aren’t even magically charged, and you know it, but thanks.)”
Boros interrupted, looking confused. “Wait, I don’t understand what you two are saying.” We were speaking Thalassian, a language he obviously didn’t follow.
“Haris is trying to… 'ow you say? ‘Import’ money from me.”
“You mean ‘extort,’” he corrected.
“I know what I said,” I replied, giving him a look.
“De quoi parlez-vous tous les deux ? (What are you two talking about?)” Haris asked, looking between us with a frown. She didn’t speak or understand Common or Orcish, which made this a perfect opportunity for mischief.
“He says he’s going to biffle you,” I lied smoothly in Thalassian.
“De Quoi?! Mais je t’ai aidé ! (What?! But I helped you!)” Haris protested, glancing nervously at Boros. She started chanting “Non, non,” trying to ‘no’ in Common, which sounded close enough. She slammed her fist into her palm in frustration. “Allez Perfectia, les seuls gens qui viennent ici sont des habitués, plus personne ne m’achète rien. Avec assez d’or, je peux enfin sortir de ce dépotoir. (Come on, Perfectia, the only people who come here are regulars; no one buys anything from me anymore. With enough gold, I can finally get out of this dump.)”
I sighed, knowing Haris would never change. “Vous savez que j’ai toujours voulu un de vos sacs hors de prix, enlevez simplement les 600 du sac et nous le qualifierons de quitte ? (You know I’ve always wanted one of your overpriced bags; just take the 600 off the bag and we’ll call it even?)”
She hugged me tightly, nearly knocking me off balance. “Je savais que tu étais un bon ami. (I knew you were a good friend.)” I handed her three thousand gold. “Avec cet argent, je pourrai enfin me faire une toute nouvelle vie. (With this money, I’ll finally make a whole new life for myself.) So long, suckers.” It was the only phrase she knew well in Common, and with that, she ran out of the city with her little dog yapping at her heels.
A collective sigh of relief rose from everyone in the bar. “Is she gone for good?” I asked.
“She’ll be back in a week when she runs out of money,” Kylene said, shaking her head.
“I’ll give her three days,” Raliq the Drunken ogre chimed in. “You haven’t seen that girl shop or gamble.”
Kylene smirked and poured us a drink. “Well, it feels like I owe you two a drink or two for getting rid of her.”
“Bribe accepted,” I said, grinning as we settled in.
“Thank you, we’re starving, and so was my friend. Are you still hungry?” Boros asked, eyeing his food.
The bar and food smelled fantastic, a comforting mix of spices and roasting meats that brought the warmth of nostalgia. “I didn’t come all zis way not to eat ze food 'ere.” I said, already feeling the anticipation bubbling up inside me.
I ordered a Warp Burger, the colors from the steaming plate bursting in front of me like a slow-motion fireworks display. Every bite sent long, wavy ribbons of orange, brown, blue, and green dancing to the rhythm of the music playing in the background, each flavor syncing perfectly with the notes of the melody. Boros picked at his Talbuk Steak, but he kept glancing around like he was expecting trouble.
“Is zere some-zing wrong?” I asked, trying to focus on my food.
“You keep looking around like something else has got your attention,” Boros replied, his eyes still scanning the room.
I chuckled softly, setting down my burger. “Oh, oui, most people don’t know zat about me. I 'ave synesthesia, I see color when I eat. It’s why I can’t see when I’m 'ungry. Ze colors kind of find zere right places when I start getting full.” I watched as the steak on Boros’s plate lit up in muted reds and browns, pulsing softly with each bite he took.
Boros leaned back, smiling with curiosity. “That sounds wonderful, but you can’t taste this food? It’s really good.”
I looked away, feeling the flickers of color soften. “I can smell ze food, and I can feel it, but tasting? Not really. I taste magic more zan anyzing else, like ze arcane nearby. I see ze colors, and it all feels right, but taste is… more of a memory, I guess.”
“And all blood elves do this?” Boros asked, genuinely intrigued as he glanced at the vibrant colors shifting around my plate.
I half-smiled, shaking my head slightly. “Non, zat’s just me. Most blood elves get ze headaches, stomach cramps, and ze loss of strength when we’re starving for magic. For me, it’s ze vision that goes first. Everyzing starts turning green until I eat or take in ze arcane. ‘Arris Pilton 'ad seen me bump into zings more zan a few times, but she usually just gave me some-zing to eat. Some friend, oui?”
Boros crossed his arms, his expression thoughtful as he digested this new insight. “Things change, I suppose. The Alliance was disturbed by our kind when we first crash-landed on Azeroth, and I suppose I understand why you’d feel the same about us. Do your kind still feel that way?”
I nodded, tracing patterns in the condensation on my glass. “Oui, zat’s true. My kind are a bit disturb ed by yours, especially since ze first draenei I met on Azeroth tried to kill ed me.”
Boros couldn’t help himself and jumped in, gently correcting my Common as I stumbled over the words, telling me to stop saying ‘Ed.’
I rolled my eyes and tried again. “It was 'ard to swallow when I… ‘came’ to Outland, and I was told zat your kind were so… peaceful.” I stumbled but caught myself, focusing on getting the words right.
