Stormwind.
Vesthi sat quietly in a shadowed corner of a mostly empty Slaughtered Lamb.
This was precisely the kind of establishment she would have avoided back in those days. Now it was one of the few places within civilization she could rest and just have a quiet casual drink in peace. Few establishments cared much for her kind, with good reason. Most carried the stench of fel where ever they wandered, and if not for the stench then they appeared rather horrific. Grim and grisly by nature, such are the ways of the demonic. The taint of fel twisted all it touched, and Demon Hunters did more than merely touch it. They embraced it. Still, there were those among them who managed to either mask their appearance or withstand their demonic mutations some how. These few were often envied as they could come and go and mingle without any of the common rabble the wiser as to who or what they were. Lucky devils. Vesthi’s own stumpy pair of horns and thick demonic hide alone drew eyes wherever she wandered. Most of the time the stares and silent whispers didn’t phase her. Day’s like today however, it was nice to have a place where she could lounge a while and mentally stew. And stew she did.
Vesthi tipped back another draw of her specially brewed wine and painfully reminisced.
She hated how much she longed for those days. Hated how much she actually thought on them. Dwelled on them. On her. Vesthi had a mountain of regrets, as nearly any Demon Hunter would. And many did. There were those among them who seemed to have that capacity to care, to feel, burned from them during their transformation. Others had it erode from them, bit by bit, as they served. The horrific things they’d seen scarred them. The things they have done broke them. Vesthi secretly envied those few who seemed to be able to manage it, and not relinquish their sanity. Vesthi envied them that, but also counted them as particularly dangerous as Demon Hunters go; if only because they didn’t, or no longer couldn’t, feel. It made them unpredictable. So Vesthi tended to give these few Hunters a fair berth trusting in their united purpose as Illidari. Now that Sargeras was out of the picture, for now, it was difficult to know what these uncaring, unfeeling, Illidari might do. That mere notion set uneasily with her. Because, Vesthi guessed, regardless of how she felt her pains and longing defined the humanity that managed to remain within this disgusting demonic husk of a body.
Vesthi hated herself most of all. She hated what she had become, though she accepted it. Even embraced it, relished in the power and freedom it brought to her. Still, it came at such an almost incomprehensible cost. Inevitably her thoughts drifted back again to her. She would forever punish herself over the loss of that relationship.
Another drink from her cup and now she was longing for those days. The better days.
Their days of innocents before demons were known to them, and they were merely things of nightmares and story-tales. Days when they were young, and they had everything figured out. Even the days after it all, there were times when she could have…
She should have…
Vesthi took another drink.
…but she didn’t. She’d been broken and became obsessed, refusing to allow herself to heal or be healed. She’d come to resent her, much to Vesthi’s chagrin. She was able to heal, mostly. On the surface at least it’d seemed she’d moved on. She’d left Vesthi behind and was resented for it. Vesthi of course knew, even then, that she was doing the right thing… but Vesthi couldn’t let it go. She wouldn’t. Always so stubborn, Vesthi could nearly hear her voice say.
Vesthi took another drink.
It wasn’t until recently, after multiple millennia of passing in and out of each other’s lives, that Vesthi learned the truth. She hadn’t moved on. Not fully. She who was once a Priestess of Elune, who had long ago moved away from the light of that moon and embraced natures paths as a child of Cenarius, only managed to repress her own darkness. A darkness she now wore plainly on her face, displayed in her cold darkened eyes. Eyes which were once silver star lights whose glow shimmered in the darkness. A light Vesthi had loved once. Hope, or perhaps desire, springs eternal however and as much as the notion seems ludicrous to her now… maybe, just maybe the two of them could finally…
Vesthi audibly scoffed at herself and raised her cup. It was empty.
Dejected she placed the cup upside down on the table and lounged back in her seat. She idly played with the cup, pushing it back and forth with her long demonic claws. Lightly. Trying not to scratch or mark the wooden vessel. Inevitably however, she did. Pushing the cup to one side her clawed finger drew down to the lip leaving a shallow gouge. It was like a metaphor of her existence.
She damaged all that she touched.