Behind Jeweled Eyes: The Thoughts of Ardaion Sunleaf

[Ardaion]

Sunlight dapples through the red-gold leaves of Eversong Woods. Perched on the high branch of a tree not far off the road, Ardaion Sunleaf sits. One long leg, clad in form-fitting leather, dangled while the other was bent, his boot braced on the silver-gold trunk. His back leaned against a curving branch as a jewel-green gaze swept over the area, lost in thought. Resting on his raised thigh is a leather-bound book, the cover made of butter-soft leather, the clasps of polished gold. The soft breeze stirs his light blond hair, blowing strands across his eyes before he shakes his head. Raking a hand through his tangled mane, he turns his attention to the book, opening it to begin to write on the first blank page.


From where I sit now, I can see the Dead Scar, that blight that runs through our home from Deatholme to the Sunwell Plateau itself. It rips through the heart of our city, a silent and relentless reminder of the past.

The Fall of Silvermoon City.

It was both forever ago and yet happened but a breath before.

We can never forget.

Uncle Nalarian came to me today. He says I belong with the Farstriders. Both Father and Eldithor agree. I trust their judgment; I doubt I have the temperament to find a place in the original military of Silvermoon City. Uncle Nalarian was a Captain before the Scourge came and took his arm. He has promised to train me personally and I doubt I could find a better one anywhere in Azeroth.

I have spent years caring for our family while my father and brother were away. Mother never fully recovered from the loss of her sister. Vaniela and Melivriel have both thrown themselves into their magical studies. Uncle Nalarian took a very long time to heal, though it was a miracle he even survived. So many pieces to pick up and try to put together again. . .

Of course, the Court of the Sun never knew this. Any sign of weakness, any sign that the Sunleaf family is less than united, less than useful would open us to far too many assaults. We have made our share of enemies over time. To most of the nobility, I am simply the wild youngest son, wasting my time playing about Silvermoon City and enjoying life with the wanton nature of my bloodline.

Sometimes it is all I can do not to laugh, hearing the rumors about myself and my kin. If only they knew. But of course, why would they? We cultivate a certain look and reputation with good reason. If they think so little of us, they are not likely to look closer. Most of them are selfish and shallow so why should they even suspect there is more to the Sunleaf family than what they see? It serves us for them to think that; this way, the nobles do not get in the way of other things.

That is not to say we Sunleafs do not enjoy life! We do, of course. But we are not quite the wantons we appear.

He glances up, the light fainter now as the sun starts to set behind the trees. The young Hunter’s face is thoughtful, gaze turned inward for a few moments. Looking down, he writes a few final lines and closes the book.


Enough of these thoughts.

My training begins tomorrow and I should get back into the city. I must remember to thank Melivriel for the journal. It is good to have a place to put my thoughts.

Slipping the book into a satchel at his waist, Ardaion spins lightly on the branch. Gripping the bark, he leans back, swings his legs up and over in a lazy back-flip and drops lithely to the ground. Tossing his hair over his shoulder, he heads toward the city as night falls.

[Ardaion]

Ardaion is sitting upon the grass ringing the fountain in the center of Falconwing Square. His back is resting against the marble, legs crossed as he leans his head back, eyes closed. He looks worn and dirty, his armor splattered with dried blood and dirt. Opening his eyes, he rakes a hand through his hair, his expression tight as he tugs his leather-bound journal from a satchel and sets it on one knee to write.


Mercy. I keep telling myself what I am doing is mercy. That they have no life, no future left. That this is better for them.

That might be true, but I still feel a wave of nausea each time I have to kill one. . .

The Wretched. The broken, mad remains of sin’dorei whose addiction had broken free. They are scattered throughout the Ruins of Silvermoon, feeding on anything they can. Brooms, lights, themselves even. . .

You can hear them in the dark, screaming, moaning, and pleading for something more to feed upon.

There is no hope for them. They cannot be saved. They are a danger to the rest of the sin’dorei and it is best if they are killed quickly and cleanly to end their pain.

Why then do I feel so ill and horrified each time one falls to my arrows or dagger?

They are ghastly to look upon when alive. Their strange, bulging eyes glow with a mad light and their expression are twisted into hungry snarls, like rabid dogs. They attack with bony claws, draining your life away with a terrible desperation and need. In that moment, it is easy to fire the bow or use the blade. . .

But then they lay at my feet, still and strangely pitiful. Broken, shattered things, already dying and clearly no match for me.

I cannot help but feel something like shame when I look down at them bleeding what is left of their life away at my feet.

I will be glad when I am done with this place.

I think I will never come back again.

Closing the book, Ardaion tucks the book away and sighs, rubbing his face in exhaustion. Rising, he heads to the Falconwing Inn, ears held low and shoulders slumping wearily.

[Ardaion]

Ardaion is moving around a small, but well-furnished room. He wears nothing but a pair of soft gray pants, his skin wet and his hair loose, suggesting he has just returned from bathing. A towel is draped around his shoulders as he rubs some of the water out of his waist-length fall of pale-honey hair. His lean torso is covered with bruises and scratches, most obviously fresh. He glances with distaste at the mess of his armor near the door, covered with foul-smelling fluids, ash, and black dust. Shaking his head, he pours a cup of tea from the pot steaming on a small table. Drinking deeply, he sits, pulling out his journal to write.


Scourge.

Disgusting, foul, rotting creatures. They still swarm the Dead Scar, barely kept at bay by the efforts of the Farstriders and others. Mindless and starving, they attack anything alive that drifts too close to them.

It is not that they are difficult to deal with alone, but they are tireless and there is always more. More and more of the Sun-cursed things!

Will it never end?

Ardaion pauses to look at what he has just written and gives a short, harsh, humorless laugh. He gives a grim smile, returning to his writing.


No, of course it will never end. Not while that bastard Arthas still exists. You have to cut off the head of the snake to kill the body, not just pull off a few scales.

I have heard rumors and whispers that soon, soon there will be ships to Northrend. Ours and the Alliance. Perhaps we will once again unite our efforts?

He laughs again, shaking his head ruefully. He sighs after a moment, lost in thought it seems before his hand moves on the paper again.


That is unlikely. There is too much hatred, too much bad blood now.

Quite frankly, I care not if it is the Horde or the Alliance that kills Arthas.

I simply want him dead.

Pushing damp hair from his eyes, he sighs, rubbing his face briefly. Setting down the pen, he leans back, looking exhausted and pale beneath the naturally golden hue of his skin. He stares moodily out the nearby window, his jaw tense. Finally, he lifts the pen again to write.


But until that time, I must do what I can to protect the sin’dorei people. And that means fighting along the Dead Scar and driving back the Scourge as much as we can. Soon enough, that will mean traveling to the place we call the Ghostlands now. Not yet though. I still have work to do here. Soon enough. . .

He pauses for a moment, leaning back to drain his teacup dry. His jewel-bright gaze turns inward, focused upon his own thoughts. Glancing down at the journal he writes a final line in a firm, bold hand.


Still, I hope I live to see the day that Arthas is destroyed.

Closing the book and snapping close the clasps, he pours himself a second cup of tea. Tossing a leg over one arm of the chair, the Farstrider turns his eyes back to the window, looking beyond it without seeing, his expression pensive and lost in thought.

[Ardaion]

Ardaion sits by Stillwhisper Pond, or more correctly the small falls that lead into it. He is half-sitting, half-laying on a large rock jutting out of the water. He is dressed in nothing more than a worn pair of deerskin leggings; nearby a fishing pole and a string of fish rest on the grass. He looks lost in thought for a time, his journal resting on his lower abdomen as he watches the sunlight dappling through the leaves.

His ears flick moodily as he finally shifts slightly, placing the journal on the stone and starting to write.


I took some time off this afternoon from training. Or more honestly, from cleaning up the chaos of Eversong Woods. Bit by bit it is becoming ours again, but there is more to deal with here than the Scourge. Mad Wretched, Manawraiths, and the very wildlife growing vicious, in addition to the ancient threat of the Amani trolls.

I went to fish at Stillwhisper Pond. I had thought it would be quiet and peaceful, as long as I did not disrupt Instructor Antheol and his students. I dressed as I usually do when fishing to prevent annoying interruptions. The less expensive your clothes are, the less likely someone wandering by will irritate you. There were a few others around the pond, but they ignored me and I them.

He pauses to chuckle slightly, a small crooked smile making his well-shaped lips quirk up. After a moment, his hand moves on the paper again.


Well, at first anyway.

