[RP] Swept

This story borrows heavily from a random RP session with a couple strangers in Brill. It was fun!

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He was an affable troll, was Zerkla. When he observed the waif-like girl standing in the entrance to the Gallow’s End Tavern with her face to the wall and a scrubby old broom strapped to her back, he decided he would say hello. Even the Forsaken could, on occasion, respond well to being treated like people.

Besides, he was bored.

“That’s a nice broom you got there,” he said.

Yonah, who privately enjoyed thinking of herself as Yonah, the Littlest Warlock (conveniently ignoring the existence of gnomish demon-wranglers all over the world, she scribbled her notebooks from beginning to end with similar and usually grandiose third-person references), turned slowly toward him. Her jaw followed slightly behind, and he noted that it was sewn rather crudely to her cheeks in an attempt to keep it attached to her face. She looked no more than twelve, but you never could tell with the deaders. Maybe she was fourteen, even fifteen when she died. Did it really matter? Probably not. It was just a little creepy to see the younglings walking around, that’s all.

“It’s for sweeping.”

Zerkla scratched his long chin as she unholstered the thing and planted it, handle end down, against the floorboards. “For sweeping the ceiling, maybe. You’ve got that thing upside down.”

“It’s a childproof broom. Right now it’s set to ‘Off’, for safety.”

“I see.” Did she ever blink? “Whatcha sweepin’ with it, anyway?”

She smiled. It was sorta ghastly, what with the whole mess of her jaw, and, you know, entire facial area, but at least it was genuine. “Stuff!”

“I mighta guessed.”

“I swept a bug once.” Yonah giggled. It did horrifying things to her facial expression and sounded like someone trying to cough through a throat filled with locusts. Zerkla didn’t seem to notice.

“How was it?”

“It was like sweeping, of course. The bug went CHICHICHIRRRRR!!!” She looked thoughtfully up at the troll. “It did not like being swept.”

“I think I’d make a noise too, if I got swept.”

“Let’s see!” Before he could react, she flicked the broom into the proper position and brushed it over his toes.

He laughed. “CHICHICHIRRRRR!”

She jumped at his sudden (and very loud) exclamation, then laughed with him, more than a little delighted.

“Well, I’ll be,” he grinned at the little girl. “Maybe that’s the noise everything makes when it’s swept, not just bugs.”

“Maybe it’s a magic broom,” she said. “ I should make note of this for later; you never know when you might need something to make that sound.”

A sudden heavy thump loosened bits of old plaster from the ceiling overhead and they heard a cranky woman’s voice shouting down to them from the room above. “Be quiet down there!” There was a crash and several more thumps. Plaster and dust sifted down onto their heads. “Can’t even sleep in my own bed--”

Zerkla frowned. “Elves.”

“She is very loud for someone who is trying to sleep,” said his new little friend. She put her broom into the ‘On’ position and whacked the end against the ceiling three times. “Don’t make me come up there! I will see to it you don’t get your dessert if you don’t go back to sleep THIS INSTANT.”

Thudding footsteps paced away from the space over their heads. Zerkla stuck his hands in his pockets and looked down at the girl. “Going straight for the throat, I see.”

They giggled together as the elf clattered her way down the stairs and crossed the lobby in her dressing gown, chittering imp in tow. Her sudden, very grumpy appearance made them giggle even harder.

“YOU TWO.”

“Hello noisy person!” said Yonah. “You yell a lot.”

“So do you!” the elf fumed, tossing her long red hair over one shoulder.

“Hey now, we were just talking,” said Zerkla.

The girl grinned her creepy grin and nodded at the troll. “The graveyard is very quiet. They should put the beds out there.”

“I can hear you all the way upstairs!”

“You need to be swept!” The girl brandished her broom.

“Bring it on!” cried the elf.

Thus challenged, the waif had no choice but to reach out with her broom and attack the elf’s tiny feet with singular enthusiasm. The elf was unamused and took several steps backward while threatening the child. “Watch yourself, or I’ll break that thing..!”

Yonah stopped abruptly. “You sound like Frederick.”

“I never heard of any stupid Frederick.” The elder warlock shook her skirts back into their original smoothness and glowered at the girl.

Without letting go of her broom, the wee witch fumbled in her pocket and withdrew a clean jelly jar. Inside it was a common honeybee. Zerkla wondered if such was the fate of all grouchy midday-napping people. He tried to picture a tiny grump-elf in a jar and his chortles began anew.