Boros clapped his hands in mock applause. He was patient but persistent in his corrections, and there was a hint of pride in his eyes when I got it right. “You’re not disturbed by us anymore, are you?” he asked, looking more relaxed now.
I smiled, my eyes drifting to the swirling colors that danced to the music. “No, I find your kind to be quite intriguing, actually. I suppose we’ve all got our quirks.” I watched the colors settle, each finding its place in the symphony of sensations, much like how Boros and I were finding our rhythm together, despite everything that set us apart.
I laughed slightly, putting my hand behind my head and shaking it side to side. “No, if any-zing, I find your kind to be quite attractive.” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I immediately regretted it. “Ah… Putain, fait chier.” I cursed in Thalassian, embarrassed and flustered.
Boros looked at me with a raised eyebrow, genuinely puzzled. “Uh… since when?”
I turned away, my smile fading as old memories clawed at my chest. “It was… a long time ago,” I murmured, my hand resting over my heart as if trying to shield it from the sting of remembering. I stumbled over my words, trying to get them right. “…Ed… Is zat ‘ow you say it?”
Boros nodded, his expression softening. “Yes, that’s right.”
I forced a small smile but couldn’t hold his gaze. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
Boros hesitated, then spoke, his voice gentler than usual. “Who’s Oranio? The name sounds Eredun. You kept calling me that when I carried you back to your room after the Brewfest. You were also… trying to kiss me.”
Hearing his name hit me like a punch to the gut, and I felt a rush of grief that I’d tried so hard to bury. I shook my head and clenched my teeth, my voice trembling. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, barely able to speak. My hand flew to my mouth as I looked down, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. Oranio wasn’t just a name; it was a wound that never fully healed—a dream of a family that was ripped away too soon.
Boros immediately raised his hands in defense, his expression panicked. “No, it’s fine, I just… I knew you were different from the other blood elves I’ve met. That’s why I’ve never given up on you, not in training, not ever. But I didn’t mean to pry. We can drop it.”
I nodded, my throat tight as I struggled to compose myself. “Zank you,” I managed to say, but my voice cracked, betraying the rawness of the wound.
Boros sighed, his own mood somber now. “I suppose things change, and people change… for better or worse. Sometimes, they don’t get the chance to be who they want to be.”
I let out a hollow laugh, trying to mask my pain. “Oui, who could 'ave guessed ze Bronze Dragonflight would betray us like zat.” I said it lightly, but it felt hollow, an attempt to steer the conversation away from the ache in my heart.
Boros looked thoughtful, his gaze drifting. “Humanity’s downfall is always about finding ways to prolong life, whether for themselves or others. It’s like why Gul’Dan became so powerful; he only ever cared about himself. Bargains and power at any cost.” He glanced at me, sensing my mood. “And when death is near, it’s easy to listen to those whispers.”
The thought of Oranio lingered, and I couldn’t help but feel angry at the selfishness that took him from me. I reached across the table and flicked Boros’ forehead hard, surprising him. “Selfishness doesn’t make you powerful; it makes you a coward. Gul’Dan, Illidan—they’re all the same. Obsessed with zeir personal ‘greatness’ while stepping over everyone else. I care about my people, Boros. Zey are not just tools or sacrifices. Zey are people with dreams, with hopes, with families.” My voice wavered at the last word, and I knew I was talking about Oranio too, his memory burning bright and painful inside me.
Boros rubbed his forehead, but there was no anger in his eyes, only understanding. “You’re right. People aren’t tools. And maybe… we can still learn from the ones we’ve lost, even if it hurts.”
I nodded, feeling a small bit of comfort in his words. The hurt was still there, but so was the reminder that I wasn’t alone in carrying it.
He rolled his eyes slightly. “Easy for you to say, you’re the Ashbringer with those golden eyes showing up now and then. I think your destiny is set in stone.”
“Ave you been listening to zat stupide naaru sitting in ze 'all?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Boros only nodded, looking slightly embarrassed.
I looked away, biting my lip before turning back to him. “Well, okay…” I met his gaze with a challenging stare. “But if you want to grab some knee pads, a stiff drink, and wait for Illidan to show up and save us all, be my guest. 'E isn’t 'ere, Boros, all we 'ave is a mild 'ope zat 'is lackeys might do some-zing. So, do some soul searching or locate ze shattered remains of your putain de des balles.”
Boros put his hand over his face, caught between exasperation and laughter. “I don’t speak THALASSIAN!” He rubbed his temples, trying to keep his composure. “That was a curse word, wasn’t it?”
“Oui,” I smirked. “Which means ‘yes.’ But you knew zat already.”
Boros groaned, pressing his hand against his forehead. “Why do you keep talking like I understand Thalassian? You do it all the time!”
I shrugged, unbothered. “I was talkEd to you, zen Harris. It’s 'ard to switch between ze languages. My mouth can only 'andle so much. And you should know zat it’s 'ard to 'ave a tree-way when no one knows what to do wiz zere mouths.”
“PHRASING! Can you please not?” Boros complained, visibly flustered, his hand over his face like he had a headache.
I grinned, shrugging casually. “I am Thalassian, so… no.”
