#// also what could go wrong with the banshee queen running around quelthalas

[ladywindrunner]

@windrunnerrs ( nathanos ❤︎ continued from x )

“—in conclusion, Magister Drathir believes these rumours of plague are baseless, rooted in the mortality of the human race and their fear of death.”

           The words came from a messenger of the Magister’s Terrace, a young man with a surprising haughty disposition. He stood in fine robes, though not as flowing as the magisters he served. He was a servant, not an apprentice, enchanter, or any other rank of mage the fools could conjure.

           And Sylvanas was entirely confused as to why she was listening to him. She stared at the bookshelf, back to the man, eyes wide as her mind reeled from whatever spell that orb had cast.

           Quel’Thalas?

           The thought hardly pierced the absolute terror in her mind before she collapsed, lungs burning as she gasped for air.

           “Ranger-General!” The arrogant tone of the young man vanished as he hurried over to her. He grabbed her arm, staring at her in concern. “Are you well?”

           Ranger-General?

           Light be damned, breathing hurt. It pained her each time her lungs dared to expand and draw breath. She sucked air in through flared nostrils and clenched teeth. Her limbs shook, and her skin ached where the messenger dared to grab her. Her nerves flared at every touch.

           It was overwhelming.

           “I—“ she croaked out a single word before she paused. Her voice, her voice was different. It was ordinary. It did not carry the ethereal resonance it had. It was plain. “Let… go of me…”

           Hesitantly he did as she commanded.

           Vicious with her glare, she regarded him with the same disdain she often had with the living who overstepped their bounds.

           “Get out.”

           There was no hesitation this time, the man scurried away.

           She sat there in silence, unaccustomed to the fear that attacked her. Worse yet, beyond the nerves and the aching breaths she drew – was a haunting sensation within her chest. A thundering, panicked beating that rocked against her ribcage.

           A heartbeat.

           “Alive,” she hissed, struggling to her feet. She used the bookshelf to steady herself. “How terribly inconvenient…”

           Admittedly, not a statement she’d ever thought she’d make.

           It took her a moment to recognize where she was. Her first instincts of Quel’Thalas were correct. But beyond that, it was Silvermoon. She was in the palace, in her office at the top of one of the many spires the structure possessed. The window was open a crack, permitted the gentle spring breeze to reach her.

           She stumbled towards a mirror, her limbs feeling strange.

           Her heart, which she now felt for too keenly, nearly stopped.

           Her skin was fair, flush with life. Her grey eyes were not drowning in a seething red glow, but rather alight with a gentle blue. Her hair was flowing, and long. It carried with it a lively sheen.

           Her clothing, the outfit of a ranking farstrider, simple but respectable.

           Her gaze caught a glimpse of a weapon resting on a desk. An elegant, ornate bow. Red, gold, and turquoise, bearing the symbol of the royal family.

           The Sunstrider Longbow.

           What was going on? What terrible trick was this? What had that orb done?

           Thousands of questions flew through her mind, none of which possessed simple answers.

           Sylvanas stared at her hands.

           It was not that her limbs felt strange. They felt alive. They carried with them a sense of things. Touch, most notably. Though her nerve-endings no longer felt as if they were on fire, the high elf found herself almost overwhelmed by the sensation of clothing on her skin. While in undeath she’d been vaguely aware of their weight, now she noticed every stitch and thread that grazed her skin. How her breastplate was snug, midriff bare.  

           A choice dictated by vanity, if she recalled correctly.

           She moved towards her quiver, and plucked an arrow from it.

           Quel’dorei arrows, exquisitely made. Sylvanas pulled a glove from her hand.

           Dreams were simple to end; the concept of pain always woke one up. Not that she’d dreamt in years – but there were incantations that could render the undead unawares.

           Without faltering, she drove the head of the arrow into her hand.

           The woman hissed after a second of terrible realization. She pulled the offending out, tossing it away as she clenched her hand a moment after.

