Yayyyy! Welcome to Downtown Kyn's brain, where you will be treated to her newest story! Unless, of course, you hate her writing, in which case you will be subjected to her story! Yayy! Erm... right... well... where was I? Oh yes!

Truae is the second in a (hopefully) three story trilogy. It picks up soon after the events in MahiMahi, but it can be read as a stand alone fic. The only caution I give to readers is that they remember that events happened before this story. There are reasons that some characters act the way they do. There are some Originial Characters who have been around for a long time. There are some Canon Characters who have evolved and changed. However, I should be able to present them in sucha way that they are introduced gently. May the force be with you!

Time Has Passed

My name is Archimonde.

Wait- that's not right. Let me try again.

…

My name is Ember. I am Ember.

… I'm not exactly certain who Ember is. After all, "Ember" is just a name. What I really am, what I am deep inside, is Archimonde. If I'm nothing other than him, doesn't that make me Archimonde, too? What am I, if not him? Am I nothing more than the self-destructive tendencies of an arch-demon? Maybe I am only him. Maybe what you see is just the mask he wears, or some elaborate game. Maybe my whole sense of self-identity is something he has invented. Maybe I don't really exist. Maybe I'm all that's left of his soul.

Maybe I'm just a figment of my own imagination.

"There is nothing I can do for this child. You can see her taint, can't you? There is nothing in this mortal shell but a demon. If there ever was a little girl within that body, it has long since dispersed."

Unless, maybe, there is a part of me that is… not Archimonde? Maybe that part is Nightelfin. Maybe it is something more. But what does it matter? I know, for certain, that I would not exist if Archimonde had not needed a host. I think I only exist because he forced me to. I think I have no soul. I think I was never intended to live.

And yet, my name is not Archimonde. Not yet… My name is Ember. I may have nothing else- no true existence, no true soul, no true life, but I have a name. I will not give it up. Ember. Ember Stormrage. And Archimonde will not take that name from me- even if I am Archimonde. It is the one point in my world that I am certain of. It is the one thing I know to be true. I am Ember.

I am Ember.

Although…I don't know who Ember is. But I do know who Archimonde is. I shut him out. I force out his voice, and his mind. I can trust nothing but the instincts of my mortal shell, and so I give in to them. I become one with them, and I let them rule me. They are Ember, too. They know how to the difference between what I want and what Archimonde wants. I trust them. I obey them. I protect them from him with utmost jealousy. They are simple-primal-basic. They're angry, and feral, and destructive.

But they're not his.

"Since Ember's been old enough to crawl, occasionally something will happen that upsets her. She- she goes into a sort of fury, immediately attacking whomever is closest to her."

And for the first time in my entire life, someone else saw me. He saw my instincts. He saw the whims of my mortal shell. He saw my anger, and my feral fury, and my destructive tendencies, and he saw me. And even though he didn't know who Ember was, he could tell what she needed. He didn't appeal to my mind, or my soul- both of which belong to Archimonde. Instead, he let my instincts run mad. And he taught my instincts, and made them calm. He curbed my anger, and my violence, and my destruction, and turned them into primitive affection and childish roughhousing. He appealed to the last part of me that was free from the demon, and he strengthened that part, and soothed it.

"Have you been a good girl today?" he inquired playfully. She drew back an inch and nodded, pleased with herself. "Oh really? No drowned puppies, no Naga missing scales, no elves with their hair pulled out? You haven't set the ship on fire, have you?"

For the first time in all my life, someone managed to help me. Someone gave me a sliver of life and freedom to hold on to. Someone began to save me. Ember Stormrage. That's who I am. My parents are Tyrande and Malfurion. My twin brother is Fenuine. My… my uncle…

He could have saved me. He was the only one who could have saved me. But now I'm alone. I'm lonely, I think. I can't really tell. I should be lonely. All I'm certain of is that I'm angry. I'm angry. I'm so angry. I hate Furion. I hate him with everything in me. He isn't my father. He's Fenuine's. I'm the bastard daughter of evil. And he drove away the one person who could have saved me. Who could have found something in me to save.