He shook his head, trying to hide a smile, and finally dropped his hand. “You know, back in Black Rook Hold, when we were fighting undead, you made that speech about, and I quote, ‘Like a high-class escort—’”
“—‘Make zem pay for every inch,’” I finished, laughing as the memory resurfaced. “I’ve used zat one a few times in Draenor. But zat was before I was officially ze Highlord.” I gave him a mock bow, emphasizing the title playfully.
Boros gave me a funny look, half annoyed, half amused. “I always thought you planned those lines in advance. I didn’t realize you just talked like this all the time.”
I leaned back, resting my chin on my hand with a mischievous grin. “Mon cher, I am ze Ashbringer and ze Highlord; I don’t 'ave to prepare to say what’s on my mind. Zat’s part of my charm.”
I put my elbow on the table and rested my head on my hand, smirking. “And I always zought it was because I was fat, because you’re actually ze first man zat 'as brought me dinner.” I looked down, a brief flicker of something softer crossing my face. “You weren’t expecting…” I trailed off suggestively.
Boros’s eyes widened in shock. “No! Absolutely not!” He shook his head, sounding almost offended by the implication.
I shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly. “Oh, good. Because I don’t need any extra jewelry, and you haven’t even bought me a drink yet.”
Boros rubbed his forehead like he was trying to ward off a headache. “Since we’re on the subject, there have been a number of complaints from the other paladins.”
“Like what?” I asked, feigning innocence.
“First off—property damage.”
I grinned, remembering a few good times. “Ah, oui, ze fires. Good times.”
He frowned. “Dozens of noise complaints.”
I scoffed, throwing my hands up. “Sainte putaine de merde! Va te faire foutre tu fils de pute!”
He looked at me in exasperation. “Killing those innocent people in Suramar?”
I waved a dismissive hand. “Was it ze orphanage or ze library? I’m not sure.”
“THAT’S EVEN WORSE!” Boros nearly shouted, his voice tinged with disbelief.
“Who is going to miss zem? Zey’re parents?” I replied with a shrug.
He sighed deeply, pressing on. “And… all of the sexual harassment.”
I tilted my head, crossing my arms. “You know, sometimes I really wish I was a man. When I threaten to sexually assault and kill someone, it would sound a lot more menacing. But, honestly, I’m a little surprised anyone was even bozered enough to complain. So no, I’m not apologizing.”
Boros looked like he was struggling to find the right words. “Listen, I know this is asking a lot, but could you be a little less… scandalous? Indecent? Could you talk with a little more… prudence? You may not remember, but you did try to grab Lord Maxwell Tyrosus’s genitals.”
I stared at him blankly, deadpan. “I also remember killing 20 plus squires, knights, and paladins zat tried to rob me of le Ashbringer. But yeah, sure, let’s focus on ze real crime—my hand getting too friendly.”
“Chastity is a virtue, you know.” Boros said with a strained look, as if I was some scandal he couldn’t quite clean up.
I snorted, unable to keep a straight face. “Boros, I wiped out an entire platoon in a drunken rage, and your biggest issue is zat I copped a feel on a lieutenant? I mean, talk about priorities. Next time I’ll make sure my battle cry isn’t ‘Touché!’”
Boros rolled his eyes so hard, I half expected them to fall out. “Dr. Olisarra vouched for you, and she was as hammered as you were. She called it self-defense, but the ranks of the paladin order are in shambles because of you.”
I shrugged, smirking. “So is ze Legion’s, mon ami. I’ve left more blood and ash behind me than a bad barbecue. Do I remember all of it? Non. But are my clients happy? Oui. Barely pay me enough for armor repairs, though. Advertising, recruiting, and order management? Not in my job description, darling.”
“Everything is your responsibility, Highlord,” Boros snapped, “but you weren’t picked for your leadership, business sense, or even your faith. I swear, if you keep treating our men like toy dolls in a playhouse, I will kill you myself.”
I laughed, but my eyes were sharp. “Oh, Boros, I roast myself harder than you ever could. I love and support every single soldier as if zey were my own kids. I’d die for zem, no questions asked, but—” I grabbed the Ashbringer and casually rested it against his neck, enjoying the sizzling sound as it touched his skin. “Treaten me again, and I will amputate zis head.”
Boros blinked, trying to lean away without looking like he was panicking. “You mean decapitate?”
I rolled my eyes, not moving the blade. “I know what I said.”
Kylene glanced over, her eyes wide. “Hey, is there a problem over there?! Should I be calling the guards, or…?”
I grinned and slipped the Ashbringer behind my back, all innocent-like. “Non, je pense que nous aurons besoin du chèque. (No, I think we’ll be needing the check though.)” I chuckled, noticing the purple blister forming on Boros’s neck. “Look, I know I’m ze last person qualified for zis job, but there’s one zing I do exceptionally well—kicking aspirin and taking names. As for your opinions on celibacy, chastity, or whatever prudish nonsense, keep zem in your head where zey belong.”
I looked up at Kylene and slipped the Ashbringer behind my back, smiling innocently. “Non, je pense que nous aurons besoin du chèque. (No, I think we’ll be needing the check though.)” I chuckled, noticing the purple burn on Boros’ neck. Draenei skin blistered easily, especially from something like the Ashbringer. “I get it, Boros, I’m not your ideal Highlord. But you can’t deny one thing—I’m ze best at making people regret trying to play boss with me. And whatever you zink about celibacy, chastity, or, you know, licentiousness—keep zose thoughts where zey belong.”
