#verac'thar

Even then, preoccupied as she was, she couldn’t wholly quiet herself. The thought crept in and a tome slipped from her fingers as those three words slipped into her mind. It came so easily, just as Verac’thar’s words had into her thoughts, and she found herself wishing it was the echo of his voice instead of her own. 

I didn’t realize how much I missed that sound until I heard it once more.

Huffing out a breath, she snatched the book back up and slammed it down next to the other gathered research materials. There was a little shudder to the stacks, and one of the scrolls nearly rolled off the table. A tendril of inky black energy snapped from her fingers, shoving the scroll case back where it belonged as her other hand covered her face. 

I continue to be a fool, and he continues to be the fool that encourages me.

Verac’thar was polite, he had always been polite, and those good manners had inspired bad thoughts in her mind in life. But there was an urgency to his request for help. One that she was disrespecting by being an idle, idiot girl instead of working with the expected diligence. She imagined her brother’s face, as she often did when she was being woefully sentimental, sneering at her for acting like a whimsical breather. He had never endured undeath, but he had become as cold as the grave and set aside the stirrings of his heart. 

If I could switch places with him, to be as soulless but living as he is, would I?

Once she’d admired him for it. Once she’d sought to emulate him, when showing emotions was showing weakness. And weakness had meant a true death. He had saved her from that. He had pulled her from a position that would have been her end, and she’d dared for a moment to hope that he’d changed. How stupid she had been. He’d left her here alone and maybe had she someone -- even her killer -- to spend idle time with, she wouldn’t be mooning over a man who had ignored her in another life. 

He wishes to make that up to me.

Aneirra dug her fingertips into her temples and let the thought pass through. But try as she might, images of her newest patient occupied her mind. Verac’thar was kind, and it was always a welcome surprise to see someone from that other life. That’s all it was. That’s all it could be. She’d rejoiced to see her brothers after all. Even the traitorous one. Even though it had brought up old memories time and undeath had buried as deep as she should be.

I was nothing they wanted to dig up.

How it had crushed them all when they realized she was so different than the Aneirra of the past. She’d done her best to be what they expected but it wasn’t enough. The living had such expectations, and she couldn’t meet them. 

I hadn’t wanted to meet them.

They’d both tried to shove her back into the mold formed by memories of her, but there was too much to her now to squeeze back into the role she once played. There were too many sharp edges, too many needs, to be just that cheerful wisp of a woman. Aneirra had seen too much, and there was no closing her eyes to those horrors. Hunger gnawed at her where once she was content with what she was given even if it wasn’t what she wanted. Could she bear to allow Verac’thar close only to face that same rejection when he realized there was more than a ‘new coat of paint’ to her?

Verac’thar understands what this existence entails.

“Hush,” she whispered to the quiet of the dim room. The word was repeated until her thoughts were nothing but a distant hum of what she still needed to pack. Aneirra went to one of the crates, reviewing the contents she’d so neatly written on a label. It wasn’t enough, not to wholly fix the horrors inflicted on Verac’thar, but it was a start. Reaching for the treatment plan she’d began a draft of, her fingers brushed over the gift he’d given her. Curling it in her palm, she whispered the name of the spirit inside. 

He wants to see me again.

No, Verac’thar wants his face fixed. And she’d do well to remember that. She kept that reality centered in her focus as the spirit flickered into her sight and out of the phylactery. “Find Verac’thar. Tell him to meet me in the Ghostlands, where my family home once stood, in three day’s time.”

I want to see his smile again.

Of course she did. That was, after all, what he sought out treatment to fix. Any good healer would want successful results. To have a happy, mended patient was to know you had done your job and done it well. And there were few joys in this existence for her beyond a job well done.

I want to see him smile at me again.

Aneirra watched the spirit disappear once the command was issued. Stepping outside, she motioned to one of the creatures in her service. “Move it all to the location I showed you. I will join you there in two days.” There were other things to acquire in the meantime, and as her thoughts stretched towards two completely different points, she exercised years of control. She would be a slave to no one ever again, not even her thoughts or what shreds remained of her heart. Outwardly she was reserved, her expression distant and as frigid as Icecrown itself. It was a sharp contrast to the warmth, just an ember inside her, stoked by the three words that echoed over and over in her mind.

He remembered me.

With the dwarven rangers taken care of, the Fence’s adventurin’ party made north with great haste! But to our heroes’ dismay, their progress was steadfastly impeded by a giant wooden barricade spanning from the Loch itself to the mountain range borderin' on the Mo'grosh ogre tribe, stacked to the gills with Ironforge’s least pleasant dwarves. This, of course, made makin' a beeline straight to finding’ Tavish utterly impossible. The Fence Macabre had two choices: 

They could try to brave what remains of the waters in the Loch to cross it, riskin’ their wagons (and therefore their entire dang livelihoods) in the process. But if it worked, they could bypass the barricade and the ogres both! 

Their other option? To travel to the Mo’grosh ogre settlement and either fight or barter their way through... or maybe them ogres could just eat ‘em and take everything anyway. Shoot... I would, if I was one!