“Frederick, this is... who are you?” Yonah asked the other warlock.

“Jynxy,” she said, frowning a frownish frown.

“Frederick, Jynxy. Jynxy, Frederick.”

“What,” said Jynxy, baffled.

Yonah shook the little jar with vigor. Frederick buzzed angrily. “See? He is just like you.”

“I can definitely hear the resemblance.” Zerkla grinned toothily.

“Frederick is a bee?”

“I guess he might be a wasp.” Yonah peered into the jar. Frederick buzzed and bonked around inside the glass.

“I am not a bee,” Jynxy exclaimed indignantly.

“Not yet,” said a delighted Zerkla.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The troll only looked sidelong at Yonah with an impish smirk as Jynxy grumped and harrumphed herself steadily toward a state of apoplectic spasms. Surely she would pop at any moment.

The matter-of-fact expression returned to Yonah’s face. “My sister needs honey for her potions, so I help find bees for our bee farm and she helps me pay for warlock lessons.”

Jynxy paused mid-fit. “Ooo. You’re studying to be a ‘lock, too? What type?”

“A sweeping one,” chuckled Zerkla.

“One with BEES,” grinned Yonah.

“Weird,” said Jynxy. Zerkla agreed.

“I have to learn how to make bees make babies before I can continue my other lessons. Then I must complete Brooms for Novices, Primer One.” Yonah stuffed Frederick’s jar back into her pocket and looked with utmost serious seriousness at Jynxy. “I hope to have my sweeping license before Winter Veil.”

The elf raised one red eyebrow. “You’re not very bright, are you.”

“Nora says I’m about as smart as a bag of hammers. I don’t think hammers are very smart, so I guess not.”

“Where is your imp?” Jynxy picked up her own demonic familiar and squeezed it with affection.

“You mean Burpy? I sent him away. He never shuts up. Hold on.” Yonah gesticulated wildly with her broom and summoned a cringing, black little creature. It hissed.

“He’s a cute little devil,” said Zerkla.

“Burpy! Say hello.”

Burpy (the imp loathed this nickname with every fiber of its hateful little being, but he was quite certain kodos would fly before the girl granted him any remote semblance of dignity) stared at his mistress with abject hatred in his eyes. Yonah stared back.

“See? Never shuts up.”

Jynxy gave the feral imp a sympathetic look and hugged her own even more tightly to her chest until it squeaked. “What did you do to the poor thing? My Gimpy loves me.”

Zerkla chuckled. “I bet she swept it.”

The littlest warlock snatched up her hissing imp and gave it a crushing hug, easily evading its attempts to bite off her arms. Frederick buzzed in his jar. Then Burpy managed to nip her finger, so she dropped him unceremoniously to the floor and flipped her broom into the On position.

It screeched at her in its demonic tongue as she swept it into a corner. Sweep, sweep.

“Poor Burpy,” said Zerkla.

“No wonder he hates you,” said Jynxy. “Bad girl!”

Yonah only swept faster and tittered gleefully. Zerkla took a step back.

“I uh, gotta run,” he said, staring at the harassed little imp as he backed out of the inn. “Best of luck to ya, Burpy. I feel for you, man, what with the sweeping--”

With that, the troll was gone. Jynxy made up her mind to intervene on Burpy’s behalf, but before she could act, Yonah’s sweeping came to an abrupt halt and she opened her glowing yellow eyes wide. The imp cringed in his corner.

“Holy crackers, I’m late!”

Yonah ran out the door with her jaw flopping and skirts flapping, broom in hand. Burpy breathed a sigh of relief and vanished in a puff of acrid smoke. Jynxy blinked.

“Well, I never.”

[RP] Dreams in Salt, Part 2

I dreamed of the sea.

For days and weeks I stood hip-deep in waters that extended out to the horizon in every direction. The waves were gentle, or rather they were nil--not a breath of air stirred, and the ripples in the water lacked a current--but the water was deep on all sides and I dared not move for fear of what may lie beneath.

Each minute that passed was pregnant with feeling, though my surroundings seemed devoid of stimulus. The unchanging, tideless water belied the turmoil I felt within me.

Should I take a step forward and risk the depths? Or was it safer on this tiny bar of sand where I stood, both feet planted firmly on a disc of stone?