           She hadn’t woken up.

           The spell hadn’t wavered.

           She cursed in Gutterspeak, shaking her hand. Slowly she opened it up, eyebrow arching curiously.

           Warm, red blood ran from the cut.

           The smell didn’t strike her nose. All she smelt was the lilac trees from the gardens, wafting through the open window.

           Either this spell was powerful, or it wasn’t a spell.

           Her heart fluttered anxiously. What was happening back in Orgrimmar? Was that runt of a high king the Alliance followed using her absence to his advantage?

           Her eyes widened.

           Nathanos!

           All at once she moving, ignoring how she felt nearly alien in her old body. She equipped her quiver and slung the bow over her shoulder, and was fighting to put the glove back on her hand as she descended the staircase, leaving that infernal office behind.

           She was moving so quickly she nearly crashed into another.

           “Ranger-General!” The exclamation came from a young man, eyes bright. He stared at her attentively, giving a quick salute. “Ranger-General, His Majesty wishes to speak with you.”

           It took Sylvanas a moment to realize that the man speaking to her was Halduron Brightwing. Light spare him, somehow he appeared infinitely younger then—

           When? Now? She wasn’t quite sure when this was.

           “What?” She questioned, nearly snapped. Her eyes narrowed sharply.

           His Majesty?

           Brightwing’s lips pressed thin into a nervous cringe. “His Majesty… King Anasterian.”

           Oh, she could have laughed. She almost did, her lips curved into a sharp, unfriendly smile. That fool was still alive. Yes, of course he was. Useless imbecile he was.

           “I don’t have time,” she replied quickly, “that fool will have to wait.”

           Halduron blinked, stunned.

           She glared at him.

           “Where is Nathanos?”

           Halduron coughed, looking back the way he must have travelled. “I saw him outside the walls, Ranger-General. He plans to scout the Lordaeron wilds, to see what exactly is happening beyond our borders.”

           Her heartbeat picked up once more.

           She had to stop him.

           If Nathanos was here with her, the fool was undoubtedly trying to save his country. She couldn’t allow him, he’d die. He could not save Lordaeron, by the time she’d given the man permission to leave, the human kingdom lost.

           “Find Lor’themar,” she commanded, “tell him to ride for Windrunner Spire immediately.”

           “Of course Ranger-General,” he bowed his head, “but what reason should I give?”

           She frowned. She needed a reason for him to follow her command?

           “Tell him it is of the utmost importance,” she clarified, though it was hardly a justification.

           Brightwing, with little other course, saluted and hurried away.

           Sylvanas hurried towards the doors of the palace. She wouldn’t run, not until she was outside.

           She hadn’t considered what she’d feel, seeing Nathanos alive.

           She called his name and watched him hesitate, turning whilst on the saddle to see her form running across the bridge to him. Her mouth turned dry, and she found it hard to swallow as her gaze became fixed on him. His skin was not deathly pale, his face was his own, with no hints of his nephew. She could see he drew breath, and he sat upon a horse amidst the elven world around him.

           Her run became a jog, then a walk before she came to a complete stop.

           What is wrong?

           A strange, stinging pain erupted in her chest. She looked away from him for a second, somehow devastated. She stared at the wildflowers skirting the tree line. They weren’t yet in bloom.

           Nathanos had been there, in the room with her when the orb activated. But if this had been her Blightcaller, he wouldn’t have asked that. He would know. He would have told her she couldn’t stop him.

           In this strange nightmare, she was alone.

           All at once she buried the anguish, and looked once more at him.

           Her distress did not stay away; it rose up with a vengeance. She felt as if she’d choke on it if she dared to speak.

           “I—“ she coughed, clearing her throat as she cursed her heart. It was already causing problems. “I need you to accompany me to Windrunner Spire.”

           Her home was at least two days ride from Silvermoon, but it was the only place she could guarantee no one would overhear what she had to say.

           “I cannot tell you why, only that it may have dire ramifications.”