Put between a rock and a hard place, the Fence Macabre resolved on tryin’ their luck with the ogres. Cautiously, they drove their crew up the path to the Mo’grosh camp and spotted their would-be hosts and/or hostiles... And them ogres sure were mean lookin’, far more so than they had a need to be for anyone’s sake. As they entered the camp to seek parley, the stench of burning hair burnt their nostrils as they noticed the fresh Dwarf on a spit-roast... Possibly another one of them rangers from before, even.

Greeted by the local brutalitarians, the Fence announced its intent to broker trade... and at that, they were taken directly to the Mo’grosh’s chieftain, the old and surprisingly stately-lookin’ Drozog. As he looked upon his visitors, ol’ Billy Highman couldn’t help but bow politely before a man of state. It seemed this simple gesture meant a great deal to the ancient Ogre, as the air around him immediately began to simmer down as the old chieftain lowered his head in return. 

(Drozog, cheiftain the Mo’grosh)

Drozog then implored upon our heroes to make their offer for safe passage through their hard-fought and won territory... and so the Shal’dorei Shit Chef herself, Ami Vieredreaux, offered her legendary culinary skills to give his tribe a feast, expertly crafted, in honor of their new friendship between tribes. 

With quiet approval, the cloudy-eyed chieftain agreed to the exchange... but on one condition: No weapons, and he’d supervise. The Fence had no choice but to comply, and so Ami set to work makin’ the best damn gourmet ram-meat banquet that they never did have, and may never a chance to experience again. Remington and Loira dutifully pitched in, actin’ as assistant chefs while Drozog kept the rowdy, hungry ogres at bay... but even his stomach was moanin’ louder than a cow gettin’ branded on its birthday!

The feast laid out, picturesque and ticklin’ their noses with them magickal aromas, the ol’ cheiftan Drozog himself had the first bite. And boy... that morsel was so damn soul-affirmin’ that he shed a single tear right then and there on the spot. His tribe cheered with excitement, as they dug in to the grub, the air filled with happy grunts and approving shouts and... little flecks of half-chewed gristle.

With this exchange, Drozog allowed the Fence Macabre to gather their weapons and head north into the Wetlands, bypassin’ the Dwarven barricade altogether without a single drop of blood bein’ spilt. Well... except for them tasty, tasty rams, of course.

The gang had just discovered a buried Titan Chamber containing a mysterious disc that was turning everything around it into gold! And so, some of the more adventurous types took on the task of journeying to find an expert by the name of Tavish Barelytoe, recommended by their temporary employer Prospector Pendergast. Others stayed to guard the rest of the caravan at Camp Tombstone, though they surely didn’t have quite as excitin’ a time.

Our heroes made rest briefly in the dense woods by what remains of the great Loch Modan... but not without drawin' the attention of the locals. Just as they were about to start packin' up to leave, a dwarven ranger company sportin' a group of two dozen mountaineers made their approach, hot on their tails. Not ones to needlessly risk their hides, the adventurers scattered. They hid behind the ancient trees as Ryeolan Quillsong, the only caravan member that could pose as a neutral party, stayed out in the open to attempt some outfoxin'.

The dwarves cautiously questioned her, though Ryeolan proved to be about as useful to them as a mule in an oak tree. Frustrated at the lack of answers or Horde sightings, most of them dwarf rangers left, leaving only four surrounding the pandaran. The Fence Macabre came up with a plan with Verac’thar usin’ his fancy telepathic noggin-talk: “Take them out one by one once our diversion arrives. You’ll know it when you see it.” 

But they were runnin' outta time as one of the rangers kept creepin' closer and closer toward Ami Vieredreaux. Counting on them dwarves bein’ better shooters than thinkers, the Shal’dorei Shit Chef wandered out of the tree's cover, posin' as a Night Elf! And wouldn’t y’know it, it actually worked! Terrible accent and all... For a few seconds, at least. But a few seconds was all our heroes needed.

Verac’thar’s diversion came through by means of his master, the mysterious and unpredictable Arrakoa named Varad, tramplin' through the dwarves’ huntin’ party on a the back of giant-ass icehoof, crushin' one of ‘em flat as a flapjack! 

And on cue, the caravan knocked out the rest of dwarves in a brilliant display: Remington Thornbolt clubbed one over the head with the blunt side of her axe while Verac'thar choked out another with his shadowy magic. Miss Loira Winford used her magic to freeze the hands of another, renderin’ him unable to put holes in her companions as he originally planned. Ryeolan, the notorious Inkslinger, lived up to her namesake, slingin’ ink directly in one of those dumb ol’ dwarves faces, slappin’ his hide clean off like she was his own momma! Ami, always the resourceful sort, looked to nature for a solution as she smashed one of the dwarves upside the head with a big hunk’a branch. And poor little Billy Highman tried let loose on their assailants with a shot from his derringer, but thankfully that didn't attract more dwarves in the process of missing his only shot completely.