For a moment, Phetatarei was just trying to trace the raindrops abseiling down her bedroom window. She didn’t know if she should root for one of them or if she should try to guide them all to the bottom of the window. She was not a master of the elements, but maybe she could manipulate the course of some of the raindrops by tapping the glass. She entertained that thought for a second, but she quickly realised she didn’t want to escape the comfort of her bed.
Pheta, as her friends liked to call her, was tired. Drained? Battered! She had been fighting in a battleground for the whole day. She even wanted to keep on going for more than she was allowed. When the spirit healer saw her knuckles were bleeding from dealing with the impact of heavy blows on her shield, the priest doubted that the Draenei could even lift the grand shield anymore. “I know you’re never going to admit it, but I can see yer in pain. I’m going to ask a battle mage to teleport you back to Stormwind. You have aided the Alliance more than enough today, my lady.” The dwarven priest had a stern look in his eyes as if he could see her mind racing to look for any excuse to keep on fighting. Pheta knew that the red haired healer was right, but her body didn’t want to admit it. Not yet anyway.
As soon as she was pulled back from the fight and into the Alliance capital, she knew she had gone beyond her limits, again. When she came down from the mage tower, which already made her think about the bruises on her legs with every painful step she made downstairs, she couldn’t bear the vividness of the city. Student mages were busy training their teleportation skills back and forth through the garden. Little children from refugees of the Cataclysm were cheering on the students, awestruck by the power of the arcane. Vendors were trying to praise their wares. Smells, some still not familiar for her Outlandish senses, were flooding the trade district. She was pointing her nose to the scent of the forges of the dwarven district. Like most of the Longbeards she rented a room at the local inn there.
On her way there she had to cover her ears, for she couldn’t deal with the noise of the city. In a weird way she was even too tired to summon a mount so she decided to walk to the inn. As early as she arrived at her rented room she took of her armour and crashed in her bed. She had no idea of the time, she didn’t care she could not keep her eyes open anyway.
But now, hours later, it clearly was night. She didn’t fully grasp which came first, the nightmares or the storm. What she did get however is that she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep anymore. She just couldn’t get rid of the image of a raging orc trying to knock her shield out of her hand. Even as the rain was washing away all the smell from Stormwind into the canals, to the sea, she still had the reek of the orc’s breath in her nose. His eyes had been red with bloodlust provoked by his allied troll shaman. The orc was a fierce warrior and both him and Pheta were trying to get a foothold on a bridge. The bridge was around the middle of the Twin Peaks staging area. Whichever side was able to control it, had better access to the enemy. As a tank, Pheta was sent forward to try and capture the bridge and prevent any Horde from passing it. Some of the Horde would still be able to swim through the narrow river, but if they would try to wade through the water they would be vulnerable.
Her bedroom window flew wide open with another powerful gust of wind. Raindrops splattered on her face as if the orc on the bridge was spitting in her face again. She sighed, deeply, painfully, her chest filled with stress. Now she was forced to leave her bed anyway. The innkeeper would not be happy to fix up a leaky floor. Pheta pushed away her blanket exposing herself to the cold. She never liked to be cold, it reminded her of Northrend, of the journey through the twisting nether aboard the Exodar. She would not say it out loud, but the cold just sucked.
She was able to lock her window again, but now she didn’t feel like going to bed anymore. What time was it? Would there still be people downstairs drinking away their sorrows, or maybe enhance their spirits with alcohol? She didn’t feel like talking. Sometimes the horrors were better left inside her head than shared with others. Everyone on Azeroth had their hurt, she didn’t want to moan about hers. The clock of the Stormwind cathedral struck twice. Doing! Doing! The clang of metal sounding the hour brought her back to the bridge of the Twin Peaks. The orc was banging his massive axe on her shield, almost breaking the bones in her arm holding it. She redirected the power of the Light to her shield arm. While she felt the warmth of the Holy hue coursing through her veins, she still could feel the strain on her body. The orc was aided in his battle by an angry raptor trying to bite Pheta’s face off. The raptor was the pet of a nearby Tauren hunter who herself was aiming her arrows at a Druid behind Pheta. Suddenly she heard how the troll shaman put down his totems, ready to heal the orc from any harm caused by the Draenei paladin. In response Pheta’tarei mumbled a prayer.
She could see the shock in the orcs bloodlusted eyes. The orc was mighty but he also knew his limits against the power of the Light, suddenly his paladin enemy started glowing, her blue eyes beaming with confidence. Suddenly the orc felt how his feet were seething hot, the Draenei's shield started to glow and he couldn't look at his radiant target anymore, she was covered in the Holy Light. Suddenly the orc realized that his prey was becoming the hunter, she had not yet tapped in her Holy powers, he had underestimated the cunning of this lady. He assumed that one blessed by the Naaru, didn't know how to fight dirty. As soon as she bashed her shield in the raptors mouth, killing it in an instance, he realized he was so wrong. His hunter assistant, shocked by the sudden death of her pet, stopped a while too long to shoot her arrows at the Worgen druid. Before the Tauren realized what was going on, she was trapped in a Cyclone. The Worgen started channeling a tranquility spell and before his eyes the orc could see how nature's blessing was mending the wounds of his enemies.
Still the warrior had not lost confidence, yet. His shaman would still be able to empower him, and bless him with the warmth of water healing. Enraged with the realization that the paladin had been toying with him he grabbed his axe in his strong hands and started spinning around at an insane speed. No-one could force him to move now. Who would be so stupid as to get near his flurry of Bladestorm. He grinned, surely the paladin would have to step back now, clearing the bridge from any Alliance influence. When he spun back with his vision towards the shaman he saw a shield of Light bouncing off the Troll, right at his face. The orc felt the pain, but did not bother until he realized the Shaman was not able to heal him anymore. When he spun around again he saw a Gnome rogue appear from the shadows killing his healer in one blow. By the time the orc had spun another time, the rogue was nowhere to be seen. The Tauren hunter lay on the ground, bleeding. He stopped turning, realized the Draenei had not moved an inch, before he could curse her and her Holy Naaru, he felt a warm sensation in his chest. The Dranei paladin had cut open his chest with her axe, imbued with Light. While he fell to his knees he spit his blood right on the Dranei's helmet. As he drew his last breath he was looking for mercy in her eyes, but it was nowhere to be found.
Phetatarei was staring out the window, huddled in her blankets. It felt like she was freezing, but she knew it was not the cold that made her shiver. In the distance she could still see the torch light of Stormwind's guards sheltering from the storm through the night. It had been a while since there was any danger in Stormwind, but on the realm of Azeroth, nothing was ever really safe. It was hard not to feel hatred for the orcs who had destroyed Stormwind in the second war, the orcs that destroyed her home, the orcs that had aligned with the Burning Legion, the same Burning Legion that had corrupted her Eredari ancestors. Still when lightning struck and thunder roared she was confronted with the orc's look of dispair. He was fighting for the Horde and she was fighting for the Alliance, but there was no glory to be found in war. The urgency of survival, the politics of their leaders, that's what had led them to the battleground.
Phetatarei smelled the ovens turning on, the forges being lit and the scent of fresh bread. The storm was not fully over yet, but dawn had returned. No rest for the wicked they said. She knew she was not fully rested, but she decided to take a walk in the early morning rain. All she longed for was the warm embrace of her mother. Mother was dead, and Pheta had grown too big to be fully covered in her caring arms anyway. She poured herself a cup of honey mint tea and went to the Cathedral of Light. She was in need of a confession.