"No," Ember repeated louder. "Not mine."

Furion recoiled as if struck, and Tyrande's jaw dropped. Illidan flinched. "Ember, of course he's your father, he-"

"Not mine!" she insisted vehemently. "Fenuine's!"

And with what I have of a mind, I know Archimonde used me. I was docile. I didn't rage, because I was so happy to see my mommy, and my brother. I didn't want to hurt them. I was stupid. And Archimonde used me. He knew exactly what to say. He knew exactly what to do. And he knew exactly how to use me. I can't trust anything but my instincts. I can't trust my happiness, or my sadness, or my loneliness, or my logic. I can't even trust my love. I love my uncle. I needed him. I knew he could help me. And Archimonde played on that, strengthened that bond, and then made me do the one thing that could turn Furion against Illidan.

"Ember- what are you talking about? Ember, Fenuine's father is your father!" Tyrande said alarmed. Ember gave a vigorous shake of her head. The priestess stared in exasperation and asked, "Then who is?"

Immediately, Ember turned and looked at Illidan. Silence reigned as the demonhunter backed up a step, dismay written across his face.

I did it. It's my fault. I look like my uncle. I have his face, and his eyes, and the same color hair. And I needed him. And Archimonde used that. And because of him- because of me- because of Furion's worry- I lost the one thing that could save me.

"Deny that you wish she was yours!" Illidan reeled backwards, and gaped at his brother. "That's all you do, brother! You take whatever pleases you, regardless of right and wrong! Regardless of how others suffer! Deny that you envy my relationship with sweet Tyrande. Deny that you envy the existence of my children! Deny your jealousy! Deny that you have dwelled a thousand times on the concept that Ember might have been yours! Deny you have felt that she should have been yours!"

And I hate Furion. Because with his love and his protection, he damned me. He took away the one person who ever helped me figure out who I am. I hate him. I hate him. I am Ember. I'm sure of it. But I need to find the one person who can tell me who she is. Furion loves me… And Archimonde uses that the same way he used my love. To cage me. To break me. And I cannot let him. I will rage. I will hurt anyone- Furion, my mother- even Fenuine. I will do anything to hold onto my name. Next time I will not let him win.

I have to find Illidan. Of that, I'm certain.

Moonglade

Ember…

Ember and Fenuine were nestled against one another. There was such a stark contrast between his two children. Ember's velvety, dark violet hair showed vividly against Fenuine's bright green. Fenuine had his thumb in his mouth. Ember had a look of serene contentment upon her face. It was a look she never had while awake.

Furion wondered what the little girl could be dreaming about that could make her so peaceful. After a moment, he reached forward and gently brushed her hair from her brow.

Ember's face contracted, and she squirmed lightly under his touch. He reflexively drew his hand back, and his mouth tugged down at the corners. Ember… For a long time, he merely sat their there in silence. Leaves whispered outside the bedroom window. Trees creaked, and shifted. A gentle wind roused up some leaves, and caused them to skitter over the outside walls like the legs of an insect. The breeze made light piping noises as it danced over his wooden abode.

The forest was trying to tell him something. He closed his eyes, and then sighed. After a moment, healing, natural energies coursed out from his being. They streamed into the little girl, trying to draw out her spirit from the darkness that had captured it. Soothing, healing, calling her back from-

Ember screamed and sat bolt upright. Before Furion could do a thing, she slapped him full across the face, and her fingers raked open his cheek. Furion grunted and jerked back in surprise, releasing the little girl. Fenuine jumped, his eyes opening, and he looked at his twin in alarm. Ember's eyes focused and she blinked, confused. Her reaction to Furion's druidic energies had been purely subconscious. Now that she was completely awake, she didn't remember what exactly had caused her to lash out at him

Furion sighed and felt his bloodied cheek. After a moment, he looked back at Ember. His eyes widened, and he felt himself fighting back revulsion.

Ember was licking his blood from her fingertips.