Weeks passed into months, months to years, years to centuries. I lived eternities on that rock. My skirt stuck to my legs as the sun baked in its berth in the mellow orange sky. My arms hung at my sides like sacks of grain, plunged to the forearms in saltwater that reflected vermilion fire on its rippling skin.

I began to wonder if I was frozen in time, if the tideless water merely paused mid-current, if the sun that never moved from its hook over the southwestern horizon, bloated and hot, simply waited for a sign.

If the world held its collective breath, what command could free me from this infinity of stillness?

Simply considering the question seemed to break the spell. Time crashed forward with a start and I stumbled from my perch, falling headlong into the dark, churning waters. The sun had long since passed and the stars gave off too feeble a light to guide me to the surface. I sank.

A strand of kelp twisted itself about my ears as I plummeted into the depths. Be ready, it seemed to say. We fell for hours, and just as I resigned myself to another eternity, this one of submersion in a cold, murky hell from which I would never escape, my feet touched bottom.

“Child,” came a voice from behind me, sweet and androgynous of tone. “My daughter. You struggle so.”

I opened my mouth to speak and was silenced by the sea. I tasted salt on my tongue. I tasted millennia and the tide of time.

“A wave alone cannot turn stone to sand,” I heard it say. “A leg alone cannot hope to stand. You are a criminal of circumstance, in a prison of your own making.”

Unseen fingers gently untangled the kelp from my ear. That brief touch opened a window in my mind and I saw the entirety of the ocean’s mighty existence in a single instant, every breath and gust of wind that ever carved the surface of its waters, every current that shaped the earth with painful slowness, the birth and death of every creature born beneath the waves, like secrets time forgot.

“Seek not all there is to know, but all that is worth knowing.” Those hands pressed the strand of kelp into mine and I felt again the wholeness of the sea, a totality almost too beautiful and complex for my mortal mind to bear, let alone comprehend.

The seaweed curled about my open fingers and palm. The complexity of its being struck me with full force as the owner of that strange, ethereal voice closed my hand around it; no longer simply an errant strand of kelp, it was an entity made up of countless interconnected parts, a creation of infinite beauty in finite form.

“Even kelp grows toward the sun.”

***

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[RP] Dreams in Salt, Part 1

He went to Ambika’s door just like last time, with three loud, even taps and a white rose in one hand. He’d not seen the priestess since the incident on the Echo Isles, and wasn’t sure that he wanted to now. It seemed wrong somehow to stand her up on their scheduled day, though, so he waited.

After several minutes and another set of knocks at the door, the troll was ready to give up. The fumbling click of a deadlock stopped him halfway through his first step back toward the stairwell. He turned and saw the diminutive priestess at the door. She wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“I didn’t know whether you would come back.”

He shrugged slightly. “Why wouldn’t I?”

She peered past him down the hallway, then pulled the door open further. “Please, come in.”

The apartment looked the same as it always had, except for a large bowl placed in the center of the table that dominated one side of the room. There was no slender vase waiting for his flowers this time. She waited for him to pass over the threshold and quietly shut the door behind him, taking care to fasten all four of the various locks.

He stepped just inside the landing, surveyed the room, then turned to Ambika. He held out the white rose. “Please, take it.”

She met his gaze for a moment with a flicker of irritation in her eyes and sighed. Plucking the stem gingerly from his fingers, she went to a low cupboard to retrieve her vase, dropped the rose inside and filled it with water.

Zana’zua remained rooted to the doormat. He watched her movements carefully, then cleared his throat. “Are you all right?”

“No.” She crossed over to the couch and sat, posture erect as usual even if her shoulders were slumped. “Shall we begin?”

Zana’zua smiled cautiously. “Would you like to talk first about why you are not all right?”

“Are you asking whether I would enjoy doing so? The answer is no.”

He frowned. “Would you like me to leave?”

Ambika folded her hands in her lap. The nails were bitten down to the quick and she sat looking at them for some time before answering. “I think that’s inadvisable.”

“Inadvisable for who?”

“Entirely for myself.” She cleared her throat.

“Ambika, I am not going to make you tell me what happened on that island. But I would appreciate it if you did.”

She raised her dark-ringed eyes and looked at him. Her skin was pale and her face pinched. “You had better sit. I need something to eat, then I will tell you what you need to know.”