I only half-noticed them originally. It was a man and a woman, and, out of polite habit, I pretended not to see them. I had thought they were a couple of some kind and it best to let them be. I caught bits of their conversation; I can avert my eyes but not my ears, but mostly paid them no mind. Truthfully, it was more listening to her chatter like a songbird while he made a few minimal noises. She had a pretty voice and I did not mind the sound of it blending with the rush of the falls and the twittering of the nearby Dragonhawks. The sound was oddly soothing as I concentrated on my fishing.

At least until the woman’s fishing line crossed mine and got them into a fine snarl. I listened with one ear to her as she spoke, most of my attention on getting our lines separated. I watched her out of the corner of my eye curiously. Medium height, fit, with raven-black hair. Pretty enough and probably a Blood Knight by the looks of her uniform. I could tell by her expression she probably thought I was destitute.

He chuckles again, ears flicking as he turns to look at Stillwhisper Pond, a short distance away, light dancing over the water and lily pads. After a few moments, he turns his attention back to the pages of his journal.


Of course, from there it went a bit downhill. I managed to end up with a fishhook in my ear and my hair tangled in a knot of line while I was trying to deal with my own fishing pole. Not exactly my finest moment, but a combination of bad luck with the line breaking and the wind did not give me much choice. She seemed both amused and concerned by the danger to my poor ear. She ended up inviting me to join her and her ‘friend’.

Apparently I was mistaken in assuming they were a couple.

Ardaion pauses, setting down the pen. Turning on his back, he folds his arms under his head, staring up at the gently rustling leaves in thought. The breeze makes the water ripple gently and tosses light golden strands of hair across his face and chest. After a time, he sits up gracefully, folding his legs and placing the journal on his knee to write.


Sareyne Dawnwing is her name. And while she is pretty, she is not particularly striking when it comes to looks. Her most intriguing trait seems to be her constant chatter; it is fortunate that her voice is rather lovely. She has a sweet, open face, a bit of a childish air about her, and a careless kind of grace.

He pauses and smirks a bit, shaking his head before continuing. His hand moves on the page in graceful sweeps, drawing a simple line drawing of a female blood elf with long hair. One could assume it is Sareyne Dawnwing. He tilts his head to regard the small portrait carefully before returning to his writing.


I do not think she cares much for me. I told her the truth. That she did not particularly impress me with her intelligence or opinions. She went off on some drivel about how little the Farstriders do. Typical sentiment for most Blood Knights. No one is denying they serve; Eldithor serves with them and Sun scorch anyone who says that my brother does not do his best for the sin’dorei. However, it grates on my ears to have to listen to most of the young Novice fools blather on about how worthless the Farstriders are.

Sareyne was right about one thing. We all serve. Too bad she did not take into consideration that ‘all’ includes the Farstriders when she started to speak badly of them. I admit, I let my hackles rise a bit and baited her. She was distressingly easy to flummox. After a while, her arguments were just an annoyance and I departed for some quiet here.

Here he pauses again, looking lost in thought. Absently, he shakes his thick mane of blond hair out of his eyes, reaching up to pull the thick mass into a loose ponytail. He considers the journal for a moment and finally starts writing again.


Talaen Wildthorn.

The name tickles the edges of my awareness. I know the name, I know it. . .but from where I cannot remember.

He is an albino; I have never seen one among the sin’dorei before. A few beasts yes, but never one of my own people. I think I must have been staring because Miss Dawnwing mentioned it.

He is very arresting, definitely exotic. I am sure I am not the first to look at him in such a way. He was shorter than most and muscular; compact and solid of build. It adds to his eye-catching appearance. His skin is paler than anyone I have seen among the living, but the faint glow from within places him as very much alive. Sadly, his lovely hair is short: a pure white that seems to catch any hint of color cast its way. Bold features, keen, strong and elegant as a well-made blade, with a wide mouth set in firm lines. He would probably be gorgeous if he was smiling, but he resembles a marble statue so little did his face and ears move.

Ardaion sighs, setting down the pen and staring into the distance for a time. His long ears twitch and move in thought. Vivid green eyes catch the fall of leaves from the trees, the careful movements of rabbits in the grass, and playful gliding of the Dragonhawks nearby, but it is clear his attention is mostly on his own thoughts. Finally, his hand moves and his eyes return to the pages of his journal.


His eyes are rather extraordinary. I know that albinos tend to have red eyes; I suppose I was expecting something alien, like the eyes of those succubi that the Warlocks summon. His were nothing like that though. They look star rubies, translucent yet deep. The color of roses, both red and pink and neither, with a pale starburst overlaying it all.

Ardaion pauses and his eyes sweep over what he has just writing. He gives a short self-mocking laugh. His voice, low, rich, and warm, tinged with laughter, breaks the quiet of the afternoon. “Sun’s Light, I am waxing poetic this evening! I sound like a lovesick girl.” A melodic chuckle rises from his chest as he tosses his thick mane. “Ah, well. I will freely admit, I have never seen anyone quite like this Talaen Wildthorn. Even if it is only to myself.” With a grin, he returns to writing.


I did not even notice the scars at first. He turned to look at me and mostly I just stared at his eyes. It took a moment to notice the dark, twisting scars along the part where his neck joins his shoulder, disappearing into the robe. I studied them a moment and then forgot them when he spoke. His voice was a low gravelly sound. I think his voice must have been injured somehow. The sound is slightly unnatural, though in an odd way not unpleasant, a hint of the warm sound it must have once been underneath.

He gave me a cold look. It seems that he has heard the worst reputations of House Sunleaf and believes all of them. I suppose I cannot blame him; our family makes little effort to change them. He and I bantered back and forth a bit; Miss Dawnwing was trying to stand in our way. I find her desire to protect him mildly amusing. He clearly can take care of himself.

Ardaion sighs and flips his ponytail over his shoulder again as it slithers down, spilling onto the pages of the journal. He looks at the pages and his expression slowly turns serious, perhaps even a bit trouble. The pen moves in smooth sweeps, placing the final words on the paper.


Unfortunately I probably could have handled Talaen Wildthorn a bit better. I seem to have offended him because he abruptly left without a word, leaving me to deal with Miss Dawnwing. She was rather annoyed at me, I think. My mind was only half on her though as she attempted to bait me, annoying me with rude comments about the Farstriders and my manners.

I suppose I should have handled Talaen Wildthorn more gently. His face may resemble stone, but his eyes speak volumes. He has been hurt, badly and often.

I did not mean to add to that if I did.

The young Hunter closes the book firmly, tucking away the pen and snapping the clasps. Dropping it into his backpack, he rises and gathers his fishing pole and fish, heading toward the Shepard’s Gate with a long, fluid stride, his expression still reflective as his feet pick the way home with careless ease.

[Ardaion]

Ardaion sits on a small hill, just outside the Crossroads, cat-green eyes devouring the surrounding area with something like fascination. Long delicate ears tilt and lift, moving to catch the unfamiliar sounds of the land. His sharp gaze rests on nearby Zhevra and Plainstriders, which are wandering about to feed. His eyes flit to the nearby pride of Savannah Huntresses, lounging beneath a tree under the watchful eye on their Savannah Highmane. He takes a slow, appreciative breath, releasing it as the sun lowers a bit, spilling golden light over the grass and hills. The Blood Elf smiles, his expression content.

Thoughtfully, he reaches into his satchel and pulls out his journal and pen, setting it on his knee to write. He pauses now and then between sentences, filling the margins and corners with small, simple drawings: a gazelle fawn, the head of a Zhevra, and sparse but graceful sweep of a Savannah tree.


I find myself in a new place today, a land unlike any other I have seen. I have seen the beauty of Quel’Thalas, walked the deep forests of Lordaeron, climbed the mountains of Khaz Modan, and ridden across the rolling green hills of Azeroth, back in the times before Arthas came and we were still allied with the Humans.

However, never have I see a land like Kalimdor, in particular this place they call the Barrens. It is anything but barren, though from what the Tauren say it was once much more lush and green. It is wide, open and sweeping; the land covered with a few gentle hills, golden waist-high grass, and dotted here and there with oasis. There are creatures here unlike anything I have seen before, and some that are unusual cousins to the more familiar.

It is beautiful, wild, and exhilarating.

Here the Blood Elf Hunter pauses, lifting his face to breathe deeply as a warm plains wind brushes against his sculpted features, tossing and curling the fine, unruly mass of his blond hair. He squints slightly to protect his eyes from the dust, but lifts his face to enjoy the sun’s rays with relish. He heaves a long sigh, the sound one of relaxation. Turning his attention back to his journal, Ardaion begins to write again.