After a long, long pause, he breathed in slowly. Then he leaned over and gently kissed her on the forehead. Her expression distorted, and she growled, but he did not stop, and she did not lash out again. There had to be some way to help her… Some way.

Ember…

Dustwallow Marsh

The Lady Jaina Proudmoore grunted. It was an undignified sound, but then the Lady Proudmoore was in a position where undignified sounds were permissible. At the time of this inelegant grunt, she was engaging in melee combat with a black dragonspawn. Her noise was forgivable on the basis that she had just used her staff to deflect the dragonspawn's glaive.

Jaina grinned triumphantly as she held her own against the glaive. As soon as the dragonspawn drew the weapon back for another attack, the sorceress moved. She twisted, whipping a foot into the air and kicking the scaly beast directly in the jaw.

She felt the primal call of the earth from deep beneath her feet. It was wise and ancient, and filled with old power and strength. Its spirit whispered, and she listened. Its energy flowed, and she moved. The Lady Proudmoore resisted every last one of her controlling sorceress instincts, and allowed the earth to simply stream through her. It moved through her planted leg, coursed through her body, and then tore down the length of her kick. The energy of the earth exploded from her being as her foot connected with the dragonspawn's jaw. It slashed through the air in a tumultuous rumble of bronze energy, and for a moment, it seemed as if an earthquake had passed through the area. The dragonspawn flew backwards and collided with a tree. It sank to the ground, stunned by the force of the blow.

Jaina beamed.

Cairne nodded.

Thrall applauded.

Vol'jin just laughed his arse off. It would have been less funny if Jaina weren't a mere five-feet two-inches in height, or if she had been a warrior rather than a sorceress.

The four leaders had taken to assembling frequently. Although Jaina was the only official " Alliance" member of the troupe, it did not seem to set her that far away from her fellows. If anything, she seemed more at home in their company than in the company of human bureaucrats. Thrall and Jaina had originally met on occasion to discuss serious issues regarding the uneasy truce between their peoples. However, this had proven to be too infrequent. Scuffles between the humans and the orcs went on daily, and lack of communication only served to broaden the gap between the two races, leaving their respective leaders with a sense of hopelessness and isolation.

Now the four met to remind themselves what they were struggling for. They met to remind themselves that peace and friendship between the races were possible. They met to speak about conflicts and problems. They met to talk. At times, they broke out into full-blown philosophical debates.

The group also met for the purpose of cultural exchange. They met in order to understand one another, and in order to broaden their own horizons. Jaina and Vol'jin were currently teaching Thrall the nuances of naval warfare. Cairne and Thrall were teaching Jaina shamanism. The lessons and the contact had done wonders for all of them.

A smile worked its way over Cairne Bloodhoof's muzzle, and he nodded his great shaggy head. Jaina had come a long way since her lessons had first begun. She had learned to allow energy to flow through her, rather than taking energy and molding it to her whims. She had learned to listen to the earth- to be patient and empathetic. Her training was only in its infant stages, of course, but it was the principle and discipline of the thing that mattered. Jaina had stunned the dragonspawn with a small scale shockwave. It was something that Cairne himself had taught her to do, and he was most proud of her.

Jaina was also proud of Jaina. Her eyes beamed cyan, and she clutched her staff tightly. In the time that Thrall and Cairne had been teaching her, she had been forced to spend an extraordinary amount of time outside. She had been forced to put away her books. She had been forced to stand in the sun and actually fight. Physical discipline was part of being a shaman; one could not have spiritual discipline without physical discipline, and vise versa.

She gripped her staff and concentrated, ignoring the dragonspawn as it stood. Sorceress energies mixed with shamanistic. The rigid structures of magic flowed into the wild freedom of the elements. An explosion of water burst out from the mage's hands, and it crackled with a powerful blue beam of electricity.