***

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[RP] Battle for the Echo Isles, Part 2

Zana’zua shoved his way through the crowd around him. Many of the warriors he fought alongside only moments before now shrank away from the death knight in revulsion.

“Ambika!” His voice rattled hoarsely in his throat.

The priestess hurtled recklessly through the trees, completely oblivious to both the somber celebration of high-loss victory and to the death knight chasing after her. Walloped by branches, she ran desperately towards the fading Loa. Thorns and whip-like vines tore her pristine robes as she ran, nearly knocking her down. As the crowd finally parted enough to let him pass, Zana’zua took off after her. The residual power of battle killed the grass with every step as he trampled over it.

“Ambika?” He called out once more, slapping branches out of his face. The undergrowth was thick and beat at him mercilessly. Her trail was unmistakable, littered with wisps of torn fabric and smeared with traces of blood. He could smell her panic.

In a tiny break in the trees not quite large enough to be called a clearing, he found Ambika standing before the Loa. Bwonsamdi loomed over her, hovering several feet above the ground. Neither of them took any notice of the newcomer.

The trolless bled all over from deep scratches carved into her skin by branches and razor-edged tropical leaves. Blood pooled in the cups of jungle foliage crushed beneath her feet. She dropped to her knees, whether from exhaustion or reverence he couldn’t tell. Perhaps both. She sucked in the hot, still air, speaking in strangled gasps.

“Please, Bwonsamdi, hear me.”

You return, little one. But Bwonsamdi got no time for you.

“Please, don’t go, I beg you--”

Bwonsamdi chuckled humorlessly. So, ya beg now. What makes ya think ya worthy of me blessin’, zufli? Ya no betta than any of me children. Ya hardly betta dan dat worthless Zalazane, even afta all dis time.

“I need--”

Always needin’, you. Makin’ demands of Bwonsamdi..!

Zana’zua shivered as the Loa’s booming voice rose in anger. He shrank back, trying to hide his bent frame behind a wall of glossy leaves. The priestess was completely unaware of his presence, all of her focus set on the Loa. Ambika did not cower or shrivel, but lowered her head, jaw set. Zana’zua was certain that any moment the angry death god would strike her down where she knelt, for her pride.

You be needin’ a lesson in humility, little one. You need MORE dan dat, but Bwonsamdi gonna give ya PLENTY rope, ya dig?

The blue-skinned troll knelt with her hands balled up into fists on her thighs. She was still trying to catch her breath. “Olokun blessed me with a vision. He said you would help me.” Blood dripped unnoticed from her cheek and soaked the front of her robe.

DID he now. The anger in Bwonsamdi’s voice was gone. In its place was a sly amusement that Zana’zua didn’t like one bit.

“I saw you in my dream, I saw us here as we are now, and I felt that great success was at my fingertips. You spoke to me, Bwonsamdi.”

Ambika went silent, her gaze focused intently on the hovering spirit. Zana’zua shifted uncomfortably behind the cover of heavy, fragrant jungle vines. He could sense something unspoken pass between the priestess and Loa, but it was impossible to tell what. After several minutes, she collapsed forward onto the ground, both hands planted in the dirt for support as though resisting an enormous, invisible weight on her back. Bwonsamdi growled, a fearful sound that chilled Zana’zua to the bone.

Ya circumvent me authority too many times, zufli, and ya feel da sting. Don’t ya, little one?

A soft groan was her only response. The invisible weight shifted and so did she, sinking deeper into the earth.

You gonna feel it plenty, little one, if ya continue down dis disappointin’ path. You tink dis a heavy burden, you come see me again without doin’ ya duty.

Zana’zua felt a moment of pure terror as the Loa suddenly turned his attention to the poor soul hidden in the shadows. Bwonsamdi appeared in the form of a ghostly troll, but his eyes were death. They seemed to bore through him where he stood, penetrating to his very core.

Dis one gonna help ya, little one. He owe me BIG, keepin’ dat soul which rightfully be mine.

To the death knight’s immediate relief, the Loa looked to Ambika once more. She sank completely to the ground, still straining against the unseen weight even though it had already brought her low.

Ya, dat’s right. He gonna help ya, and YOU gonna let him. Don’ tink you can satisfy me any uddah way.

Bwonsamdi smiled. It was a horrible thing to behold.

You fail me, you go in da hole with HIM. FOREVA.