Boros blinked, puzzled. “Licentiousness? Is that some Thalassian word again?”
I leaned back, rolling my eyes. “No, Boros. It’s Common. It means engaging in lewd or immoral behavior. You know, like ze fun parts of life.” I grinned, clearly enjoying the look of confusion on his face. “Why, never heard it? I zought you were ze smart one.”
Boros scratched his head, frowning. “I… I don’t think I’ve ever heard that word in casual conversation. Is that something you just… know?”
I snickered, tapping my temple. “I read, Boros. Just because I ‘ave a few vices doesn’t mean I’m uneducated. Maybe pick up a book sometime. They’re not all about demon-slaying, you know.”
He stared at me, half annoyed, half bemused. “Of all the things you know… Why does this surprise me?”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “Because you expect me to be as reckless and uninformed as I act. But I’m full of surprises, mon ami. So maybe next time, try not to underestimate ze girl who knows her licentiousness from her lexicon.”
I laughed, thinking about the sheer nerve it took for him to preach prudence to me. I mean, what did he think? That I’d just nod along? “And let’s not pretend I don’t know about your ‘birthing matrons.’ Real wholesome stuff.”
He recoiled like I’d slapped him. “I’ve never taken part in one of those rituals, even when asked.”
I raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh, I’m sure you were just the choir boy, standing off to ze side, holding ze pamphlets. Totally innocent.”
Boros crossed his arms defensively. “They were all consenting adults. Fornication and population control—lesser evils for ze greater good.”
I nearly snorted out my drink. “Yeah, well, I treat people like people, not livestock at a breeding farm.” I sighed dramatically. “You know, Boros, you’re clearly a virgin, and zat’s fine. I mean, I wouldn’t want to participate in zat circus even if I was a man. Hell, I wouldn’t even want zat for my worst enemy, let alone my soldiers or children. But hey, maybe you’ll meet someone special one day.”
He blinked at me, caught between confusion and offense. “That’s… oddly considerate of you to say.”
I smirked, not letting him off easy. “Or I could be wrong. You know ze saying—‘Teamwork makes la cream squirt.’”
Boros buried his face in his hands, groaning. “No… Just… no one says that. Ever. How do you even come up with this stuff?”
I shrugged, still hoping for a laugh. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises. But hey, I get it. Some of you are still children playing at war and can’t handle a real adult conversation. Hate me all you want, Boros; the more you do, ze more you’ll learn. And just so you know, I’ve only been with one man, and he died. So spare me ze lectures.”
Boros hesitated, his voice softening. “Was it… one of us? I mean, it’s not common knowledge, and the only way you’d know about the matrons…”
I turned away, my tone cooling instantly. “None of your business, Vindicator. We’re done here.” I rubbed my eyes, checking for the glow. There was still a faint light—enough for writing tonight, but I was drained. “I’m tired. I’ll be staying at ze Scryer inn. You’ll be at ze Aldor, I take it?”
Boros straightened up, his tone formal once again. “Yes, Highlord. I’ll have the information on the shield by tomorrow morning.”
I waved him off, already half out the door. “Great. Just try not to get yourself sacrificed in ze meantime, alright?”
Gone Fishing
Maybe I needed this vacation because fishing near Silvermoon is just as disappointing as I remembered. And trust me, coming from someone who used to live in Shattrath City and hated fishing there too, that’s saying something. I thought Vindicator Boros might finally spill the beans on where to find that elusive shield, but instead, there he was, chatting it up with his Aldor buddies like they were hosting some kind of tea party. I tried rushing him, giving him the ol’ “let’s move it along” look, but he just kept waving me off like, “Hold on one second,” while they gabbed away in that musical Draenei language that’s about as thrilling as watching paint dry.
Some kid asked me to kill some aggressive fish for a fishing rod, but I just threw it in my safe deposit box and never bothered. Today, though, with Boros taking his sweet time, I dusted it off and thought, why not? So there I was, fumbling around with this stupid fishing pole like a rookie, all because standing around staring at Draenei chit-chat wasn’t on my to-do list. The trolls at the garrison showed me some fancy fishing moves once, probably don’t even apply here in Outland, but it was something to do.
Honestly, it’s kind of weird, but looking at my life right now, it’s not half bad. I should probably write that down, so I can remember it when everything inevitably turns into a flaming pile of fel-tainted poop. Humans, in particular, always seem eager to ruin everything with their self-righteous crusades and “holy” whatever nonsense, but you know what? They can’t ruin fishing. Not today, not ever. Fishing is zen. It’s just you, the water, and the hope that something will bite—a little dance of patience and skill that no one can mess up.
It’s funny, though. Fishing’s kind of like a mini-battlefield—no demons, no undead, just fish. But these fish? These guys are crafty. Some fish break your line, some break your pole, and some straight-up refuse to show up. It’s all part of the adventure. And the best part? The unspoken rule: no unnecessary talking while waiting for a bite. Break that rule, and you’re dead to me.