Before these meetings, Jaina's hair had begun to darken to a bronze color. Now it was the brilliant color of wheat. Her eyes no longer had dark circles under them, and her skin was no longer so pale. She had not noticed how the improvement in her appearance, but the people around her had. Her Horde friends had. They noticed how the development of muscles beneath her slender frame had given her a sense of pride. They noticed how the work and meditation brought life and vigor back to her face. They noticed that she now lacked any sense of helplessness or fear when fighting alone. They even noticed how her sorcery was improving, and how her teleportation spells were no longer wearying her at the end of the day.

The lady stepped forward to meet the dragonspawn's charge, countering its glaive with her staff even though her petite body cried out in strain. She was not used to pushing herself athletically, but she did so anyway. It was part of the shamanism. It was part of discipline. It was part of understanding.

Ice erupted from her staff, ripping through the dragonspawn. Finally the creature could take no more. It turned and fled, with lightning bolts hurrying it along.

Vol'jin noted that Thrall had benefited as well, but it was a more subtle change. Where Jaina's changes were obviously and physically visible, Thrall's alterations were more internal. He smiled more often; he laughed more often. There was a renewed strength to him. Until these lessons had started, Thrall had begun sounding like a tired old king, sick of war but helpless to prevent it. Now he moved with energy and composure, as if every last detail was important. The conflict did not weary him, and did not dull his spirit. Thrall seemed like Thrall again- like the naïve and revolutionary new Warchief who spirited his people away from humans and demons alike.

Jaina turned back to them with a smile on her face. As she returned to them, Thrall laughed.

"Well, well. I'm impressed , Miss Proudmoore. You've proved me wrong. You do have more coordination than a newborn!"

The woman grinned and gave him a shove – and something remarkable happened. Somehow, she pushed him hard Hard enough, in fact, that Thrall fell over and landed on his rump in the swamp. The orc blinked, flabbergasted, and gaped at her like a fish out of water.

Vol'jin almost joined him in the muck, he was laughing so hard.

"What?" Jaina asked. "Did you think the shockwave only worked against dragonspawn?"

The Warchief blinked, and then threw back his head and laughed.

Moonglade

Furion took Ember out as often as he could, and endeavored to spend time with her on a regular basis. It would be cruel to keep her locked securely within their home, and the girl was an extremely restless creature. Besides, he had known Fenuine since the children were born. He hardly knew Ember. The little girl tolerated their excursions, although she occasionally became aggressive whenever Furion forbade her from doing something. She also had a tendency to kill, skin and barbecue squirrels whenever he turned his back.

The archdruid grunted in frustration, and sat down upon the stump of a small tree to observe as Ember chased after some birds. In any other child, her behavior would be harmless. However, Ember's intentions were far from innocent. Whenever she caught an animal, it generally died in some horrible and gruesome fashion.

He closed his eyes and rubbed his face, his whole being straining for some sign from the natural world… some clue as to how to reach his daughter. Abruptly, Ember's laughter ceased. Furion blinked open his eyes, and then stiffened. Standing before Ember was a stag Hippogriff.

Fyrak stood six feet tall at the shoulder. In his eyes there was a feral cunning. The male's coat was almost entirely black, with deep, dark violet visible in its velvety depths. His curling antlers ended in twelve vicious points, and his beak was curved like a meat hook. Each of his fingers was roughly the same thickness as Ember's arm. He was one of the oldest and most powerful hippogriffs alive. He lived in Moonglade, and occasionally served as the companion of Silva Fil'naveth, the Darnassus Flight Master.

Ember stood very still. The anxious druid could not help but notice that she was staring the beast directly in the eyes- a very threatening and domineering thing to do. Ember lifted her hands to the beast's face. She laced them through the velvety black feathers, and leaned her cheek against the massive bird's forehead. The hippogriff merely clicked his beak. She did not notice Furion shouting for her to get back. She did not hear his footfalls. She only felt the soft feathers, and the wild and unpredictable nature of the predatory beast.

After a long, long moment, she felt Malfurion's hand on her shoulder. He did not interrupt or pull her away. He did not react to how she cringed and growled. He simply stroked her hair.