Uncle Nalarian sent me here with a ‘mission’ to send some reports to the Tauren and Orcs who dwell here. I think it was more he was aware of my frustration with hunting in our homelands. As much as I desire it to be ours again, it seems we can fight and kill Scourge until our arms ache and our lungs burn but there will always be more. An endless supply of those shambling monstrosities to tear at our flanks. . .

Ardaion drops his pen into the book to rub his face, shaking his head firmly as if to chase away such thoughts. He frowns for a moment and then returns to writing.


I think Uncle Nal choose this place well. Here there is sun and life and new things to explore. As dear as home is to my heart, I have always loved the thrill of something new. The Orc and Tauren here are eager enough to enlist my aid in dealing with their troubles. They would probably laugh to realize that I look forward to the hunting of raptors and centaurs! A welcome difference from the stench of the Scourge’s rotting flesh.

I will start early tomorrow, but now I think I will watch the sun set and see the colors of this land. It has been some days since I have had any kind of peace, but I seem to be finding it here.

Closing the journal with a soft click, Ardaion slips it back into his satchel. Crossing his legs and resting his graceful hands upon his knees, he watches the horizon, the sun already halfway down. His expression is introspective but peaceful, almost mediative as he slowly watches the light turn from yellow to gold and then reds and purples as the afternoon fades into evening and finally night. Only when the two moons rise, one huge and silver, the other small and blue-green, does he rise and head for the nearby inn.

[Ardaion]

The lean young Hunter is sitting on a small golden-brown boulder, so still for the moment his pale golden skin and hair seem to blend into the Savannah. His brilliant green eyes, keen and focused as a hunting hawk’s, are watching a group of large cats lounging around the base of a large tree. The sun is high, causing a few trickles of sweat to streak Ardaion’s skin. The pride seems to be dozing mostly, enjoying the relief the shade provides. He seems to be watching the pride, in particular one unique cat slightly off to one side. Slender and more graceful than the heavily muscled Huntresses, this feline bears a beautiful pale gold coat, heavily spotted with black, fading to creamy tones on the cat’s underside. The spotted cat regards the surrounding area with brilliant orange eyes, surveying her world with regal disdain.

Pulling his journal from his satchel, Ardaion moves his glance back and forth between the pride and the pages as his hand moves in steady strokes. in minutes, the spotted cat lays across the top edge of the page, her paws trailing down the sides a bit. Below this drawing, the Blood Elf’s words pour onto the page.


It is well past the time I should have chosen a companion. I know this. Uncle Nal knows this.

However, I think he understands why I could not be hasty. Some of the other Farstriders seem to regard their Pets with the same treatment as their bows or swords. A useful, valued tool to be cared for, but nothing more. Something to be replaced if broken, damaged, or if something better is made available. I cannot make myself treat a living creature who fights beside me in such a fashion, any more than I could treat a fellow sin’dorei in that way.

Ardaion pauses, his eyes once more on the pride, but his gaze turned inward. The journal lays open across his lap, the warm wind lifting and turning the pages. Absently, he smooths them flat again, brushing aside the yellowish dust of the Barrens. His eyes follow the spotted cat as she rises, padding toward the tree. With a graceful leap, she finds a footing on a low-hanging branch. She lowers herself to lay down, three paws dangling in the air as she straddles the branch. The fourth paw pillows her chin as she returns the Hunter’s stare across the distance separating them. Ardaion’s expression is serious as he slowly lowers his gaze to writing again. A bittersweet smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as his hand dances over the page.


Uncle Nal understands though. He never could bring himself to have another companion after his was killed during the Fall of Silvermoon.

I remember his old bear, tamed in the wilds of Lordaeron so he told me. Bruin was his name. He was Uncle’s companion for as long as I could remember. Huge, massive, like a living tree with thick dark brown fur that was peppered with gray in his last years. Both of them had many battle scars and they knew each other like no other. In the end, Bruin even gave his life for Uncle.

I will never know how that bear managed to save Uncle, but he did. When the Scourge came, part of the building collapsed. Father, Eldithor, and I heard Bruin’s roar as it happened. It looked as if Bruin had tried to push Uncle aside, but had not been quite fast enough. The heavy wooden arch of the door had fallen; most of it landed on Bruin. I thought he was dead when I saw him, his fur matted and grisly, blood leaking from his nose and mouth. Uncle was half-under the door as well; the massive weight crushing his left arm, side, and shoulder. The three of us tried frantically to move the arch as the fire spread, but we could not. We thought we were going to die there.

Bruin heard us, I think. I do not know how he was still even alive, let alone had the strength. As Father, Eld and I strained I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. The bear opened his eyes and looked at Uncle Nal. He managed to get his paws under him and I could hear him straining, those huge muscles that fought so hard beside Uncle for so many years. I also heard sickening cracks and I realized he was killing himself with the effort, breaking his own body to try one last time for Uncle. He managed to stand, at least halfway. It was enough. The arch moved and we pulled Uncle free.

The moment Uncle was away, Bruin collapsed again with a groan. I suppose some might say it was simply the animal trying to save himself, but I know better. Uncle Nal made us take him to Bruin. His eyes were filled with tears as he stroked his companion’s head one last time. Bruin looked at him with such love and devotion before the Spirit fled from his brown eyes and the life eased out of him on a final breath.

The pen stop as Ardaion bows his head, taking a slow breath. Tears shimmer in his eyes, unshed. A small shudder passes through him as he blinks a few times, steadying himself. His expression is distant, hair spilling around him like liquid sunlight, dancing on the wind. He sighs softly, his hand finding the pen as he writes again.


I think that is why Uncle Nal never chose another Pet. It was not his arm, nor his ‘retirement’. It was the memory of his Bruin. Bruin was his brother and his closest friend in many ways. They shared the same heart.

He looks at me and I think he sees that I wish something like that. I look not for a tool to use, but a part of my own soul. A companion and a friend and more. . .

Ardaion lifts his eyes to meet the bright, intelligent gaze of the she-cat again. For several long moments, they simply gaze at each other, measuring, two curious creatures regarding one another. After a time, the Blood Elf looks down again, placing his thoughts upon paper once more.


I thought I would find my companion in Eversong Woods, or even the Ghostlands. It is the homeland of my people and will always be home to me.

But it was not to be so.

He hesitates, pen hovering over the paper. He glances once more at the spotted feline draped with elegant grace across the branch and his hand moves over the paper again.


Here, however, in the Barrens, I have found a beautiful beast that stirs me in an odd way. She is like the others, yet not. Taller and longer-legged, slender and graceful. Her coat is not the brown-gold of theirs, but pale yellow decorated with a magnificent pattern of black spots.

She is unique. Striking. Beautiful.

I am not exactly sure what manner of beast she is, but I have been watching her for most of the day.

And she has been watching me.

His gaze once more moves between the spotted cat and his journal, his pen moving in swift strokes. On the bottom right corner of the journal page, a second drawing of the cat takes shape. This one shows her resting on the branch, bright eyes watchful. When it is finished, he lowers the pen to rest in between the pages. Ardaion lifts his head to meet the sharp eyes of the cat, heedless this time when the wind tosses the still open pages of his journal about.

[Ardaion]

The Blood Elf Hunter is perched in the twisting branches of a Savannah tree. His back is resting against the trunk as his legs stretch out along the branch, ankles crossed in their leather boots. Below him, a pride of lions lay, tufted tails twitching as they scan the surrounding area or doze. Now and then, one of the Huntresses glances up to eye Ardaion, but ignores him after a moment. He is high enough up that the lions are of little threat; too heavyset and bulky to climb the tree and not inclined to bother it seems. The only one lithe and agile enough is the spotted she-cat, but currently she stretched out in the grass at the edge of the pride. Her tail swishes gently now and then, but she seems to be napping. Ardaion watches her with something like affection, his journal in his hand as he starts to write.


I have been watching my beautiful cat for some time now. A cheetah they call her. Swift, long-legged runners unlike the more powerful, but slower lions of the Barrens. The Tauren say she and her kind are rare now. Their beautiful spotted coats are highly desirable by the Goblins and it seems they have hunted them in great numbers.

Ardaion frowns, his aristocratic features darkening a bit with disapproval at the thought. He looks down at the sleeping she-cat and murmurs in a low tone. “How could they think your beautiful fur is worth destroying your kind?” The she-cat opens one golden-orange eye to regard the Blood Elf, but seems untroubled by his speaking or presence. “If they could see you now, maybe they would realize what a foolish endeavor such hunting is. Or perhaps not. Goblins are greedy things.” He shrugs one shoulder, turning his attention back to writing.