Sometimes, I wonder what it’d be like to go full-on pirate mode—nets, trap cages, maybe a whole crew. Grandpa tried teaching me to sail once, but we were on this dinky little boat, not one of those massive ships you see in old Sin’dorei paintings. Maybe one day, right?
One time, I finally hooked something, and a wild bird swooped down and snatched it right off the line. A bloody bird! I almost threw my pole at it, but hey, maybe I should learn a thing or two about taming animals instead of letting them steal my dinner. Not that today was eventful—barely talked to anyone, just me and my pole. The place is a ghost town compared to when I was fourteen, but honestly? It’s nice. No demons, no undead, no deranged adventurers trying to kill me, and no Alliance fanatics itching to shank me. Just fresh air, a cool breeze, and enough fish to keep me busy.
I caught enough to cook and eat, just skewering them through the mouth and roasting them over a fire. The colors danced when I ate—blue from the fish, orange from the flames. It’s funny how my vision changes; white flashes if something’s rotten, black if it’s overcooked, and green creeping in if it’s poison. It’s like nature’s little warning system. Maybe I should set up my retirement house here in Outland. No fel-green fire, just sky, fish, and a hint of peace. I could get used to this.
Not Perfect
Have you ever had one of those days you wish you could forget about, but you know you can’t because you’re terrified it might happen again?
So here’s the thing about me: I’ve never been on a high chair of power like this before, even when I was a commander in Draenor. Sitting in a garrison had its perks—troops doing all my missions, plenty of food, endless arcane mana to sip on, and, most importantly, bathrooms and hot baths. I completely forgot that the Scryer Inn and most Sin’dorei areas have no bathrooms. None. Now, I could just throw myself off the Scryer terrace into the Lower City, use Blessing of Protection to break my fall, and dig a quick hole, but that doesn’t account for the dozens of merchants, adventurers, and, of course, that one guy always trying to get someone to have a pet battle yelling, “Yes, yes, we fight, we fight!”
I ate way too much fish yesterday, and let me tell you, I was carrying the indignant rage of a thousand Texo Bell shoots. I was telling that guy to buzz off, go somewhere else, take his stupid pets and his creepy stare with him. But no, he stayed, waving those pets around like they were more important than my dignity. I got so flustered that, well, let’s just say I ended up soiling my armor. Again. This isn’t the first time it’s happened since my surgery, but this time, it was worse because someone saw me. And I don’t want the eulogy at my funeral to read, “Perfectia Argento Dawnlight, Highlord of the Silver Hand, who occasionally soiled herself.”
This is why I prefer arcane magic; it keeps things orderly—head, heart, stomach, all lined up where they’re supposed to be. But, no, today had to be fish and mortal embarrassment. To make matters worse, who do I run into but Haris Pilton, of all people. I nearly died on the spot, but for once, she wasn’t acting like a gold-digging gremlin. “Perfectia, is that you?” she called, all friendly-like.
I summoned Lucy, my warhorse, using her as a makeshift privacy screen and tried to hobble my way back to the Scryer Inn. But Haris wasn’t having it, following me like this was some sort of social call. “Now is really not the time, Haris,” I hissed, trying to keep some shred of dignity.
“But I got you this awesome gift!” she said, all bubbly and clueless.
She came closer, and then her nose wrinkled. “Perfectia, did you…”
“Not the time!” I cut her off, but the damage was done. That little sniff and her horrified gasp were all it took. My stomach clenched, and the pressure in my gut hit its breaking point. Before I knew it, my abdomen betrayed me, and… Jurassic thunder dump right in my pants. There I was, feeling the horror of it sliding down my leg, trapped between my tucked-in pants and my boots. I knew I should’ve worn the diaper. I wear them in my room when I’m eating regularly, but it’s not an everyday thing. Two hours after sunrise and two before sunset, that’s when I sit on the privy whether I feel it or not. But if I feel it coming, I’ve got about a minute, maybe two, before it’s all over.
And yes, I know exactly how humiliating it is to imagine a fully grown woman, naked, wearing nothing but a dirty, bulging diaper. So don’t even picture it. And don’t you dare think about my hips being three inches wider than my shoulders, you baby fetish creep—back to the story…
“Oh my gosh, Perfectia, hold on!” Harris squealed, and before I could even protest, she let out this shrill whistle that nearly split my ears. Out of nowhere, one of her Nether Drakes swooped in, snatched me up like a sack of potatoes, and tossed me over its head. Harris climbed up into the saddle, acting like this was just another day at the market. “Take us to the floating lakes,” she commanded, and off we went, zooming through the sky like a double-decker disaster.
Now, these floating lakes were something straight out of a fever dream—giant chunks of rock just hovering in the sky like someone lost control of their magic set. I’d never seen this part of Nagrand before, and I wasn’t sure if I was amazed or just mildly terrified. I kicked off my boot and dipped a toe in the water. It was icy, despite the sun beating down like it was trying to melt us. Harris, meanwhile, started stripping down to her small clothes and waded right in like she owned the place. I tried stepping in with my armor on, but Harris just about lost her mind. “No, no, no! You’re going to rust that armor!” she scolded.
“I swim in full armor all the time, and I can afford the repair bills,” I shot back, like I needed her advice on how to ruin expensive gear.
