Shades of grey

There were two letters waiting for them in Soutshore; one for her, and one for Eireannan.

Funny how, Laandra thought, despite the turmoil this world had experienced of late, correspondence seemed to always make its way towards the addresses.

Probably because the goblins made such good money by running the postal services. And then, there was also this habit, to entrust a letter to some barely met traveler and ask it to deliver it at his destination.

The two envelopes Laandra picked from the mailbox of Southore inn bore the mark of Ratchet. One had Eireannan’s name scrambled down by a hurried hand, not really on friendly terms with the writing. The other one was cleanly folded and had her own name, ‘Laandra Seth’aran’ clearly written on the back.

Tucking Eireannan’s letter into her pocket she retreated to a quiet place, out of the way of passers by and opened hers, frowning as she did so, recognizing the small seal of the Sentinels of Ashenvale.

She read it twice, her features darkening a bit under the news, then folded it back and placed it in the same pocket where she had put the first one.

Why did she come to the town in the first place?

Oh, yeah, she remembered, their supply of food was almost exhausted, and so were so reserves of crystal vials and briathorn. With a long sigh, Laandra headed towards the inn.

The lower floor was packed up with people, mostly humans from Hillsbrad and some dwarves form The Hinterlands, mugs of beer and ale and cigarette smoke. They would talk out loudly, laugh and flirt, without paying too much attention to the alien looking draenei woman, as she strode in and made her way towards the bartender.

As a matter of precaution, Laandra had pulled the hood of her cloak well over her hair, almost covering the face as well…The burning of Hillsbrad was quite recent and, despite the darkness of that night, some people might remember. Even though, she knew it, to many of them, that held barely hidden disdain for strangers, their faces looked all the same

She made her purchases in a hurry, so absent minded that she had to count thrice the silver coins before handing them to the man. He eyed her tall figure suspiciously, trying to see behind the cloak that draped her body and hid her features, but without success, as Laandra had positioned herself in such an angle so as to be away from the candlelight.

Going out of the inn, the stuff she had bought packaged and stuffed in the all-purposes bag she usually carried around, she stopped for a second to look at the darkening sky.

A soft breeze came from the sea and brushed through her hair, making her shudder.

It smelled like vast openings, endless waters and salt. It smelled like freedom.

She immediately felt ashamed of her nostalgia.

Your home is wherever you can do the work of the Light.

But how much work of the light she had done lately? Laandra asked herself, shivering under the memory of that night in Duskwood…only two weeks or so before. Tapping into his essence had been such a thing of darkness, yet it felt so good that she still had trouble telling herself it was bad. It was more than draining the magic out of Eireannan. It had been the communion of two souls which longed for each other. Or was she just trying to convince herself that it was so, to diminish the guilt she felt?

Was it so how the forces of shadow corrupted the innocents?

An innocent she wasn’t.

She had killed before.

Not in the name of Light, neither in that of the evil that freely roamed the world. Out of sheer necessity and to prevent greater harm being done.

Her own fire magic, wasn’t it a manifestation of the Nether itself when she brought it into reality? And wasn’t it a double edged sword – warming houses, cooking food, ultimately purifying , but also the most destructive force she had ever known?

Eireannan himself…

With something like a bulge in the back of her throat, which prevented her from breathing, she stumbled down the main street of the town; only to find herself on the little pier, alone, save for a fisherman or two, who were packing their tools. The night was rapidly falling over the land, the sky now gloomily dark towards the east and bathed in a strange, blood-like light in the west, where the sun was settling behind the mountains.

Laandra sat down, seating aside the full bag, her legs crossed, her hands clenched in her lap.

Eireannan was a double edged sword too.

He had suffered so much, she thought. Lost his family, the woman he loved and everyone he had ever cared for, in the most horrible of ways. Saw their bodies broken and defiled, the utter destruction of his home land, at the hands of a man alongside he had fought against the Plague all over Lordaeron.

And lost his faith.

Who wouldn’t have?

Yet he was caring and compassionate, ready to sacrifice himself to defend the life of the innocents.

And he was also dark and ruthless, like the shadow that crept into his soul. Fighting each day to maintain the balance between the values in which he still believed despite his denial and the fel magic that tainted his blood and threatened to take control.

I am aware of all this and yet I still love him. I may not approve of some of the things he does, but that does not change my feelings.

Fel magic is the same as fire.

We have to draw on it to survive.

But we have to maintain control.

She longed for the times when magic wasn’t a matter of conscience, but only a tool to fight against the corrupted treants of Bloodmyst. When things used to be good and evil in her mind. Light and shadow. Not various shades of grey.

With a sigh, Laandra felt into her pocket for the letter, and wrapped her fingers around it, as if the call of that far off land would have been able to sort out the torment in her own head.