My beautiful cat is an odd one. She is a part of the pride it seems, yet not. They let her eat with them, sleep near them, and move among them. Yet the Highmane, the big male who rules the pride, makes no demands upon her. The Huntresses do not seem to expect her to aid them when they hunt the gazelle or Zhevra. When she stalks and takes a small kill of her own, they do not even try to take it from her, though they easily could.

It is strange and fascinating.

I think some of it must simply be her demeanor. She is like a queen. Regal, poised, and assured. She moves amongst the lions as if she has no fear, as if a blow from the Highmane’s huge paw could not harm her, nor the teeth of the Huntresses mar her coat. Any growl or aggressive action toward her is met with a disdainful look that would do any empress proud.

And so the lions let her remain and seem to expect nothing of her. They are regal in their own way, but lack the elegant poise of my spotted beauty. I think she could rule the pride if she truly wished to, simply by force of will, but she seems content to remain as she is.

He leans back against the tree again, pen still for the moment. He gazes into the distance until the she-cat moves, his jewel-green eyes pulled to her. The cheetah stretches, yawning widely to reveal sharp, ivory teeth. She shakes her head lazily, moving toward the tree with a swinging stride. In two smooth bounds, she is level with Ardaion, who remains still but oddly fearless as the spotted cat moves in his direction. His eyes follow her as she leaps again, finding a branch just to his left and a little above his head. Her claws extend to scratch the bark briefly before she lays down again, folding her paws neatly and resting her chin on it to regard the Blood Elf with bright eyes. For a long time, the Hunter is still until the cat’s eyes half-close and she begins to purr lazily, tail swaying gently. A small smile lifts his lips as he lifts his hand to write again.


My beautiful cat seems to have taken an interest in me as well. She watches me when I am close, even moves nearer though she does it with such casualness sometimes I think I am imagining it. I wonder if she is as drawn to me as I am to her?

Is she the echo of my heart? The companion I desire? I think so. But I also think she will come to me upon her own terms only. In truth, I would want it no other way.

I must be patient and wait and give her time to choose. If she feels the same odd pull toward me as I do toward her, than it is only a matter of time.

I can wait.

He closes the book carefully, tucking it away. Leaning back, he watches the cheetah, who still regards him with half-lidded eyes. Softly, Ardaion hums, words slowly forming as he sings a soft ballad in Thalassian. His voice is masculine and sonorous, though not particularly deep. Though it is clear he has no formal training, he seems to have a decent talent and the sound is compelling and pleasant. The lions below pay no heed, save to give a brief glance before returning to business. The cheetah does not even lift her head, but after a few minutes, it is clear her tail is swaying back and forth in rhythm with the young Blood Elf’s singing.

[Ardaion]

Ardaion is sitting in the large tree the spotted she-cat and her pride favor sleeping under when the sun is high. His lean, lithe form is clad in form-fitting tawny leather and his light gold hair is secured in a ponytail, keeping the worse of it from his eyes. His back is nestled against the curve of a branch, his heels crossed and extended toward the trunk of the large tree. Near his feet, the cheetah lays, dozing. Occasionally the cat opens one eye to regard the Blood Elf thoughtfully before she falls back asleep. His journal rests in his lap and his hand moves as he writes.


My spotted beauty and I have gained an understanding. She graces me with her presence and I am permitted to sit near her, even touch her now and then. I have taken to making camp not far from where she usually sleeps and lately she has joined me for meals, allowing me to gift her with fresh or lightly roasted meat. Oddly, the lions she runs with seem to have no interest in my meat. I wonder if perhaps the nearby Tauren and Orcs have chased them away so often, they avoid camps out of habit. Either way, I am pleased my spotted beauty comes to visit me.

The Hunter pauses in his writing, letting the journal and pen rest in his lap. With a grin, he clicks his tongue gently at the cheetah. The she-cat flicks her ears toward him, opening golden-orange eyes. She gives a little rumble in response, tail swishing a few times. Ardaion smiles as she gives a small huff in his direction, quickly dozing again. A few sweeps of his pen place a simple line drawing of the she-cat’s face and head in the corner of the page. His own ears twitch thoughtfully as he returns to writing.


The Farstriders train us to Tame beasts, not just through patience, but with will and magic. I think the Tauren, the Orcs, and the Trolls must have something similar as well, but I know nothing of how they are taught. Perhaps I should learn some day?

I have seen others in training forcing their Pets. They care little and simply overpower the beast, making them little more than a slave. Uncle Nalarian says that at first the beasts are rebellious, but when their master wins the battle of wills, the beast slowly becomes theirs, but something that is them is lost. It reminds me a bit of what I know of Warlocks and their ‘Pets’, if that is the proper word. Both of them use their will and magic to subjugate something to serve them. Are the Pets of Warlocks and those Rangers and Hunters unhappy? I never thought to ask, or even consider before. . .

Ardaion pauses, jewel-green eyes resting on the cheetah as she rests near his feet. “Nothing like that for you, my beauty,” He murmurs. The she-cat lifts her head with a purring rumble, ears lifting toward the Blood Elf. Surprisingly intelligent eyes regard him as he speaks. “Someone like you deserves better, hmm?” He smiles slightly, his own ears tilting toward her. He offers her a hand, making a soft coaxing sound. The spotted cat seems to consider and then regally rises to her feet with a small shake. A few graceful steps bring her closer to the Hunter as she dips her head to brush his fingers with her whiskers. Turning his hand slowly, Ardaion gently tickles the creamy-white fur of her chin and throat. He is rewarded with deep purring as the cheetah lifts her head slightly, eyes closing in pleasure. A warm smile brightens Ardaion’s features as he rubs and scratches the she-cat until she yawns and steps away. He lets his hand fall as she agilely bounds away, finding a perch on a branch not far from him and settles herself, sphinx-like, to watch him. The Hunter chuckles softly, returning to his writing.


I have used a bit of magic on my spotted beauty, but it is more a gentle coaxing, a forming of small connections between us. Uncle Nal explained it to me, but I have never tried it before. I hope that I succeed as he did with Bruin. He told me that a bond built this way is truer and require the willingness of both Ranger and beast. I want that between she and I.

It is a Taming of sorts, but cannot be forced. She seems fond of me in her own regal way, but I have not truly tested her yet. I will soon. I have duties to attend; ones I have put aside to ‘court’ her, such as it were. In all honesty, this is more difficult than courting a woman. With a woman, I know the right words to say, the right gifts to bring. . .

Not so with my spotted beauty. She trusts me a bit now, but a wrong move will destroy that and with her, I do not have words that can explain or mend as I would do with another sin’dorei.

I will see how well I have ‘Tamed’ her soon. I must return to what my duties and I see if she comes with me. I have stayed close so that there is no conflict between my company and her freedom. She comes and goes between myself and her pride as she pleases.

That will change soon.

I hope she will choose to stay at my side, but if she does not, then I will give my spotted beauty what she desires and ask no more of her.

Closing the journal, the young Blood Elf sets the book to one side. His expression is thoughtful, eyes on the horizon for a time. Finally Ardaion turns his gaze to the cheetah, who flicks her ears at him. He smiles, his voice soft. “So, beauty, what will you choose? Will you leave this behind and come with me, or say good riddance?” The she-cat tilts her head and makes a soft churring sound, orange eyes gleaming. The Hunter laughs quietly, shaking his head. “Perhaps you are more like a woman than I thought. I will have to wait and see, will I not?” The cat gives a sharp little huff, tail snapping back and forth gently. “I will take that as a yes.” The Blood Elf says, folding his arms and leaning back against the tree again. He closes his eyes briefly, only to open them as the cheetah moves. A swift bound brings her back to Ardaion’s side and she folds herself gracefully to lay at his side, ears moving alertly. Ardaion’s smile widens as he carefully reaches a hand to rest on the she-cat’s back, relaxing as she allows it. His fingers gently stroke the short, lush fur as he closes his eyes again, enjoying the warmth of the afternoon sun and the presence of the cat beside him.

[Pearlle]

((your descriptions are amazing and beautiful, dead on. i can imagine what you write. thank you for sharing your gift with us.))

[Ardaion]

((your descriptions are amazing and beautiful, dead on. i can imagine what you write. thank you for sharing your gift with us.))