“Well, I don’t want to be held responsible for taking more of your money,” she huffed. And then, to my utter shock, she ditched her small clothes too, going full birthday suit without a second thought. “What? We’re both girls,” she shrugged.
I rolled my eyes but started peeling off my armor anyway, grumbling under my breath. As soon as Harris caught a whiff of my situation, she wrinkled her nose, rummaged through her bag, and pulled out a bar of soap. I climbed into the water, still in my small clothes, but before I could even think about scrubbing up, Harris hopped out, yelling, “What are you doing, Perfectia?! Oh, never mind…” She whistled again—ear-splitting as ever—and the Nether Drake reappeared like it was on standby. “Take her to the one with warm water and clean these clothes,” she ordered, and in no time, it swooped down, grabbed my small clothes, and whisked me away to another floating rock with steaming water.
I was mortified, clinging to myself as I looked around. Here I was, completely naked and covered in, well, let’s just call it regret, drying out in the sun like some tragic exhibit. I waded into the hot water, which was at least a little comforting compared to the mortifying reality of my situation. Bubbles floated up around me, providing just enough cover for my pride. Harris, of course, showed up moments later on her Nether Drake, just as naked and way too comfortable. She brought a huge bag with her, tossed it by the pool’s edge, and eased herself into the water. “What do they teach you over in that Horde?” she scoffed.
I turned away, fuming at how this day had spiraled into a personal nightmare. “How to live off of lentils, paperclips, and insults, mostly,” I snapped, splashing some water at her for good measure.
Harris laughed, “I suppose they didn’t teach you anything about laundry, huh? Bathing water and cleaning water—two different things, you know.”
I glared at her. “What, and you thought today was a good day to host a class on ‘How to Bathe Your Friend Who Just Had the Worst Day Ever’?” I huffed, sinking further into the water, hoping it could wash away more than just the mess.
I looked away, avoiding her eyes, and shook my head in frustration.
“Well, stand up and turn around,” she ordered, like she was running some sort of impromptu spa day.
“No, just let me soak,” I grumbled, sinking lower into the water. “I’ll clean off myself. I don’t even know why you dragged me here, and the only thing keeping me from diving off this platform is the fact that all my clothes are over there on the other one.”
“You know, you could just hearth bubble out of here,” she suggested with that annoying, all-knowing smirk.
I rolled my eyes and let out a sarcastic laugh. “Oh sure, great plan. Because nothing says ‘dignified Highlord’ like showing up at an inn completely soaked and stark naked. Do tell me, Harris, where exactly am I keeping my Hearthstone right now?”
She chuckled at that, her eyes drifting to the floating rocks around us. “What happened to your dragon, Protecto, wasn’t it?” she asked, genuine curiosity lacing her voice.
I looked away, feeling a pinch of something I didn’t want to admit to. “He’s gone,” I said, my voice tighter than I intended.
Her face softened with concern, like she actually cared. “Oh… I’m sorry. I know you two were close.”
I turned back sharply. “No, no, he’s not dead, alright? It’s just—when I took command in Dreanor, we had a bit of a fallout. Too many time travelers messing with the fabric of reality made it impossible for dragons like Protecto to fly or transform. The whole place was a mess.”
“Have you heard from him since?” Harris asked gently.
I let out a long sigh, trying to hide the sting of regret. “I was planning to go back to the Caverns of Time when I returned to Azeroth, not just to drag him around as my personal taxi, but to catch up, you know? Maybe try to fix things.”
Harris smiled a little, her tone softening. “He talked about you sometimes. Helped a few Nether Drakes escape from the Black Temple, showed them how to fly faster so they wouldn’t get caught again. Honestly, he was pretty handsome. I’m surprised you two didn’t, you know…” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.
I recoiled in mock horror. “Eww, no! Can you even imagine? What if he, like, transformed back in the middle of… you know? And would I lay eggs if I got pregnant? Just… no. The logistics are horrifying. I don’t know how Jaina Proudmoore does it.”
Harris’s eyes widened, and she slapped a hand over her mouth, blushing fiercely. “Wait, what, with a dragon?!”
I couldn’t help but snicker. “Yes, Harris, where have you been? I saw her and Kalecgos all cozy during Garrosh’s trial. They thought they were being discreet in Dalaran, but everyone knew. Holding hands, sneaking kisses—it was like a teen romance, except, you know, one of them is a massive blue dragon.”
Harris rolled her eyes, half-amused, half-stunned. “Well, I guess it’s not the worst thing if he was half as handsome as Protecto. But hey, the dragons here don’t even transform.” She sighed, looking wistful. “You’ve seen so much, Perfectia. I guess I’m a little jealous.”
I smirked, trying to shake off the awkward turn of conversation. “Jealous? Of this? Harris, if you think fighting demons, dealing with undead, and flying around on magical beasts is glamorous, you clearly haven’t seen the parts where I’m covered in blood, dirt, or worse.” I raised an eyebrow at her, the ghost of a grin tugging at my lips. “But hey, I suppose it beats sitting around in Outland all day, huh?”
“You know you could actually leave Outland if you wanted,” I said, flicking water off my fingers. “Maybe get some new stories of your own instead of hearing about everyone else’s adventures.”