With that, he was gone. Ambika, released from her burden, did not rise but only buried her face in her hands and lay there, silent.

***

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[RP] Battle for the Echo Isles, Part 1

I wrote this story with my friend Hammaryn. While our friendship is not nearly so insufferable as the average bromance, we still have a wicked case of the BFFs. Now, she's quite self-deprecating in general, especially so when it comes to her writing. In spite of what she says, I think she's a fine writer. I'm especially envious of her speed. Hammy can crank out a body of text that gets right to the point in about 1/4 of the time it would take me working alone (or less), because I tend to get hung up on all those damned trees, and she has a good idea of how the forest looks. Together we accomplish a lot more than I ever could on my own. Thanks Hamm-Hams!

I'm glad I have the chance to work with her on a regular basis. This story is sort of a launch into a hefty story arc and there will be lots more leading into Cataclysm. Part 2 comes tomorrow. Hope you like it!

Authors: Zana'zua & Ambika (Hammy & Me!)

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Zana’zua felt uncomfortable in his own skin until the battle began and the blood began to flow.

The Battle for the Echo Isles was a jumble of instincts and memory. His body moved in familiar ways, disease flowing out of him into the reanimated corpses that poured from the jungle like a flood. His limbs moved ceaselessly, his runeblade a cleaver that sliced up through the air and sank down into bodies. The taking of life was a rhythm he knew by heart, and he did it without thinking of the slaughter before him.

In his mind he was on the beaches of another time, far from the copper taste of death, the sweet stench of sun-ripened flesh and the screams of the dying. He walked along the shore where the gentle blue waters of the sea lapped endlessly over his bare feet. Leggy palms swayed in the breeze, casting spindly shadows over him and the basket full of silvery fish he carried. Someone he loved waited for him at home. He mounted the steps as he always did in such dreams, eager to see her face.

A woman caught his eye in the fray and snapped him out of his thoughts. Her eyes lingered on him with a dull species of flat, unwelcoming recognition, then returned to the battle ahead. Zana’zua looked just as he did so long ago, yet so different. He was needed here now, needed to fight for the capital city of his own people, but he would never belong here again. He was an Other, guilty of the most unforgivable of sins. In their eyes he was no better than any of the cursed undead that the enemy launched against them, mindless though they were.

They breached the tide of zombies to a central hut near Zalazane’s spiny ritual altar and the surrounding commune of rickety grass-thatched driftwood dwellings. It was smeared from hearth to helm with layers of dried, flaking blood, some fresh, some ancient. Bones and skulls from countless sacrifices, mostly trollish but with no small amount of human and orc remains among them, were silhouetted against the brilliant orange of the evening sky. This was the serpent’s den, and the stink of longstanding black magic rituals permeated the humid air.

The floor of the hut was littered with the corpses of the fallen. Darkspear warriors pushed in, as well as zombies from the Echo Isles. The room began to hum audibly with energy. Zana’zua felt like the air was closing in around him, and he grabbed the neck of his tabard and pulled on it futilely, gasping for breath he no longer needed. A light flashed in the front of the hut, and the Loa of Death stood before them. Bwonsamdi’s entrance was greeted with a hush. Zana’zua felt as if the floor was falling out from beneath him, and his knees buckled a moment before he remembered that he was no longer old and weak. He stood upright again, unwavering. He was no longer safeguarded by this Loa, but very much under its jurisdiction. Life had a sense of humor, as did death.

Vol’jin approached the Loa to speak, but Zana’zua could not concentrate on what he was saying. A small trolless near him appeared to be extremely distressed and fixated on the Loa. She had familiar golden eyes that burned with impatience as she gripped her upper arms tightly enough to leave bruises on her skin. Zana’zua shoved people out of his way to get to her and nudged her with his shoulder. “Ambika,” he mumbled. The woman jolted out of her trance and greeted him with a death glare that was none too friendly.

“Quiet, you old fool,” she hissed quietly in his direction before returning to her state of agitated concentration.

He fell back a step, his features twisted into a stark expression of surprise and hurt. The crowd was moving out now to make war on Zalazane. Bwonsamdi disappeared in a flash, the same way he came in. Zana’zua felt rooted to where he was standing, people giving him a wide berth as they departed. They were careful not to touch him. Ambika went out with them, and Zana’zua waited a few seconds before following her.

