(Sept 9, 2009)

Preface 
 

      Laradiel Darkward, the Blood Elf, was never more than a mediocre warlock. She earned more money (and respect) as an herbalist in the small villages of Eversong Woods than she could have from using her magic in the capital city where more talented practitioners than her abounded. It was a simple but satisfying life, traveling and using her modest talents to assist the hardworking villagers.

      Everything changed the day she was caught alone in the Wood by an Ally raiding party. She was captured and “interrogated” by the patrol’s leader, a Night Elf lieutenant who was infamous for his cruel treatment of prisoners. After torturing and raping her, the lieutenant, whom his men called “Talon”, left Laradiel for dead. And she did very nearly die, but managed to bring herself back from the edge with her arcane and herbal skills.

      Horribly scarred and weakened, Laradiel survived and slowly began to recover. As her health returned, her anger at the Night Elf who had assaulted her grew and grew, and became a thing of dark obsession. Then, several weeks after the attack, she made a shocking discovery: she was pregnant.

      Her first thought was to end the pregnancy, for she had the knowledge and skill to do so. But then, from her anger, came a determination to have the baby, and to fashion it into a weapon against the Alliance. And so, in the fullness of time, she brought forth a child; a strong healthy boy, and she named him Raethiel. 
 

      ***  ***  ***  ***  *** 
 

      Whatever hopes Laradiel might have nurtured for returning to the normalcy of her former life were soon dashed and shattered beyond redemption. The torture she had endured left scars on her face and body that were repulsive to the beauty-obsessed elves, who could no longer stand to look upon her. Furthermore, her half-breed child was a stigma as much as her face was; her own people rejected her and her son completely.

      Unable to earn a living in her native land, and unwilling to live amongst those she felt had betrayed her, Laradiel took Raethiel and traveled beyond the sea to the Orclands called Durotar. She found a place there, amongst the Orcs, for they treated her scars like badges of merit, a testament to her strength, toughness, and cunning.

      So they settled there, in the harsh land with its harsh people, and Raethiel began to grow. As he grew, Laradiel fed him her anger every day, exactly as she gave him meals, and lessons in magic. From her, he learned the arcane path of the warlock, and from the Orcs he learned strength, and cruelty.  His magical powers were strong, and under this intense regimen they became stronger.

      And so things went for many years, until word came of a great plague that was sweeping through the great herds of meatbeasts in the Barrens, and even affecting the Tauren in Mulgore. Laradiel left her son in the care of an Orc family that agreed to watch him in her absence, and she traveled to the town called Crossroads in order to assist the local shamans in fighting the plague.

      Laradiel worked night and day trying to solve the mystery of the illness that was decimating the herds, and earned great respect from the Tauren. She eventually discovered that it had been caused by an Ally group trying to bring about famine in the Horde. With several Tauren shaman, she tracked down the source and destroyed the plague, but her group was ambushed by the Ally guardians.

      It was Laradiel’s stand against the ambushers that gave the Tauren time to neutralize the source of the plague, but her powers were no match for the combined forces of the Ally. Although she was able to hold them off for a time, eventually they overcame her. At the base of a small hill, on the shore of an emerald green lake, Laradiel Darkward died. 
 

     ***  ***  ***  ***  *** 

7 Years Later

      Raethiel looked down at the twitching dwarf that lay at his feet and smiled thinly. He wiggled his fingers, summoning a dark glow which became an acidic looking bubble, then blew it at the prone figure. The dwarf arched its back and screamed in pain, but the scream was weak and thin, worn-sounding. This had been going on for some time and the dwarf was no longer fresh. Most would have been dead long ago, but this one was strong and Raethiel had been careful. 
 

      “Impressive,” he said softly, and leaned down to make sure that he was clearly heard. “I’ve killed any number of people trying to find you, and sent a very large number of souls to the Netherhells doing it. You can’t imagine how happy I am that you are so strong, so tough. I want you to live for as long as possible while I teach you about pain.” 
 