In the middle of the Silithus Desert

You want to know how I ended up in the middle of the Silithus desert? Good, we're on the same page then. I want to know as well. It might have had something to do with how my voice faltered when I read off the spell. It might have had to do with the spell itself. It might have had to do with a butterfly flapping its wings ten thousand years in the past that should have flapped its wings at a seventy-three degree angle, but instead flapped them at a seventy-two-point-five-nine degree angle. Or maybe it had something to do with a god. I pick a god. They're easy to blame.

In any event, it reminds me of why I'm not religiously affiliated. I hate the misbegotten wretch of a deity who landed me here.

Let me recap. My name is Nathanos Blightcaller. At an early age, I was taken in by the elves and taught to be a Ranger Lord- a king of rangers. I'm the only human Ranger Lord to have ever existed. Then I died. The Lich King raised my corpse. The Dark Lady gave me back my mind. I slaughtered undead and humans alike, and reveled in mindless sadistic bloodshed.

And then Ketala Truae came along. Ketala was a paladin. An undead paladin. An empathetic undead paladin. Who talks to animals. And believes in life and goodness in all things. And is perfect. And always does the right thing. Yeah. Have I sickened you enough yet? Oh wait- let me throw in the kicker!

She fell in love with me, the broody, dark, sadistic "character" in dire need of salvation. She tried to save my soul. She is as storybook and cliché as is undeadly possible. Please tell me you hate her as much as I do right now. No? Then I'll go on!

She also happens to be my soulmate! Yup, good ol ' soul-buddies we are. She's my exact height, she's an expert at martial combat, she's half elemental, she's the daughter of a lich who sacrificed his mortality to be with his beloved in undeath, she was raised by and inspired compassion in Kel'Thuzad, the right hand of Arthas, and her eyes change colors. Did I mention she's beautiful? And thin?

Good. Now that we all hate Ketala, we can swear at her, and hate her, and wish her an early and terribly anticlimactic death at the hands of some minor opponent who's completely and entirely irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

Because she's responsible- I'm certain- for the fact that I am currently in the Silithus desert listening to an insane necromancer yelling about gastropods and a naked ex-lich/revived human cry about never seeing his beloved again. Oh yes! I've forgotten to introduce my companions!

First there is the insane necromancer. He babbles about gastropods- which I've learned are a grouping of creatures that include snails and slugs. He also runs around babbling other nonsense. He has the short term memory of a goldfish, and the common sense of a squirrel. His cow skull hat (As in, it is a cow skull that he wears upon his head) continuously falls in front of his face. Each time it does, he screams that he is blind and runs around in circles with his hands in the air.

Second, there is Ras Frostwhisper, the recently resuscitated sire of sweet Ketala. He's currently putting on the PURPLE dress of his deceased beloved, as he has no other clothes available. He ordinarily would not do such a thing, I think, but I believe he is getting sunburned in places men should never be sunburned.

As if all of this were not enough, we're in the middle of the Silithus desert with nothing but empty yellow wasteland in all directions, and there are giant insects flying around attacking people for no apparent reason. Joy!

Well, the good news is, I will get some slaughtering done. If I don't kill my two companions, I'll at least get to hack apart a few hundred insects. Looking at it that way, the day doesn't seem so bad.

Or it shouldn't.

It wouldn't.

Except Ketala's in danger, and the Silithus desert is about as far as you can get on Azeroth from her location. And despite all my griping, and how ridiculously perfect and pathetic and foolish she is- Despite how much I hate her with every last remaining fiber of my being…

Despite all that…

…

Despite all that I have this wretched feeling inside that this is going to turn out extremely cliché. And that I'll end up alone and miserable if it doesn't.

Grand choices, yes?

Silithus

Nathanos put an arrow through the head of his one hundred and sixty-first wasp that evening. It would have been more relaxing to butcher the insects by hand with his axes, but those particular weapons had been severely damaged in his last battle. He had long ago run out of arrows, and was instead firing sharpened insect parts at his opponents. They did their job well enough. Ahead of him, he could see lights. The lights were approximately the right luminosity for lanterns. It was possible that they were perpetuated by the insects, but he didn't really mind. If he found more insects, he would kill more insects. If he found more people he would kill more people. Unless they had a Windmaster, in which case he would only critically wound more people.