The undead were everywhere. Dire trolls surged out from behind bushes. Vol’jin engaged Zalazane. The rhythm began again. The ground beneath Zana’zua began to rot, grass dying beneath his feet. Shadow coursed through him as he resurrected the corpse of a Darkspear warrior. It shambled obediently behind him, then leapt onto the back of a dire troll, throwing itself ineffectually at the monstrous creature. Zana’zua turned just in time to see a tall, bone-thin troll woman staring at him. Her cracked and bleeding lips formed a whispered curse. In an instant he froze her mind with cold and she grasped her head with her hands, screaming in pain. Another thought and the woman was gasping for air, her hands around her throat as she dropped to the ground. Zana’zua moved on. The runeblade went up, and then it went down. His mind didn’t wander this time.

The crowd shifted, following Zalazane’s trail as the withered old witch doctor fled to another island. Shamans stilled the waves that washed the shore and bade the waters hold their allies aloft. The Horde army poured across the narrow channel between the westernmost islands of the tiny archipelago. Zana’zua followed closely behind, keeping an eye on Ambika, who raced across the water ahead of him on the back of a sleek gray wolf.

They found Zalazane amid crumbling troll ruins, surrounded by a glimmering shield of shadow magic. His lips curled in a wicked grin punctuated by rotted, decayed and twisted tusks as Zol’jin’s makeshift army bore down on him. In an instant, the shouting, axe-waving warrior at Zana’zua’s side went silent and turned on his neighbor, cleaving a young shaman in two in a single motion. As the pieces fell, the traitor turned toward the old death knight. His eyes were dead.

What happened next was chaos. When all was said and done, there would be nearly as many accounts of the battle as there were witnesses, but there was one thing upon which they all could agree. As the bent old troll cackled madly beneath his protective shield, doubled over with the force of his glee, dozens of Vol’jin’s soldiers turned against their brethren and began hacking through the crowd of horrified recruits.

Many fell under the blades of their own kin, too stunned at the involuntary betrayal to react. Mates cried out, launching assaults against their allies who had the presence of mind to attack Zalazane’s newest minions. Many were struck down at the hands of those they sought to defend. Unhindered by distracting sentiments, both Zana’zua and the priestess fought through the surge of bodies, helping to weed out the unwilling, unwary betrayers. As they fell one by one, a great wail rose up from the battlefield from the wounded and from those who, in their grief, could only mourn the fallen.

Through it all, Zalazane laughed.

A familiar resonance diverted Zana’zua’s attention and he paused in the act of heaving his runeblade into someone’s chest. Bwonsamdi had reappeared and now hovered several feet in the air, directly behind Zalazane. One by one trolls stopped fighting, Darkspear warriors, zombies, and the mind-controlled alike. The Loa was terrible to behold in his full power, and he was angry. Zana’zua scanned the crowd for Ambika. She was pale and breathing heavily but seemed otherwise unharmed, though she once again focused on the death god’s avatar with such feverish intent she looked unwell.

The Loa began to laugh, a low rumble that seemed to come from all around them. It was at once both jolly and extremely menacing. Zalazane began to tremble and his shadow shield faltered. For the first time that long, bloody day, Zana’zua heard fear in the necromancer’s voice. “Who...who dat be?”

ZALAZANE. What you tinkin' takin dat which be mine? De Darkspear dead are MY domain, sorcerer... and now you gonna be one of dem!

The shield disappeared, and the corpses of the Darkspear fallen rose up from the ground, shambling towards Zalazane. They fell upon him, obscuring the witch doctor from sight, though the grisly sounds of his own reanimated army tearing him to pieces was still quite audible even before his tortured screams died down to nothing. Bwonsamdi raised a ghostly hand and the writhing pile of bodies fell to the ground like puppets with their strings suddenly cut.

Vol’jin, the newly triumphant Darkspear leader, stepped forward and bowed deeply before the ancient god, giving him thanks for his aid. Zana’zua watched the tiny priestess inch forward as Bwonsamdi said his piece and turned to leave.

“Wait!”

Some of the crowd turned toward the sound of that cry for a moment, then Vol’jin called for their attention and began to introduce the Horde’s newest addition, Darkspear druid Vanira. Only Zana’zua seemed to notice as Ambika broke into a dead run and chased after the rapidly retreating Loa. She disappeared into the undergrowth, frantically calling his name.

***

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