Ama took a deep breath, the comfort of Que's arms giving her strength to pen the words. After the missive's ink dried, it was given to the 'Watcher' and sent to the Silvermoon Registry.

Momma...

Things are dire here and...I need you to listen and understand. Please.

It has been a long time since I've felt so inadequate, so unsure of my steps. The number of ill grows on an daily basis now. We are at eleven and Momma, if they were just sick with some disease of the body, I could do what I need to do but, this..this illness ravishes their minds and I can't reach them. The sleep they are in is like death. The fever on their brow almost burns the fingertips to touch.

Que believes it is sometime of infestation and manifestation of the Sha. You know what that means. The minds, the emotional center of their being is affected if so. I can't do that, Momma. I can't touch their minds because...because of what it does to me. Only you and Que know but, the risk is too great. And yet, what am I to do? I can't sit by and watch the suffering of these people I've come to love. To that end, I write and pray you, of all people, understand. If help doesn't arrive soon, I will do what I must despite the protestations of my beloved. 

Of all the women I know and am blessed to have had in my life, you are the one that has taught me what love is and the sacrifice that comes with loving. I know you would give all, I've seen you do it a million times. You'll understand, if it comes down to it, I know you will.

So, what I need from you is...I need you to take care of Que and my babies, of our family..if anything goes wrong. I need you to know that it never mattered to me that I'm not blood of your blood, flesh of your flesh or bone of your bone. YOU are my Momma just as my Mother is. I couldn't have loved anyone more or asked the Gods for a more amazing Momma than you. Thank you, Riesse. While those words are so simple, I know you understand. I love you, Momma.

Please send a wagon with more Frostweave blankets and linens. Also, fresh produce. The cooling properties of the material in the Frostweave seems to help the fever tremors and the puree' is all they can stomach.

Stars guide you, Momma...

Love Ama.

The snap of fresh, clean sheets being shaken out to be placed on beds filled the air along with the 'clacking' of Ama's boots. Through the hallways, in and out of rooms, Ama strode with efficient steps. A look of worry and concern held off the usual smile on her face. A neatly folded letter was in the pocket of her pink apron. The Headmasters words ringing in her head, Ama's thoughts centered and focused on the men and women now laying in various stages of illness or with different degrees of wounds, in the beds of the facility.

She had been making rounds since before the sun touched the sky this morning. Her husband, Que Hardy, had come as soon as her comm sounded in his ear. Her voice whispered, her eyes turned up to his face as they spoke.

"I am just not sure, Que. Those wounded, that is easily treated and tended to but, the others..the ones that seem to 'sleep' with no reason..those are the ones that plague my thoughts. I'm just not sure what to make of it. I wanted you to see. Maybe you've come across this before?"

Ama strode softly to the nearest bed. A male elf lay with the white sheet pulled to his shoulders. His face, ashen in color, his chest barely rising with breath at all. "Look at his eyes Que. See how the lids move in such rapid, fluttering movements?"

From bed to bed they walked. Ama's head would dip in a nod, her hands tucking sheets around those that were sleeping, sometimes offering sips of water or a kind word as they moved. Their voices low, their heads bent toward each other as they talked and moved in tandem.

"Let me send a quick note to the Headmaster, love"

Ama had asked that a temporary desk be moved into the large main room in the wing that housed the most gravely ill or wounded so that she not be far from them. Now, she sat and penned a quick missive to Tarcanus.

Headmaster,

I received your message. Sadly, it was placed on my desk and I just now had the time to read it. Enclosed, please find my initial report.

I have quarantined a large room in the East wing. All those returning from the expedition that have come to me are now being housed in this room. Currently, there are seven members in various stages of the 'illness' you spoke of. All of the people that were wounded are being treated and released.

The 'illness' seems to be running a course. It starts with a general malaise. The afflicted speak of an over all feeling of 'not feeling like themselves', an inability to focus and general body aches. The disease seems to progress from there to a state of irrational behavior with some indication of violent mood swings. The worst case thus far is Lineus Sharpesteele. The man has slipped into a deep sleep state, his body temperature much higher than normal but, the strange symptom I've noticed is the movements of his eye lids. Normally this would indicate what is know as REM, Rapid Eye Movement, in people that are sleeping deeply and dreaming. This, however, is no simple sleep as he has yet to wake as he would in a normal sleep cycle. Further, his skin has taken on an ashen color.

I have asked my husband, Que Hardy to come to the compound. It is my hope that he might shed some light on this, perhaps having seen it before. As well, he has been of great assistance in caring for the ill as well as taking charge of lifting and directing the cleaning crew. We -must- make sure that the area remains sanitary and reduce contact with those outside as much as possible.

My husband is...not of the living. Therefore, I believed he may be immune to whatever affliction this is. After consulting him, he agreed to assist me. Our children are being cared for and we will do whatever it takes to find the cause of this..'illness'.

Rest assured, I will not cease till I find a way to help. Please advise all personnel to report to the infirmary immediately upon their return from Pandaria for a full work up.

Ama

The letter would be slipped through a make-shift slot, a crow called with a whistle would come and carry the missive away.