(( <blush> Awww, thank you for the wonderful compliment. I'm glad you're enjoying the journals.:) I hope Ard can start to meet others from TNG soon. ))

[Ardaion]

Ardaion is sitting by a small oasis in the Barrens. His lean, muscular form is completely naked, pale golden skin gleaming in the sun. His long, light gold hair is clinging to his back, wet and dripping. His armor, weapons and other various items are spread out on nearby rocks to dry. Nearby him, his spotted she-cat lounges, her orange eyes half-closed as she watches him. Her ears flick as she makes a churring huff in his direction while he spreads out his clothing. The Hunter glances at her with a small rueful smile. “It is not that funny, my beauty,” his voice belies the words though, an undercurrent of laughter in them. Dropping to sit on his still somewhat damp cloak, he picks up a waterproof case, retrieving his journal from it. “Good thing Vaniela gave me this or it probably would be ruined.” He mutters, examining the book carefully.

The cheetah rises and stretches elegantly, ambling over to join him sunning on the large, flat rock. She settles beside him, tail swishing lazily. Ardaion reaches over to gently smooth her velvety fur, his palm running in long strokes from her ears down her spine. “I need to find the right name for you soon, yes?” He asks the cat, who acknowledges his touch with a purr. “You deserve one.” He caresses her fur for a few minutes more before opening the journal to write.


Talaen Wildthorn surprised me today.

I ended up taking an unexpected swim, fully geared, in the water just off Ratchet.

He pauses and looks to the side, watching the sunlight dapple the water of the small pool beside him. His expression is thoughtful and distant, a small smile on his lips. The Hunter gently ruffles the cheetah’s ears before turning his attention back to his journal.


I suppose I deserved it in a way. I was delibrately pushing him to see what I could get away with. He does not seem to care over much for being touched and does his best to give nothing away with his voice or expression. I wanted to see how far I could go.

I admit, I did not expect him to throw me into the water with a neat, fast twist I was too startled to even think about counteracting. Apparently Talaen Wildthorn is more than a simple Priest; he is also a Blood Knight. I probably should have guessed given his build and the way he moves. He does not move like a Priest would.

Oddly enough, I was both pleased and furious when he dumped me into the ocean. Part of me was angry, I admit. An unexpected saltwater soaking was not on my list of things I wished to do today, let alone fully clothed!

Ardaion lifts his head to ruefully look over his drying gear, painstakingly cleaned in the fresh water and stretched out to dry. He shakes his head a bit, chuckling before turning to write.


Still, I was pleased as well in a strange way. Part of it was the fact that I managed to provoke a reaction. I affect him.

The other part was I was glad to see his strength and spirit is not as broken as it seems at first glance. I think Talaen Wildthorn has seen much hardship and abuse; I wondered if it has broken him, reduced him to an empty shell. I wondered if his reserve was choice or simply all that was left from a life where he is an outsider even amongst his own people.

But, no, there is passion and strength and fire under his cool reserve. And for that, I am glad.

Setting aside the journal, Ardaion lays back on his cloak, arms folded to pillow his head. Jewel-green eyes watch the clouds and swift dart of the birds against the cerulean sky, his expression lost in thought. The cheetah stretches and settles again, laying like a sphinx beside him. His hand falls to pass over her back again and again in a gentle rhythm.

For a time, he simply allows the sun to dry his fine hair into a fluffy, wild mass and tan his skin a touch. He barely seems to notice the dancing plains winds that tug and curl his hair almost playfully. Finally, he pushes up to sit again, picking up the journal.


I finally remembered where I know him from. He was Lord Dawnsinger’s lover for years. I am surprised I did not remember soon. How many albinos amonst the sin’dorei or quel’dorei can there be? Father was always impressed about Dawnsinger for that. For ignoring the rumors and the blows against his reputation to take care of someone he loved. . .

It did not take much thought to realize that the loss of Dawnsinger has wounded Talaen deeply. I knew he was hurt. It was in his eyes, his looks, the way he tries to drive people away. Now it simply has a name.

In a way, it frustrates me that Talaen hides so much in the past, wrapping it around himself like some shield to justify his fears.

There is nothing wrong with being afraid, but there is with letting fear rule you.

I have seen it happen before and I do not want to see it again.

For the fire in those star-ruby eyes right before he flipped me, I do not want to see that happen to Talaen Wildthorn. There is something more in him that deserves a chance to live. He just needs to realize that.

He pauses and sets the journal to one side. As the sun starts to set, the Hunter rises and begins to repack his belongings with neat precision. He examines his bowstring carefully before nodding and restringing it. Slipping back on his armor, he stretches and drops to sit down again, picking up the journal.


He probably thinks I just want a night or two in his bed. I suppose I cannot blame him for thinking that. I did tease him a bit. He blushes so easily that I could not resist. Still, what I told him was true. I do not pity him. And I do not seek a tumble in the grass from him. Something in him stirs something in me and I do not want to see that fade away in him. And that will happen if he keeps closing his heart.

Let him think I seek a lover, or an amusement.

No need for him to know his were the first lips I kissed with feeling in probably five years.

No need for him to know I have taken no one to my bed since Lily.

Ardaion stares at what he wrote, hand hesitating as if he would cross that last line out. His jaw tightens and he shakes his head sharply. “Stop being a fool, Ardaion,” He mutters to himself, snapping the journal closed and putting it away. “You have to say her name sometime. Just like you told Talaen.”

Rising, he settles his weapons and backpack comfortably. Turning his attention to the watching she-cat, he clicks his tongue gently, rubbing her head when she walks closer. With a sigh, he gently ruffles her soft fur and departs, the cheetah trotting at his heels.

[Ardaion]

Ardaion Sunleaf sits cross-legged on one of the small ridges that frequently surrounding Lushwater Oasis. He is stripped to the waist, his leather garb dirty, streaked with a few burn marks, and splattered by blood. His torso is sweaty, smeared with blood in a few places, and bears several shallow wounds. With a grunt, he tugs a short arrow from his left thigh, eyeing it briefly before tossing it aside. The wooden shaft clatters as it rolls down the hill, by chance coming to land near the dead bodies of two centaurs and three hyenas.

The Blood Elf Hunter looks down with narrowed eyes at the dead Kolkar and their Packhounds. He gives a short growl then turns his attention to cleaning and binding his wounds, bandaging them tightly with silk. Behind him, his cheetah paces and growls, her brilliant orange eyes wary and alert. Ardaion turns his head and makes a soothing sound, running a hand down the she-cat’s back. “Time to go, my beauty,” he murmurs, rising to his feet. Grabbing his chest armor, he slides it back on, fastening the buckles. With a small, grim smile, he replaces his weapons and reaches down to grab the string of centaur bracers he has collected.

Loping with an easy stride, he leaves behind the oasis, returning to the small Orcish outpost under the command of Regthar Deathgate. He enters to be greeted by the Orc’s loud, harsh voice. “Well, Blood Elf? What did you bring me?” Ardaion flinches slightly as the grating tones assault his sensitive ears. Silently, he holds up the short rope, strung with a multitude of centaur bracers. He tosses it lightly to the Orc, who bares sharp tusks in a grin. “Excellent, Blood Elf, excellent.” Reaching into the satchel at his waist, he tosses Ardaion a small pouch that clinks as the Hunter catches it. The Blood Elf nods and departs without a word, his she-cat at his heels.

Ardaion strides through the small outpost, watched by the Orcs and Trolls there even as he watches them. He finds a sit on a piece of timber near the edge of the camp, well out of the way of the other Horde there. His sleek cheetah lays at his feet, tail twitching gently. With a weary sigh, the Blood Elf rakes a hand through the messy remains of his blond ponytail, sweaty strands of hair clinging to his face, neck and shoulders. He glances across the camp and then out to the Barrens, his gaze distant. Reaching into the satchel at his waist, he retrieves the brown leather bound journal, setting it across his knees.


The main enemy of the Horde here seems to be the Kolkar Centaur. The Orcs offer a decent bounty on their bracers. They are strange creatures and almost distressingly easy to hunt.

They are cunning, but not clever. They smell awful. They snarl at me in a strange tongue as they attack. . .and die.

They seem to know some primitive form of magic; it calls lightning, which can be painful. They have some who run with packs of Barrens hyena, vicious slavering beasts that with a strange, laughing cry.

He pauses, his expression thoughtful. He examines his hands and arms as if they belong to a stranger. The long, muscular lengths are covered with shallow gashes, slashes from animal teeth, and a few punctures from arrows. One of his graceful hands is wrapped in tight silk, stained with blood. He flexes the wounded hand carefully with a thoughtful sound, returning to his journal.


Perhaps I underestimate them though. Typical sin’dorei arrogance? We have reason, but sometimes it makes us blind.