The necromancer still tottered after him, and Ras seemed to follow only because he had nowhere else to go. The Ranger Lord was not certain why he had not killed his companions. After a bit of unwanted introspection, he determined that it was because they helped him maintain his self control. As long as they were around, he had a focus for his hate.

His sociopathic tendencies were starting to get the better of him, however. If they didn't find a city soon, he was going to have force-feed the necromancer to the local fauna.

"You know, I was in the army once!" that selfsame necromancer was projecting enthusiastically. "I'm quite handy with a battle axe! I know I don't look it, but I was a powerhouse in the old days! There was this one expedition I remember where we were crawling through the undergrowth- because these stories always have undergrowth, as you well know- and we came upon the ancient desert civilization of the merfolk!"

Hmm. The necromancer was normally spouting nonsense, but his last rant held a whiff of something more- something bordering on total incoherency. As far as Nathanos could tell, the necromancer was human. Perhaps the man was starting to suffer from heat stroke. Nathanos squinted lightly. He could just make out what appeared to be walls. Still, he was not one to get his hopes up about anything, and he simply trudged on.

As night fell, the necromancer grew quiet. Nathanos was so astonished by the sudden quiet period, that he looked behind himself several times in order to make sure that the man hadn't died on him. Not that he would have minded if he had. The necromancer seemed rather subdued. He was rubbing his face in a sleepy and childish fashion, and was leaning heavily on his staff. This of course caused the staff to sink deep into the desert sand, and so he spent more effort yanking his staff out of the sand than he saved by leaning on it in the first place. Ras, on the other hand, displayed no signs of fatigue. The man had been silent since they first arrived in the desert, and his solemn demeanor had not changed since then. It had been several months, and yet the ex-lich had not spoken a word.

Nathanos snorted and looked back toward the lights. If they waited for dawn, he would be able to see what they were approaching. After coming to a decision, the ranger abruptly halted and sat down. He had three, living, dreadmist spiders for animal companions, after all. If he were to march too long or too hard, they might fall ill. And he couldn't allow that.

The necromancer took out a chunk of bug meat and began munching on it. When he was done, he found himself a nice rocky patch of ground to lie down on. Ras sat down and meditated. After awhile, he conjured himself some bread and water. Nathanos tended to his animal companions, and then drew out his axes. He looked around at the barren waste that sprawled out all around him, and then looked down at the weapons. After a moment, he started working to repair them.

Moonglade

I cannot believe I did not see it before. I cannot believe it took me this long to understand. She is different. And not just because there is a demon within her. I thought to make her gentle and sweet. I thought to pacify her spirit and make her more like us.

I was a fool for my blindness.

This is what the spirits were trying to tell me! I have been wrong. I have been reaching the wrong way! I cannot make Ember gentle, because Ember is not gentle. Ember is wild and animalistic. She adheres to her most primal instincts. This rage I see- it is not simply a product of her demonic corruption. This is pure animalistic instinct.

I thought Ember was so far removed from everything nature. I was a fool. She's closer to the beasts of the forest than even Fenuine is. That's her strength. She's a queen among predators. She kills small creatures out of frustration, but also out of carnivorous cunning. She's not like us. The part of her that's free from Archimonde is not like us. And only now have I begun to see it! Rather than being a druid like myself, or a priestess like Tyrande, Ember is more of a beastmaster… More at home with the animals than with people.

I am sure I cannot fully comprehend the situation. Her reactions to my attempts to reach her have been hostile and enraged. It is possible I have done more ill than good. Ah, but at last I have a clue! At last I know how I might reach her! At last I have an idea of how to begin! Fil'naveth's hippogriffs laid eggs some time ago. They should be close to hatching now. I am certain that if I give Ember the companionship of one of these creatures, I will be able to reach her. I might be able to use the hippogriff as a learning tool. At the very least, she will no longer be so alone.