Harris shook her head, her expression turning serious for once. “No thank you, Outland is my home. I know you adventurers have seen and done amazing things, but the ones who leave? They rarely come back. And the stories I hear from Azeroth… it sounds terrifying. Demons, wars, undead? Outland feels safer. Plus, I get to hear all the gossip, make jewelry, design fancy bags, and dabble in fragrances… but hey, at least I don’t do the laundry.” She laughed, tossing her hair back. “I trained dragons to handle the dirty clothes for me. Kylene thinks I’m scrubbing everything by hand.”
I snorted, amused. “Well, you trained that bizarre little mutt of yours to do tricks, so I guess it’s no surprise.”
Harris’s tone softened. “Alright, Perfectia, stand up and turn around.”
I rolled my eyes dramatically, sighing as if this whole ordeal was a massive inconvenience. “Fine, but I swear if you start trying to exfoliate me or something, I’m jumping off this rock.” I stood up, covered myself as best as I could, and turned around, grumbling the whole time.
I heard her rummage through her bag and then the soft sound of liquid being squeezed into her hand. She reached over and started lathering something on my skin, and I immediately tasted weird, sharp notes of oranges and grapefruits dancing on my tongue like I’d just bitten into a magical fruit salad. It felt like her touch was pulsing with energy, like tiny sparks running along my skin. I glanced over my shoulder. “What are you putting on me?”
Harris handed me the bottle, and I brought it up to my nose for a whiff before taking a quick sip. My tongue recoiled at the taste, thick and waxy, like earwax that had been mixed with some kind of fancy perfume. I nearly gagged.
“Don’t drink that!” she yelped, snatching the bottle back.
I blinked at her. “If it smells like food and feels like food, then why in the name of the Sunwell is it not food?”
“Because it’s magic!” she scolded, waving the bottle at me like I was some misbehaving child.
She poured more into her hands and continued to rub it in, her fingers gliding down my torso and hips. When she reached my backside, she paused, letting out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Wow.”
Her hands lingered a little too long, squeezing my rear as if she were testing if it was made of actual flesh or some kind of enchanted material. My eyes crossed involuntarily, and I let out a breathy groan, nearly stumbling forward into the water. I braced myself, clutching my stomach and catching my balance with my free hand.
I turned back to her, my face burning, a mix of mortification and indignation bubbling up inside me. “What the hell was that?!” I snapped, sounding breathless and more embarrassed than I’d ever care to admit.
Harris’s eyes widened, and she held her hands up defensively. “I’m sorry, I just—well, it’s… it’s really big, and I was just curious if it was real.”
I narrowed my eyes, standing up to face her, my thoughts briefly drifting to how far I could toss her off this floating rock. Harris glanced away, cheeks slightly pink but still holding her hands up like she was surrendering. “I said I was sorry, okay? Are you… sensitive there?”
“YES!” I shouted, still trembling slightly, my skin buzzing with leftover tingles. It was like my body hadn’t gotten the memo to calm down.
Harris snickered, but she looked genuinely apologetic, even if she was trying to hide a laugh. “I promise, I won’t touch you there again.”
I took a deep breath, struggling to steady myself. “Good. Because if you do, the next thing you’ll be grabbing is your own teeth.” I turned back around, my pride bruised but not broken.
Harris sighed, shaking her head. “But really, your hips were already wide for an elf before, and now it’s like… wow, even draenei women would be jealous.”
I rolled my eyes and shrugged, looking down as if the water could somehow explain the history of my body. “I used to be overweight, but I lost it quickly,” I mumbled, letting my thoughts wander back to that time. “And… I’ve had surgery on my hips.”
“Cosmetic?” She asked, a hopeful lilt in her voice.
I just shook my head, not bothering to elaborate. “Look, Harris, if you’re trying to make a pass at me, you need to be as direct as a cannonball. My social skills are about as reliable as twelve horses tied together with dental floss.”
She sighed, glancing down at the water, then back at me. “I mean, I’m curious, but confused. You’ve got abs that could crush steel and muscles that could bench press a wagon.” Okay, she didn’t exactly say that; she actually called me ‘manly for a girl’ and said I was ‘about as emotionally stable as a thunderstorm in a teapot.’ Then she finally asked, “So, what do you think of me?”
I thought for a second, trying to make sense of my own feelings. “I don’t know you well enough to feel that way about you, and anyway, I’m into men.”
She nodded, chuckling softly. “Yeah, me too.” Harris continued massaging, her touch turning gentler. It felt like magic, but not the kind that comes from prayer or holy light; this was something else, something that wrapped around me like I was an egg being carefully cradled. Her fingers moved with a kind of rhythm, easing the tension in my lower back, gliding over my rear without repeating her earlier mistake, and working down my legs.
The pressure seemed to work out all the knots, all the tightness, all the stress I’d been hauling around, making everything feel light and, dare I say, good. It was like someone had squeezed fruit juice into my veins—apples, grapes, oranges, honeydew—sweet, vibrant sensations popping on my taste buds. I closed my eyes, letting my head tilt to one side, arms hanging loose by my sides, a lazy smile spreading across my face.