The Kolkar may not seem like much at first glance, but they have driven the Tauren near to extinction and dominate several lands. For whatever reason, they are a force to be respected. My wounds should remind me of that. They gave me no serious injuries, but I and my beauty had enough close calls that I would do well to remember that the next time I hunt the Centaur.

And there will be more to hunt. The Orc here, ‘Regthar Deathgate’ wishes me to kill some of their leaders, to throw the Centaur into chaos. Easy prey? Perhaps. The money the Orc offers is paltry and meaningless.

I want to see if I can kill them.

Ardaion closes the book, tucking it away again. His hand smooths gently over the cheetah’s spotted coat, his jewel-bright gaze distant. A slow smile curves his lips, the expression not one of humor, but a strange eagerness. He glances down at the she-cat, smoothing her ears. “Come, my beauty,” His voice is soft, almost a purr as he rises. “We should rest. We have hunting to do at dawn.” Turning toward the road, long legs carry him across the rolling grass, the cheetah pacing beside him.

[Ardaion]

Ardaion is sitting in Orgrimmar, beside the pool of water in the Valley of Strength. His back is braced against a wooden post as his she-cat lays beside him. The slender Blood Elf is absently rolling a gold coin across his knuckles, occasionally flipping it into the air so it flashes. Not from him, Orc and Troll children run and play outside the Orgrimmar Orphanage. His expression is mildly amused as he watches the children play; the coin dancing across his knuckles and spinning through the air. One small Orc child pauses to stare at him with large eyes, which the Blood Elf returns curiously. Ardaion’s hand stop the gold coin and he lifts it to turn it this way and that, showing it to the child. With a casual flick of his wrist, he tosses it toward the Orc child who catches it a little clumsily. At the child’s questioning glance, the Hunter nods and is rewarded by a huge smile that shows where tiny tusks are growing in.

With an excited yelp, the Orc child rushes back to Orphan Matron Battlewail. The older Orc woman looks down at the child and gives a startled sound, realizing the coin is enough to feed the orphanage for a few days at least if spent wisely. She casts a look of both shock and suspicion at the Blood Elf Hunter, who merely gives a mild wave, turning to his attention toward the light dancing off the shallow pool. Matron Battlewail merely stares at the Hunter’s back for a few moments before calling for Tosamina. The two female Orcs talk for a few moments and in short order, Tosamina departs for the market.

Ardaion gives no indication he can even understand the Orcish used by Tosamina and the Orphan Matron. Instead, he simply listens, ears tilted back to focus. A small, satisfied smile curves his lips as he reaches down to scratch the cheetah’s ears gently. He makes a thoughtful little sound to himself, reaching into his satchel for his familiar journal. Bringing one leg up to brace the heel against the dirt, he rests the book on his thigh and starts to write.


If I believed in Fate, I would wonder what plans it has for me and Talaen Wildthorn. Our paths continue cross time and time again. It is probably simply luck though; we both seem to be hunting in the Barrens for now.

The leaders of the Centaur were easy to kill. Primitive? Confident? Does it matter? Their blood feeds the yellow grass now, and my beauty and I are relatively unscathed. I even managed to kill a few of their champions for good measure.

I was returning to Regthar Deathgate when I spotted something out of the corner of my eye, smelled crushed plants, heard the rustle of cloth against ferns. . .

To be frank, I nearly shot him before I recognized white skin and star-ruby eyes. He was the last person I expected to see in the Barrens at high noon. Any fool knows those with lighter skin have a difficult time with the sun. Already Talaen Wildthorn’s ears and face were reddened by the sun and his eyes watered. Albinos do not do well in such environments. I felt the odd urge to cuff him for being foolish and risking himself. Mother would be proud.

I settled instead for taking him with me to Regthar Deathgate, pleased when he stepped into the shade. At least he has some sense. Once I settled with the Orc, I asked him what he was doing out here and why he was unprotected. His responses only increased my urge to rattle some sense into him.

Instead, I dug around in my satchel until I found the lotion Mother sent me, designed to protect the skin. Mother was worried I would burn my ears, but I am sure she would be more worried for Talaen. He needs it far more I do, the fool. I made him stand still while I coated his face and ears at least. He obviously did not care for the treatment, but I think if he had tried to refuse, I would have lost my temper. Fortunately for both of us, he accepted both my help.

Ardaion pauses in his writing to look up and turn, sharp ears detecting approaching footsteps. The same small Orc child he gave the coin is walking closer, carefully holding a crude wooden plate with gently steaming food on it. With a shy grin, the child offers it to the Blood Elf who takes it with a puzzled frown. However, before he has time to speak, the boy giggles and bolts back, most likely for his own meal. For a moment, Ardaion regards the roasted kodo meat, slightly rare and gently seasoned. Beside it, a thick slice of dark buttered bread sits.

Looking toward the Orphanage, his gaze meets that of Orphan Matron Battlewail, who is passing out small plates to the children. She pauses in her work to give him a level look as Ardaion tilts his head and quirks an eyebrow in silent question. A moment of understanding passes between them and the Hunter gives a small, formal half-bow, inclining his head to the old Orc. She nods brusquely in return, but smiles slightly before turning her attention back to the children.

Ardaion gives a small answering smile and turns to regard his cheetah, who is giving him a pointed look between glancing at his plate. “Demanding, my beauty?” He murmurs with a chuckle, rubbing her chin a moment. Choosing a large slice of the meat, he offers it to the she-cat, who takes it delicately and sets it between her paws to eat, ripping off small strips and chewing with a rumbling growl of pleasure. The Blood Elf makes his own small hum of pleasure, eating a few small chunks himself and biting into the tough, but tasty bread.

The meal disappears quickly, most of the meat gifted to the cheetah, who makes her wishes known by laying a wide, taloned paw on Ardaion’s leg and tugging gently until she is fed. Once the plate is cleaned, the Blood Elf rinses it in the nearby water and sets it down beside him. Sated, the she-cat yawns and stretches out, orange eyes sliding closed as she basks in the sun. His long, sensitive fingers smooth over the plush, spotted fur, his expression lost in thought for a time. Finally, he lifts the journal and writes again.


Talaen and I traveled to Thunder Bluff. He says he trains as a Priest to find answers. I am not sure what to make of that. The Light is the Light is it not? Not all Paladins must train as the Blood Knights do? But who am I to know or judge? If that is what he wishes to do, then that is what he should do.

My family has always put more faith in ourselves and other things, but we remember the Sun and the Light. I wish Talaen good luck in his search.

Ardaion pauses and laughs, shaking his head, his expression amused and almost fond. He blows a few strands of golden-blond hair from his eyes, smirking to himself. Reaching up to tuck the wild hair out of his face, a small simple sketch takes place in the lower corner of the page of Talaen, looking perplexed with one eyebrow lifted.


He got lost. I found watching his puzzled expression highly amusing. I could not bring myself to guide him, though I am familiar with Thunder Bluff from my time helping the Tauren simply because it was oddly comforting to see him being so normal and expressive.

He sighs, leaning back against the post, ears twitching gently as his face grows serious, almost grim. His hands rest on his journal, motionless for a time. Finally he takes a breath and releases it slowly, looking down at the page to write.


Uncle Nalarian sent me a message but I cannot go home yet. There are a few more of the centaur leaders to kill. Final blows to throw the tribe into chaos. Let that be done before I leave for more familiar lands.

Putting the journal away, Ardaion rises. He clicks his tongue sharply, fingers beckoning as the cheetah flicks an ear and glances at him. With a spine-tingling stretch, the she-cat rises, falling in place beside him. Grabbing the plate, the Blood Elf strides purposely toward the Orphanage, stopping before Matron Battlewail. Without a word, he offers the plate with a small bow, turning to walk away, long legs eating up the distance with casual grace. The old Orc woman stares after him a moment in confusion before releasing there was something in her hand under the plate. With a frown, she set the plate to one side, she eyed the small leather bag curiously. A tug opened it and a handful of golden coins spilled into her palm. Her eyes widen in shock, jerking her head up, but the Hunter was already gone. For a long moment, she simply looked at the money in her hand, enough to care for the children for a moon or more. Then carefully, she replaced the money into the pouch and headed back into the Orphanage, chin held high to control the emotion in her eyes.

[Ardaion]

Ardaion Sunleaf leans against the side of the small ‘hut’ at the top of one of the guard towers that circle the Crossroads. Nearby a large Orc in leather and steel armor glances at him, grunting now and then, but otherwise ignores the lithe Sin’dorei. The blond Hunter is sitting cross-legged, his journal in his lap while the sleek cheetah sits at his side. Her large orange eyes swept back and forth alertly over the large plains that fill their view, her ears twitching as she churrs and swishes her tail. Ardaion lifts a hand to rest on her back, smoothing the short thick fur.