Theramore

Jaina flicked through the pages of her book. It was a magic tome, of course. She was researching the art of combining magic with martial combat. So far, practitioners of this art were fairly rare. Mages had a tendency to see themselves as superior to other beings. They also saw magic as superior to normal combat. In addition, mages with any real talent generally did not want to give up precious studying time in order to practice whacking each other with sticks.

Still, some high elves boasted their ability to wage war both with magic and with more mundane means. The Blood Elf spell breaker was an example of this continuing dual-proficiency. If Prince Kael'Thas- he continued to title himself prince, perhaps out of respect for the fallen- had remained in Azeroth, she might have questioned him about this. Unfortunately, Kael had left some time ago for Outland. It was amusing to note that both Illidan Stormrage and Lady Vashj were also proficient in physical combat, and that the both of them were unavailable for the same reasons as Kael'Thas.

Jaina readjusted her book. Doing so caused one of her charcoal pencils to drop to the ground. She looked to the side of her table and smiled. The sorceress kept only one pet- a pet that was both mundane and magnificent. His name was Mathghamhuin, and he was a large brown canine. For this reason, he was mundane, as the Lady Proudmoore could surely possess any pet she desired. However, Math was also a Frostwolf. This made him magnificent.

The wolf lifted his head and then snatched up her fallen pencil gently in his jaws. He stood and lowered his head to place the pencil carefully on her desk, and then cocked his head to the side. His mouth opened and his tongue lolled out as his dark lips curled up into a big wolfish smile. Jaina laughed and ruffled his ears affectionately. The hound was almost full grown. Math had aged slowly for a canine, but due to his long lifespan and his massive size, such sluggish aging was to be expected. Currently the beast was four feet tall at the shoulder. In a year or so, he would be large enough to ride.

Jaina idly pondered whether or not she would actually use the great beast for a war mount. There had- fortunately- been no wars recently, but that did not mean that Jaina could not utilize a mount for occasional skirmishes and conflicts. In addition, Math would soon grow to the same bulk as a war horse, and it wouldn't be possible to keep him cooped up in her rooms all night and day. While the wolf was surprisingly calm and spatially aware, he was still a dog. Math liked to run, and chase things, and howl. He got excited and knocked things over and didn't always use the litter box. Yes. He had a litter box. She was very careful not to let Thrall know.

Perhaps she would have the Warchief train Math to carry her into battle. It would be a political scandal if she actually ever rode the creature, but political problems were so numerous in those days that she didn't really mind another one. So what if all Azeroth knew she had a Frostwolf? It already knew that she and Thrall communicated frequently. Stormwind had already formed its opinions. Riding Math would only cause harmless gossip.

Jaina kissed the wolf on the nose, and received a thorough licking for her troubles.

Trade was soaring. The fishing was good. Theramore had received a good deal on lumber that year, and would be able to build more ships to catch more fish to do more trade to get more lumber. All of this meant that her people were happy. Fishing was the lifeline of Theramore Isle, after all.

Theramore ships were the best in the world- on par with the fleets of Kul'Tiras. And, unlike the orcs, the citizens of Theramore Isle were inherently seamen. They understood the moods and whims of the sea like they understood breathing. They could find fish where orcs could find none. They could coax movement from the stillest air. They could track a whale pod through the deepest ocean. It was their realm and their craft, and because of it, they managed to flourish.

For the first in a long time, it looked like their interracial peace might actually hold together.

Jaina rapped her hand against her oak desk in order not to jinx everything. After all, they only needed one poor fishing season- one interracial conflict- one bad storm- one bigoted official - and everything would fall apart. They required every last scrap of luck they could get.

Moonglade

The little girl crept silently through her home. It was daytime, and her family was fast asleep. Light oozed tentatively through the living room windows, giving everything a soft purple glow. Everything was rather purple in Moonglade. It had to do with how the light came down through the great trees. In Moonglade, all the trees had purple leaves. She could hear the gentle creaking and groaning of those trees. She could feel a light breeze, and could hear the soft patter of leaves against the ground. All of the sounds egged her on- insisted that she follow her instincts.