She grasped my arm, her fingers tracing along the muscle. “Wow, Perfectia, you’re really strong. I can feel this is where you draw in the most arcane energy.”
I was lost in the rush of it, my voice barely more than a whisper of delight. “The Ashbringer feeds me,” I grinned, a dark satisfaction curling my lips. “When I kill demons.”
Harris’s touch suddenly vanished, and when I glanced over, she was backing away like I’d sprouted fangs. “What’s wrong?” I asked, confused by the sudden change.
Harris was shaking her hands, her eyes wide with something close to horror. “No, no, no,” she muttered, like she was warding off a bad omen. “I don’t want that.”
Now I was genuinely worried. “Harris, what’s going on?”
“YOU’RE TAKING IN FEL MAGIC NOW?!” she shrieked, the panic in her voice slicing through the calm like a knife.
I shook my head fiercely, trying to get her to understand. “No, Harris, I would never. The Ashbringer feeds me, yes, but it purifies the demonic energy; it doesn’t corrupt me.”
But she kept backing up, clutching herself as if to shield against something unseen. “No, it doesn’t! It’s not cleansing anything—it’s consuming you. I could feel it in your legs, Perfectia. I was trying to repair the damage, but the corruption was still there, festering.”
I wanted to argue, to insist she was wrong. “No. The Ashbringer… it’s always been a part of me.”
Her eyes filled with disgust, disbelief mingled with fear. “What?”
I tried to reassure her, but I knew words weren’t enough. “It’s hard to explain. Let me show you.” I gestured to the water around us. “You might want to step out though—it’s safer.”
Harris whistled sharply, and her Nether Drake swooped in to carry her away. She returned fully dressed, eyes fixed on me warily. I was still submerged, trying to gather myself, needing something to anchor this power, to focus. “Harris, I need a weapon, anything sharp.”
She fumbled in her bag and pulled out… a hairbrush. “I’ve got this,” she said, almost sheepish.
I nodded, taking the brush in my hand. I’d managed to channel the Ashbringer’s power through stranger things—a shovel, a mining pick, even a spoon once. I closed my eyes, focusing on the memory of how it felt the first time this happened, when my life was hanging by a thread. I wasn’t a demon. I wasn’t some fel-crazed maniac. The Ashbringer was supposed to purify, not destroy.
My body started to heat up, the familiar burn of the Ashbringer’s light mixed with something darker. Green symbols flared on my skin, stinging like fresh branding irons. I winced as the marks spread, crawling up my chest, searing across my arms and legs.
“Perfectia, stop!” Harris’s voice cracked with fear.
I shook my head, teeth clenched. “No, I’ve got this.” But I didn’t. The water around me began to bubble and hiss as if I was boiling alive. The symbols burned deeper, the pain blinding and sharp. I could feel the transformation nearing completion—the phantom Ashbringer crystal forming just below my neck. The pain intensified, white-hot, like molten metal pressing into my skin.
It was too much. I couldn’t hold on. The last thing I felt was the symbol searing against me like a forge’s brand, then nothing. My body gave in, collapsing backward into the water. The pain receded into a numb, cold void, and as my vision darkened, I heard Harris’s desperate whistle echoing somewhere far, far away. Then everything went black.
When I woke up, I was lying in one of those Draenei aid centers, wrapped up like a mummy with bandages across the right side of my face. I heard someone murmur, “She’s awake,” like I was some kind of sleeping beauty—only, y’know, not nearly as pretty when you’ve got second-degree burns.
Apparently, Harris had flown me here. The pain was a dull throb beneath the layers of bandages, the kind of ache that tells you something went wrong and your body’s too tired to keep arguing about it. The spots where those glowing symbols had burned into my skin felt hot and infected, like tiny, angry wounds. The worst one was just below my neck, still tingling like it was fresh out of the forge. But at least they’d stopped glowing—small wins, I guess.
I blinked groggily, trying to focus. “Where’s Boros? Or Harris?” I asked, my voice all scratchy and weak, like I’d been gargling sandpaper.
The Draenei caregiver—one of those Aldor types, with the blue skin and the eternally serene face—looked at me, her Orcish all broken and awkward. “Hold, paladin,” she said gently, like I was some wounded animal. “We use healing magic—”
I cut her off, waving my hand. “Common. Understand.” I didn’t have the patience for any language gymnastics right now.
She let out a little sigh of relief, switching to Common with a nod. “We had to heal you to stop those burns from getting worse. Your Scryer friends didn’t know what to do with you. You need to rest.”
I glanced down at myself, sprawled out on the bed like a ragdoll. My gear was piled at the foot, but I didn’t see the Ashbringer anywhere. Panic flared up like a bad habit. “Nurse, where’s my sword?” I asked, trying not to sound like I was about to bolt out of bed and start tearing the place apart.
The Draenei’s expression softened. “Your paladin friend took it back to Dalaran.”
I nodded, even though it stung. Being away from the Ashbringer usually felt like losing a limb, but for some reason, I wasn’t feeling the usual withdrawal symptoms. Probably some Aldor magic working overtime to keep me from flipping out. “Can you 'and me zat book in my bag, please?” I asked, pointing feebly.
She handed it over, and here I am, writing this down so I don’t forget. Because knowing my luck, this kind of day is bound to happen again.