The frail elf in a plain grey robe clawed at the strong green hands around her neck. Her eyes bulged, staring at the muscular troll on top of her, his legs straddling her body. The rest of the mobile infirmary lay dead around her. Taken off guard, they had fallen quickly at the hands of Eng Smolderthorn, a terrible sneer on his face. He watched her as she slipped into unconsciousness, musing at how stupid the elves were and how easily they died.

This elf, however, was different. She was weak and young, fitting for his plans. He moved quickly, grabbing a pouch from his hip and rummaging through the contents, removing a small wooden bowl, a packet of herbs, some greenish-blue liquid, and a pinkish hued crystal. Pouring the herbs and liquid into the bowl, he began stirring it with his finger as he chanted in Troll, his eyes remaining open and staring at the elf below him venomously.

Roughly he grabbed the bottom of her chin, jerking it up and forcing her lips to part as he poured the concoction down her throat. She sputtered as it poured into her, though Eng saw to it that not a drop was wasted. He chanted again, the tiny crystal shivering, then floating. It moved slowly, vibrating, a blue glow emitting from the center as it hovered over her mouth, hesitating for a moment as the Troll stopped chanting, it then plunged into her open mouth. The light shone through her flesh, traveling quickly down her throat, stopping over her heart as it grew brighter, then dulled before completely disappearing.

He rose, grabbing his possessions, his eyes narrowed with hate at the fragile, blonde elf. Hearing approaching footsteps he growled low in his chest, spitting next to her body and returning to the protection of the trees.


“You were spared by the will of something powerful,” Celebrin’s father smiled down at her, patting her cheek tenderly. She smiled back tiredly; the last few days had been disorienting. She had regained consciousness on the forest floor, two rangers looking over her, concern plain on their faces. They quickly brought her back to the city, placing her with some of the priests she had been training with. She had been examined and no real reason was found, other than trauma, for the cloudy feeling in her head.


She lay in bed a few weeks after, her mind still fuzzy, concentrating on her breathing to invoke her meditation. She smiled as she could feel her body relax, her breathing deep and slow. She drifted, searching for her center, when she felt a weird thought run through her. It went so quickly, but she knew something was around her. Something large and though it was not frightening, her former tranquility was broken. She bolted straight up in her bed, looking around for the presence.

The pain and fuzziness cleared from her brain and she could feel herself regain focus. She ran her hand through her soft, golden hair, unsure of what the feeling was and why she had felt it.


The feeling persisted. Sometimes for an hour, sometimes longer, the feeling overcame her. She never spoke of it to anyone, though she craved to tell those in her order, but the thought came to her every time she tried, “don’t tell.” Always the thought to keep it secret came to her, and so she did.


As time passed, the feelings became stronger, the mysterious presence appearing more frequently. The years went by and she could feel this presence guiding her, soothing her worries away, never judging her.

She began to meditate and train more seriously; devouring human books on the light. She became dedicated to being a pure and holy servant. Whenever the presence touched her, she thought back to her father’s words, “you were spared by the will of something powerful.” She knew that not only was she spared by something powerful, she was touched by it. She was being guided in the light by a truly powerful being, and she knew that if she followed it, she would be pure and holy.


In the fortress of Blackrock, Eng Smolderthorn went about his daily routines. Practice, training, drill, all the same tedious stuff that, as tedious as it may be, was necessary to carry on the war. Beyond that, he had other daily activities, far more important to him with great potential.

Quel’thalas, and in specific its capital Silvermoon, were safe from the Horde, but now he had captured himself a set of eyes beyond its magical defenses. He dreamed of a day when thanks to him, Eng of the Smolderthorn Tribe, they would sweep through those lands and lay waste to every last elvish structure. All through the actions he performed on one little elf.

He grinned to himself in a dark, stone-walled room somewhere in Blackrock, a voice, his own voice, echoing through his mind and carrying across the great expanses north to Quel’thalas: “It is all okay, you are under my guidance, and I shall not let you fail.” What returned to him was a mishmash of thoughts and emotions, but putting it together he read her feelings of renewed confidence and determination. “Do you love me?” He asked in his mind, the response, in the form of a burst of heartfelt warmth, was a definite “yes”.

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