She picked up a chair, and carefully carried it to one of the walls of her home. Positioning it firmly against the wall, she stepped up onto its seat. Even with the added height of the chair, she was not quite tall enough, so she stood upon the tips of her toes, and strained for all she was worth.

After a moment of futile grabbing, she felt the handle of her mother's war glaive under her fingers. She breathed in slowly, and stretched her spinal cord out to its fullest extent. Her hand moved as far as it could go. With uncharacteristic diligence, Ember silently lifted the war glaive from its hook. The chair wobbled and Ember tensed, concentrating intently on not dropping the glaive. As soon as the weapon was free, she relaxed and drew it down to her eye level for a closer examination. After a brief moment, she carefully dismounted the chair. She set the glaive on the kitchen table, picked up the chair, and put it back in its proper location. So far, so good. Once this was done, she reclaimed the glaive, and headed upstairs.

Her mother had placed wards on almost every exit of the house. An owl was seated at every window and at every door. Well, almost every window… there were no owls in her mother's bedroom. So Ember ascended the stairs and retrieved a length of rope that she had stolen a few days previously. She then moved to her parents' room, slowly pushing open the door. Ember had opened that specific door several times the day before; it had taught to open it without out a creak. The girl pushed her weight into the wooden frame just right, and the door opened without a sound.

Ember had planned everything out. She knew, of course, that this was dangerous. By thinking things through, she was allowing her inner demon to influence her thoughts. She knew that if she made it out of her house, it meant that the demon desired her to escape. Still, it was the only way. Ember needed to get to Illidan, and the only way she could do that was by escaping her home. And the only way she could escape her home was by thinking things through. She had to simply hope that she would be able to counteract whatever her demon had planned for her. And she had to hope that she was not falling further under his power.

The little girl moved past her parents with silent confidence. She carefully navigated the boards that did not creak, and made her way to their bed. Both Malfurion and Tyrande were fast asleep and lying only inches away from her.

Asleep. Sleeping.

Ember hesitated. She looked down at her elegant war glaive, and then, ponderously, lifted her gaze to Furion.

Sleeping. Fast asleep. The old elf sported a thick green beard, but his throat was still visible. Visible enough. The little girl took a curious step towards him, her hand tightening on the handle of the glaive. It would be so easy. So easy to slice through that throat. So easy to push the blade in, severing jugular, esophagus, trachea, and vertebrae. So easy to kill the object of her pain and hatred. So easy to soothe her frustration and anger.

She lifted her glaive, her heart starting to beat more rapidly. She could kill him. He'd never be able to follow her, or stop her. He couldn't keep her away from her uncle. He'd be punished.

She lifted a hand to her sire's antlers. She gripped one of the branches - both to steady him and to steady herself. She lifted the war glaive.

NO! This was not the plan! This was not the plan! This was wrong- dangerous- DEMON! She could not know whose desire this was! She could not know if she, Ember, truly desired to kill him, and so she could not- she must not! She jerked away from the druid as if she had been bitten. Her name, her autonomy, her very existence depended upon this! She could not kill him- she had to get away! Had to get to safety and instinct and rage!

Ember whirled around and dashed for the rope. She pulled it frantically to the window. Desperate to escape, she forced herself to do rather than think. She forced herself out the window and down the rope. She forced herself to flee as quickly as possible.

Moonglade

A gust of wind. Branches clattered gently against the walls of the bedroom. A breeze trickled in through the window. The sounds of the forest were amplified a thousand times. The quiet of the forest grew, intensified, until the snapping of every twig was as loud as a peal of thunder. The quiet strengthened. It became something almost tangible- a thick and oppressive presence.

Furion suddenly bolted to a sitting position, his eyes opening wide. Tyrande grunted and stirred at his sudden movement. Malfurion breathed in sharply. His eyes settled on the rope that Ember had secured to the foot of his bed. Immediately he threw off his covers and dashed to the window.

He saw a shock of violet hair disappear into the undergrowth.

"Ember!"

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