The young Hunter is stripped to the waist again, his torso pale-golden in hue, but marred by scratches, bruises, and wrapped in bandages in a few places. Spots of dried blood are also visible, but the wounds seem mostly superficial. For his part, Ardaion looks a little weary, but otherwise healthy and hale, undaunted by the wounds he bears. At his other side, a carved bow rests, Orcish in make. Occasionally, he glances at it, brushing long fingers over the weapon with a thoughtful expression. Finally, he turns to his journal, pen moving in graceful sweeps over the page.


I am wondering about Fate again and why it seems to bring me back to Talaen Wildthorn.

He pauses, his lips lifting in an amused smirk. A toss of his head sends the soft golden strands of his long hair over his shoulder and out of his eyes as he turns back to his writing.


Or perhaps I am merely being a fool and it is mere Luck. It is hard to say but again and again our paths cross. Much to his annoyance at times it seems.

He pauses with a grimace this time, setting down the pen and flexing his hand a few times, the calloused length wrapped in silk bandages. There is blood dotting it in several places, the old wounds from a few days past not yet healed. He rolls his wrist a few times to loosen the tension and sighs, bringing the pen back to the paper with a slightly determined expression.


I have been hunting the leaders of the Kolkar Centaurs for the past week. They were scarely a challenge. They have no real guards, just a few of the large males who lounge near their leaders. They were quite simple to deal with. One by one I dealt with each of their leaders . . .

Barak Kodobane
Verog the Dervish
Hezrul Bloodmark
Rocklance
Stonearm
Brokespear
And finally their Warlord Krom’zar . . .

Each of them fell to me and my beauty. My reward was a few handfuls of silver and a handcrafted bow made by an Orcs craftsman. And of course, those of Orgrimmar will remember my name. A fitting reward I suppose, though I have gathered my share of bruises and wounds dealing with the Kolkar threat. Primitive they might be and rather slow, but they can be powerful and vicious. Their females wield magic with an odd feel to it; something like the Shaman I have seen amongst the Horde.

Each time he writes a name of one of the Kolkar’s leaders and most powerful warriors he smiles slightly, his cat-green eyes glowing with remembered victory. Stopping for a moment, he reaches into a pouch at his side and pulls out a necklace made of bone. One familiar with the Kolkar of the Barrens would recognize it as something the most powerful and feared of them wears. Ardaion turns it this way and that, eyeing the rune-like carves in the kodo bone and semi-precious stone beads. The stone pendant hanging from the primitive necklace is carved with the symbol of the Kolkar, suggesting it was once worn by one of their leaders. A flick of his wrist tosses the necklace and he catches it in his hand, rubbing his thumb over the pendant before tucking it away again and picking up his pen.


Just after the last of them fell, I traveled back to the Orc, Regthar Deathgate. Or at least I started to. I caught a flash of brilliant white and black and nearly loosen an arrow into Talaen Wildthorn again. He was evidently gathering herbs around the oasis the centaur frequent. I was tense and on edge, not to mention bleeding. I consider myself lucky I realized he was another Sin’dorei before I released my arrow.

He probably would have thrashed me for that. . .

Ardaion turns to look out over the wide, rolling plains, long sensitive ears lifting and tilting, listening to the distant and intriguing sounds of the Barrens: the cackle of the hyena, the roars of the cats, the snorts and neighs of Zhevra amongst others. He chuckles softly, his expression introverted as he remembers the day. He shakes his head after a moment and turns back to writing.


He is older than me, but seems to lack some common sense or survival mechanism. Albinos have very little protection from bright light and the Barrens’ sun is a harsh one. Talaen was running about in thick black robes with his head and ears completely bare. Even from a distance I could see his already reddened skin was starting to burn. He can be an incredibly thick-headed and stubborn person I am swiftly finding out.

His pen moves to the lower corner of the page, moving in strong, smooth sweeps. In a few minutes a simple line drawing takes place of a male Blood Elf with strong, sculpted features, short hair and a rather skeptical, aloof expression on his face. A few movements of the pen adds a hint of scarring at the lower neck and a ‘flush’ across the cheekbones.


I have no idea why I am concerned about him. Especially considering the fact one of the last times we talked he tossed me into the ocean without so much as a by-your-leave. Still, I made him come with me into some shade, provided by one of the small Orc encampments. I used the light, herb-smelling salve Mother gave me that protects and heals sun damage.

Talaen took my smearing it across his face and ears with even less grace, but I was pleased he at least tolerated it. I gave him the jar. He needs it a lot more than I do out here. I wish I had had something he could cover his head with, but chances are he would have refused. I was pushing my luck and his limits by touching him at all.

Ardaion pauses with a sigh, raking a hand through his long hair to smooth it from his eyes. Shifting the journal, he retrieves a letter that was tucked under it, bearing the seal of House Sunleaf. He studies the fine parchment with an almost wary expression, finally opening it slowly. His eyes swept over the short, simple letter. He stares at it for several moments before carefully folding it and tucking it away. He picks up the pen a final time and writes the last lines with a strong hand.


The time has come to go home. The message comes directly from Father this time. I have been here too long it seems.

He closes the book firmly, buckling the straps and tucking it into his backpack. Reaching over, he grabs the form-fitting leather jerkin resting near him and slides it on, buckling it firmly in place. His bracers and gloves follow before he climbs to his feet, a soft whistle beckoning to his sleek cheetah. “It is time to return to the Ghostlands, my beauty,” He says, his hand caressing the cat’s head and ears. “Come on.” Turning, he moves with a long, purposeful stride down the steep ramp, the feline at his heels, heading for the flight master.

[Ardaion]

Ardaion Sunleaf sits perched on wooden boxes stacked high in one of the supply wagons resting around Tranquillien. His long legs are neatly crossed and his weapons and bags rest on a box beside him. Below him in the wagon, his sleek cheetah dozes, her regal head resting neatly on her paws. Ardaion looks a bit weary, as well as dirty; his armor is scratched and streaked with various black fluids and ashes from the Dead Scar and Scourge roaming there. Once again, his journal rests in his lap as he writes.


I have returned to the Ghostlands. We once called it the Blackened Woods and before that Eversong Forest; no longer though. The Ghostlands suits it. It is a place of death and disease, where the few remaining living beasts are infected and mad with plague. The only ones who seem immune are the Amani trolls, but their great hatred of my kind makes them just as much a threat as the Scourge.

Still, we reclaimed Eversong Woods. Once day, I hope, the Ghostlands will be ours again. . .

He pauses to rub his eyes, looking tired and annoyed. He shakes his head and rakes a hand through his rather dingy hair, dirtied by his time hunting. Reaching into his bag, he pulls out a simple necklace, staring at it for several moments. Finally, he slips it over his head, tucking it into his armor.


I ran into Sareyne Dawnwing again. She has the tact of a rattlesnake. I suppose I cannot talk, but she cannot seem to restrain her urge to attempt to irk me. I wonder if it is just habit, or she thinks that particular trait is endearing? She makes rude remarks of my spotted beauty, my skills, my actions. . . Everything that seems to touch her mind.

Tonight I was in no particular mood, though I admitted to be polite. She gave me a few pieces of jewelry she crafted and I was startled, but flattered. I was careful to thank her. I am not sure what it is about me that sets off Sareyne Dawnwing, but somehow I seem to gloat her to bait me?

Why? I have no idea. Nor do I have the energy and inclination to attempt to unravel the puzzle that is her actions toward me.

He stops to stare off into nothing for a while, still as a carved statue except for a few light twitches and tilts of his ears. After a time, he looks down and scribbles the next lines almost reluctantly.


I like Sareyne in an odd way, or I almost do. I admit it comes and goes.

I suppose we shall have to see where this goes. . .whatever this might be in the future because her path and mine seems to cross nearly as often as Talaen’s and mine.

He closes the book and unfolds his limbs to drop onto the wagon bed with a soft thud. His cheetah lifts her head and glances at him, making a questioning rumble. “Come on, beauty,” he mutters, agilely leaping to the ground. “Let’s get some food and clean up. We have much to do tomorrow too.” The cat stands and stretches lazily, yawning to reveal long teeth briefly before she bounds after him toward the nearby inn.