      The dwarf moaned and scrabbled at the ground, still trying desperately to escape. “My mother knew pain”, Raethiel continued, no pity at all in his voice. “She knew pain all her life, but never let it stop her. She never let anything stop her.” 
 

      With the toe of one black boot he flipped the dwarf over on its back. “Look around you Hammerfist, do you recognize this place? You should.” He watched as the dwarf, agony crinkling its eyes, looked around trying to make sense of what it saw. 
 

      The sun was high and bright, but they were cool in the shade of a grassy hill, and from somewhere nearby came the soft lapping of waves on a shoreline. Watching, Raethiel saw comprehension fill the dwarf’s eyes as it realized where it was. “Yes”, he told it, “this is where you killed her, 7 years ago. It took me this long to find you. The advantage is, 7 years gave me time to become very, very creative.” 
 

      He loomed over the dwarf with fire flickering around his hands that was mirrored by the fire in his eyes. The screams of Hammerfist echoed across the water for a very long time.  
 

            ***  ***  ***  *** 

Many Months Later

Thunder Bluff  
 
      Young Titus Sagehoof kicked his right hoof idly against the carved pole that held up Karn’s Smithy sign, wondering if he could ever hit it hard enough to mar the seasoned ironwood. Not likely, but he was so bored that even such a pointless endeavor as that was more interesting than anything else he could find to do right now.  
 

      He had tried fishing the pond, but only caught weeds. Then the adolescent bulls had chased him away while they wrestled around, showing off for all the hot young cows. No fun for him there. The real problem was that his best friend and partner-in-crime, Blida Gravehorn, was down with an udder infection and couldn’t come out to play. 
 

      Titus smiled, remembering how they had outwitted Matron Mistrunner, the baker, just 2 days ago. Blida, while picking up her family’s daily loaf, had drawn the baker into a long rambling dialogue on her favorite topic, her family. While Blida pretended fascination with the intricacies of personal relationships in the Mistrunner clan, Titus calmly ducked under the far end of the counter, palmed two fresh, warm honey-buns, and ducked back out again. 
 

      He had then slipped quick and quiet around the back of the next tent and waited for Blida while his heart pounded, his hands shook, and he found he couldn’t stop grinning. He had done it; they had done it! And minutes later his partner had finally shaken loose of the Matron and met him to share their fresh-baked booty. They had giggled incessantly while they ate, gulping at the delicious buns and smearing honey across their lips and noses, all the while delighted and terrified by their adventure. 
 

      Thinking about the excitement and those honey-buns made him feel hungry and bored! He was eyeing the baker’s stall and wondering about his chances of scoring another big heist on his own, without Blida. He had almost convinced himself to try when he noticed something unusual ripple through the market. Not a commotion so much as a lack of commotion, a spreading pool of calm. 
 

      At the center of it, walking slowly and steadily in a simple, dusty black traveler’s robe was a tall slender elf with bone-white hair spilling down his shoulders and back. Black, and gray, and white, but no color on him anywhere, except for a single ring upon one finger with a ruby the color of fresh blood. No one addressed the elf as he passed by, but many of the Tauren vendors nodded solemnly, a kind of distant respect in their faces. 
 

      Intrigued, Titus watched as the stranger wound through the market and his course took him near the bakery. He paused there briefly and Matron Mistrunner pushed one of the coveted honey-buns across the counter at him. Picking it up with one hand, the other was reaching for his purse, but the baker shook her head. She flicked her stubby fingers at him in a gesture that clearly said “take it and go”. The elf nodded a thank you and one corner of his mouth turned up in what might have been a smile. 
 

      This was clearly the most interesting that Titus had ever seen, and he was fascinated. Better, he had something to do! As the elf made his way towards the flight tower and up the ramp, Titus trotted after him, short legs churning in an effort to keep up. Questions raced through his mind as he followed the tall figure up through the tower. Who was this elf? How did everyone know him? And why did he get a free honey-bun? 
 

