Despite the magic shrouding his home, Teldrassil always allowed more than a little of the sea winds through, especially in the higher branches that crowned the mighty home of the Night Elves.

Thyrion always came back here, his home, to rest, relax and attune himself back to nature. His endeavours always brought him close to corruption, temptation and to death. This place was where he recovered. He felt sullied by his last battle, poisoned by the roiling smoke and plumes of sulphur the spewed from the Molten Core.

He had felled burning giants and creatures not of this world. He had burned his claws on the ancient and immortal incarnation of fire, Sulphuras. He had breathed in the smoke, the hate and the rage that burned through its molten veins, and always he had shied from the glory that greeted their achievements, allowing his presence to remain anonymous to all but his companions and his superiors.

He was a solitary creature, forced to participate in battles alongside a chosen few of his peers, be they Druid or Hunter, Night Elf or Dwarf. He enjoyed the company, the comradeship of those times, but solitude was his escape. It balanced him, never allowing that easy slip into temptation. Some drank, some sang, some drew and others fornicated to rid themselves of the taint of evil that so quickly grew into a seed… Thyrion immersed himself in nature; in the cool breeze of the sea, in the deep greens and long shadows of the forests and of the simple innocence and beauty of his fellow creatures.

Waiting for the next time his skills would be used Thyrion cleared his mind, the beasts that shared his body quelled and silenced in this place of peace. He had to be prepared.

In the darkness of her bedroom, she peeled her clothes off. They were so heavy, all saturated and wicked. A bucket filled with water, the fine fabrics submerged. She peered at her reflection in the wall glass. Blood had dribbled down her collar, rivers of it slicking her arms, over the curve of her breasts and stomach.

Tricky witch never wears white. The stains. Oh the stains.

Her laugh was wind chimes and tinkling happiness.

Silly Cattania. Look at what you’ve wrought. The rush of the river, the lark that sings.

She inserted a blood smeared finger into her mouth. Her tongue worked under the nail to dislodge something thick and strange, and she spit it into the hearth. A swell of magic and a fire hissed to life.

She moaned.

She wanted to lick the blood off. No, never with the nether spawn. Not even my sweet Jhoryla. Jak darling Jak. Come home and let me love you.