“Monsters are born of pain, and grief, and loss, and anger. “
Diviners always seem prepared for everything. In truth most Diviners tended to wing it, having a extra leg up by using the information they could wrest from nowhere. Being able to use the extra information came in handy and with so few mages specializing in the school of Divination it made them seem far more knowledgeable than they were. It gave a reputation and Windsong relied heavily on her divining and that reputation. But even a master of the school of divination was just as fallible as any other mage.
She had been forced to learn a new school after the Sunwell had been destroyed and a crippling addiction to magic had been made clear. She was loathe to use her darker skillset but if she had no choice then maybe Alexander could wait longer for a new body.
So before she had left that morning she had prepared herself. The enchanted socks for added speed. Her favorite dagger and thick leather boots and a folded scrap of gold cloth in her pockets and the spells needed for the body, stored on vellum scrolls. She had several of her clothes enchanted and despite the look of the cloth and leather it was as good as a suit of armor.
Carrying out a full enchantment was hard to do but she made certain to regularly renew it. It was invaluable to have the lighter cloth without the layers of linen and heavy armor. Of course the risk of the enchants breaking at the wrong time was always there. Cloth was not as good at holding the enchants as metal, stone, or any other lasting material.
I headed towards the ghostlands, taking a day and some hours to get there. Even renting a hawkstrider did little more then shorten the trip by a few mere hours. They might have reclaimed much of Quel’thalas but there was still enough danger to be found that Windsong preferred to travel on the crowded roads where guards kept patrol. It held the promise of safety, not that she was afraid of what lurked by the dead scar or in the shadows of the trees. As she reached the bridge leading into the Ghostlands there was a definite feeling riding up her spine. Anticipation.
Her slender fingers caressed the leather reins as the hawkstrider continued on. Her last stop with the hawkstrider was Tranquillen. The only large city of noteable worth that was in the ghostlands. The residents were hardened, stoic elves. If Windsong had to guess they had been there for some time.When she dropped the hawkstrider off she took a few minutes to breath, centering herself before she walked down the road, off the beaten path and towards the ruined village.
“Victory or death.” She whispered softly to herself, having already seen countless possiblities before her. A familiar defiance stirred to life in her chest and her nose rose up. She would not know fear.
Anger was easier.
Tyleril Silversword 