      Titus, now eagerly throwing himself into the role of a spy, was careful to avoid being seen as he tailed his quarry to one of the many rope bridges that provided connections in the Bluffs. But he very nearly lost his nerve when the elf crossed onto Elder’s Rise and into the central tent. He had never been across that bridge himself, and knew that even adults were often chagrined to be summoned there. He was sure that he didn’t dare cross over and risk some unimaginable punishment if caught. Whatever the penalty was for trespassing on the elders’ private ground, it was certainly going to be worse than that for swiping sweet rolls! 
 

      But then he imagined himself telling this story to Blida, who was sure to be green with envy. How could he stop now? If he did, he wouldn’t have any answers, he wouldn’t really have a proper story at all. And besides, how could he admit to her that he’d chickened out?  
 

      He lurked in the shadow of a nearby building, trying to work up his courage. Finally, when he was sure no one was looking, he crouched low and scuttled across the bridge, then dodged into another set of shadows on the other side. Moving quickly around the side of the tent he found a loose flap and crawled underneath, into the dim muskiness of the Elders’ Tent itself! 
 

      Moving as silently as he ever had in his life, and terrified of even breathing too loudly, Titus slipped behind a pile of faded leathers and watched as the stranger was escorted to a low smoldering fire and offered a seat next to it. Titus had heard that elves could sit on the ground with their legs crossed, but this one crouched down on its haunches in the Tauren style. Across the coals, the hulking grey mass of an elder bull loomed and rumbled out “Welcome back to our fire Raethiel”.  
 

      “Thank you, Revered Elder” came the elf’s voice for the first time, lilting and melodious. “I came as soon as I received your summons.” 
 

      “Let me offer you tea and milk.” The elder intoned ritually, already bringing a cup of the infused herbal concoction to a boil. The two of them remained silent until the tea was served. The visitor took the ceremonial first swallow, then nodded. 
 

      “Thank you, Revered Elder, the tea is perfect”, but as the elder turned away, Titus saw the elf winch and pull a face at the cup he held as if it were anything but perfect. By the time the elder turned back though, he face was smooth and polite. “This would be the bitterleaf tea with yak’s milk, yes? A perennial favorite.” 
 

      Titus nearly laughed out loud and gave himself away, but managed to smother his face in the leathers. But a quiet snort from the elder was enough to cover his own small noise, and to indicate that perhaps the irony hadn’t gone unnoticed. But the elder continued as if he had noticed nothing. 
 

      “You don’t seem surprised by the summons.” 
 

      “No, Revered Elder. This has been inevitable for a long time.’ 
 

      “You understand that we must ask you to leave, but do you understand why? There has always been a shadow on you, ever since your mother’s death, but we had hoped it would pass when your vengeance was finally complete. It has not. If anything, your path has taken you deeper into the shadows. Once you killed to avenge your mother and there was justice in that, but now you kill for pleasure. And a hunter may kill but do so cleanly, while you have learned to find pleasure in the pain of your enemies.”

      “Raethiel, for your mother’s sake you will always find warmth at our fires, but your path is no longer ours. The time has come for you to look elsewhere for that which you seek.” 
 

      Titus listened to this grim pronouncement in stunned silence, but the elf remained unsurprised, unruffled and although he met the elder’s eyes, he spoke no word in his own defense. Instead, he agreed. 
 

      “I understand, Revered Elder. I thank you and your people for the care they have shown a stranger over the years. My time at your fire is a memory I will treasure.” In a single fluid motion the elf rose to his feet, and bowed before the elder in deep respect. “All that I need is in my pack, and I am ready to travel. I have a plan, and a destination in mind.” 
 

      Like a mountain suddenly deciding to stretch, the massive bull elder rose ponderously to his full height, then bowed before his guest, a rare concession indeed. “Very well then,” he intoned “but before you leave, will you satisfy my curiosity and answer a personal question? What do you really think of our tea?”  
 

      “Honestly Revered Elder? It tastes like the cat made a mess in your teapot.” 
 

      It turned out the Revered Elder had a laugh like a granite avalanche.