[Ardaion]

Ardaion sits against the doorway of one of the many unoccupied troll huts found in the Hatchet Hills. A short distance away others milled: trolls, humans, and Orcs mostly, the members of Budd Nedreck’s group. They pay little attention to the slender Farstrider who set his camp in one of the old huts no longer in use. His large cheetah gets a few respectful looks as she growls the occasional soft warning, but otherwise Ardaion and his pet are left alone.

The Blood Elf Hunter is stripped down to a simple linen shirt, soft leather pants, and knee-high boots, each in soft, common shades of brown. His armor and weapons are neatly stacked inside the hut; each appearing to be freshly cleaned and repaired. Near them, a collection of Trollish bone necklaces and weapons lay. They are not cleaned, but bound neatly with some sinew. Further in the hut, a small fire burns in a pit intended for the purpose. Near that, a pallet of soft furs is arranged for a bed. The sleek cheetah is laying near the fire, curled up and sleeping while Ardaion writes in his journal on one propped up knee, his heel resting against the door frame.


Amani trolls.

They have hated us for generations without count now. This was their land before King Dath’Remar Sunstrider came with our ancestors and took it.

They hated us when we stood with the Alliance.

They hate us more now that we are amongst the Horde.

These trolls never forget and certainly never forgive.

Ardaion pauses to make a brief sound of amusement. Turning his head, he looks at the gates of Zul’Aman, jewel-bright gaze speculative. Shaking his head after a moment, he returns to writing.


They are stupid things it seems, led by a mad creature called Zul’jin. He nearly died to the Alliance and now he sulks inside the remains of his city, plotting.

I can scarcely be particularly sorry that the Amani trolls were not strong enough to hold their land. I find their anger at this almost amusing. As if they would not and have not done the same as much as possible.

All races do. The strong take from the weak. The weak either get stronger or learn to survive by allying with others.

if the Amani are too stupid to know that then let their tribe die under the blades and arrows of stronger. I will waste no tears and feel no regret for their ‘plight’. They are blood enemies and too foolish to ever be anything else.

He leans back, expression turned inward briefly. His glance moves to study the collection of bone necklaces and weapons he has gathered from the Shadowpine Amani tribe. He picks up a set of the Catlord Claws, turning them this way and that with interest. The next he examines is a Shadowcaster Mace, running his fingers over the realistic carving of a snake’s head and body. Ardaion replaces the mace after a minute and returns to his writing.


I have been thinning their ranks today. They work some interesting magic, but it is easily dealt with and they die quickly. I suppose the only reason the Trolls here still remain is they breed quickly. They have never been a match of us.

Captain Helios asked me to bring him their weapons and the head of the chief, some creature called ‘Kel'gash the Wicked’. It was easy enough to gather their weapons from their bodies. Easy as well to kill the troll and his guards in his hut. All dead, their blood feeding a tainted land. . .

I feel surprisingly little as they die. Nothing really, no matter how close cousins they are supposed to be to our allies, the Darkspear trolls.

Of course, I have seen many a Darkspear take a great deal of delight in slaughtering Amani as of late.

Perhaps my apathy should bother me less.

He closes the book and buckles the straps, tucking it into his bag. He considers the bed and his sleeping cheetah, but instead his gaze moves to rest moodily on Zul’Aman as the sun slowly disappears behind the mountains.

[Ardaion]

Ardaion sits outside one of the houses of Tranquillien, stripped to the waist. His torso is heavily bandaged, the silk wrapping around his ribs spotted with blood and a bit dirty. His left arm is tightly bound and hanging in a sling. His silky pale-gold hair is down and a matted mess. His expression is weary and annoyed as he eyes a healer fussing around him, poking and prodding. When the healer reaches down to manipulate his left wrist and elbow, he gives a sudden snarl. “Sun scorch me, stop that!”

The healer, an Undead male with glowing eyes and ragged greenish hair frowns as well as he is able to with the skin half-rotting off his jaw. “Lord Sunleaf, you really should let me look at that. I think there may be some damage to the tendons.”

Ardaion gives him an annoyed look, long ears pressing back a bit. “It is getting damaged more by your wrenching it around. It’s just a pulled muscle and a bruise. Let it be.” His voice, usually soft and low, is downright cold with an edge of steel to it.

The healer frowns harder, “But-”

“Enough.” The young Sin’dorei noble says, his expression turning as cold as his voice with a harsh tone of command. “You have others you can be attending. Go.”

The Undead stares a moment and then withdraws. Ardaion sighs and leans back against the cold stone of the dwelling. A low purring sound causes his head to turn as his sleek cheetah pads over to him. Her elegant head dips, sniffing his arm and the bandages. He lifts his right hand to stroke her head gently. “I’ll live, beauty. Just take a few days.” He murmurs, his tone soft and soothing. The cat churrs softly and then gracefully lays down beside him, laying her chin on his lap. The Hunter smiles affectionately, running his hand along the cat’s back.

After a short time, he reaches into his backpack, laying near him on top of his damaged, soiled armor. A few moments of digging produces his journal. He rests it on one thigh, using his injured left hand carefully to steady it while he writes with the other.


Stubborn habit compels me to write.

My shoulder and arm ache fiercely. My chest hurts when I breathe. And I’m fairly certain there is not a single part of me that is not bruised or battered.

Still, I did what was asked of me.

Tranquillien wanted two Abominations hunted down. Evidently the creatures were created by the Scourge. They have been roaming the countryside, attacking and killing anything they find that is not Scourge. No longer though. They are dead. Again I suppose I should say.

Huge, hulking repulsive things, they are cobbled together parts of Sun knows what. They reek of death and disease and rotting meat; more than enough to make one gag. Rotting guts bulge through gaping holes in their bellies. Mad staring eyes over wide mouths lined with broken teeth that grin with a strange, insane joy. Huge, rusting, blood-encrusted weapons wielded by oddly jointed arms.

Disgusting, loathsome things.

He pauses, wincing a little and very carefully rolling his left shoulder. A soft grunt of pain makes his spotted feline companion lift her head to eye him curiously. Ardaion lifts a hand to rub his shoulder, grumbling softly to himself. He soothes the cheetah by running his good hand along her head and back until she quiets, then returning to his writing.


They did not die easily.

One vomited some kind of vile green fluid. It stank and burned, eating away at flesh and armor. My shoulder pieces are probably ruined, but I was fortunate not to get more on me. I thank the Sun my beauty was fast enough to dodge. It makes me ill to think of what might have happened if that acidic filth had touched her. It hacked at us both with huge, clumsy cleavers, but in the end it fell and was finished.

The other was stronger I think. It slashed at us with a massive rusty hook and a thick chain tipped with thick barb at the end. I coaxed it into the trees, thinking that might help to keep its large weapons at a disadvantage. That proved to be a mistake. A flick of the thing’s arm sent the chain crashing through a small tree and directly into me.

It was a small miracle I managed to stay conscious when my body slammed into a larger tree. Of course, if I had not been, it might not have hurt quite so much when the Abomination cuffed me almost playfully and nearly torn my arm off. . .

Thankfully, my beauty was able to distract the creature. Undead or not, the thing did not take kindly to her teeth and claws tearing at his eyes. The rush of battle made it possible for me to get to my feet and use my bow until the thing fell. Luck was with me when a passing patrol spotted me and took me back to Tranquillien.

Knowing my father’s ears, I will be traveling home before the sun sets in a few hours. He is probably going to be furious at me. Just as well that he is going to order me home though. I might not admit it to him, but I need the rest.

He closes the book and leans his head back, eyes closed in exhaustion. His hand rest on the journal carelessly as he breathes in careful, shallow pants, mindful of his injured ribs. Ardaion’s eyes snap open though when footsteps approach him. One of the Farstriders who patrol the area moves briskly to him, her face determined. “Lord Sunleaf, your Father has-”

“Ordered me home,” The slender Sin’dorei finished. A small, amused smile shows when the Farstrider blinks and nods in surprise. “And he has told you that if I refuse, you are to use whatever means necessary to return me to Silvermoon City and my family’s home?” Another confused blink and nod confirms his question and he chuckles. “I thought as much. Let’s move then.”

Gritting his teeth, Ardaion slowly rises. The Farstrider moves to help, but the young lord shakes his head and gestures her away. “I can manage. Hurts less if I just do it myself.” He says quietly, his voice lacking venom. After a moment, he is on his feet and striding toward the town, his expression bland and his stride purposeful. The slightest hint of pain shows in the set of his jaw and ears, but to the eyes of most he scarcely seems to notice his injuries. He speaks briefly with the Farstriders heading toward Silvermoon City for supplies, nodding and climbing into one of the wagons, heading for home.