When she is nervous, Ana writes.

his weapon’s a mirror
for all that is lost
a future yet to be found
he hears from the wound
of the terrible debt
to those who live under the ground…

These aren’t her words either. Somehow, whatever it is that’s been communicating with her over the last week is asking her to feel what they do. It’s not intrusive, this isn’t being forced onto her, quite the opposite. There’s an inescapable sense of hope that hasn’t existed for a very long time, too, that somehow this is only a beginning.

How is it possible when the Sword of Sargeras has sat in the desert of Silithus for so long? Surely she would have heard these words before…

perhaps before you were not ready to listen?

This is the first time that The Voice has spoken to her directly, and it should be enough to send her into a panic, but isn’t. Waiting in the Old Town’s training area, where she’d lived for years between campaigns, there’s never any stress or fear, simply frustration at how long it takes her to learn new rotations.

There’s something ceremonial going by the stables this morning, extra Stormwind Guards plus Pandarian visitors for some Festival or other… She identified three people in stealth posted before the Training Dummies: none are practising drills. The warriors opposite her are both armed to the teeth, and it isn’t for show.

More and more it’s Stormwind’s guards that are purely for decoration, the real killers and assassins are placed in plain sight. Once upon a time, you’d never see a Warlock practising summoning in broad daylight. The three women laughing and joking and doing just that could vaporize these buildings if required.

She is a Hero, like them all. A Champion, a Commander, a Leader. Those titles never sit well in her head.

‘I’m sorry we’ve kept you waiting, Master Shaw’s been called unexpectedly to the Docks. Please, follow me.’

Inside the building is quiet calm and increasing silence. It’s a surprise when the page leads her through the business end of SI7 and into living quarters. Shaw’s office is exactly how she’d imagined: his chambers however are a different style entirely, all greens and blues and chairs that make sitting and waiting to be called a pleasure and not an inconvenience.

This is probably the best view of the Old Town she’s ever seen, but nothing of importance will ever happen here without countless protective wards and the possibility of a teleport to somewhere a long way from potential prying ears and eyes. With nothing else to do, she returns to her battered folio marked with a charcoal stick wrapped in linen, protected by bone.

The words in her head as she woke this morning, the next line of whatever this is she’s been hearing then transcribing, sit and wait to be properly identified. Here is the beginning of something different to all those stories and verses written before. It is fuelled by something greater than her own history. These, she is now confident, are the words of Azeroth.

That’s not what she wants to write now, though: on a fresh page go notes of what was seen and heard whilst she waited to be called here. The new armour style that both warriors had adopted is from the Hallowfall Arathi. Silk from Kalimdor is again at the vendors in the Trade District; it might be worth a visit to pick up some to line her leg-plates. The Pandarians have been arriving on both continents in the last month. She also needs to ask Shaw about what’s being referred to as the ‘Radiant Song’…

When his page had asked her to wait there’d been a hesitancy to the lad, as if he wasn’t himself sure of how long it might take, which was odd, because they’d been very keen to pull her from her work without any real explanation. There’s also a smell, that wasn’t here before, something unusual. Not food, not wood or paper… a reagent. A memory sparks, what seemed like a lifetime ago before here and now.

Rook, He and Sun, who had sworn to protect their land and were bound to it as unwilling defenders, who Lorewalker Cho has begged her raid to release from what was undoubtedly a terrible fate. Pandaria, before the Battle of Orgrimmar.

Descending steps, cold and stone, the smell of a space that had not been explored for centuries. A Titan Guardian.

Two Sha’s, both dead. An axe, left forgotten. The Daughter of the Sea.

A flash of carmine, silk and gold brocade and the smell of…bloodthistle!

‘Lor’themar Theron!’

‘Your senses are impressive, Huntmistress Weaver. Are you sure you’re not a rogue?’

She stands without thinking, head bowed, not quite sure where to look, before the realisation hits that the Reagent Lord of Quel’Thalas is standing in front of her, in a building, in Stormwind. If her father and brother knew this, at least one of them would try and attack him. Elves were barely tolerated currently, but a Blood Elf…

‘My Lord, I’m sorry -’

‘I do not expect my own people to treat me with such reverence, let alone those who may consider themselves my enemy.’

‘A citizen of Azeroth will never be my enemy. Your history was recounted to me in much detail before we fought in Orgrimmar. Your skills with a blade and a bow are without equal. However, it is your empathy that I admire the most, to see and embrace a picture beyond the red and blue.’

‘It is still rare to encounter a Human who thinks in these terms. Many I feel would happily attempt to end me rather than engage me in conversation… but you have spoken with my soldiers, and my officers. Instead of fear, you embraced a willingness to learn. But that is not your true skill.’

‘Indeed, I am a passable hunter and an average blacksmith, compared with others-’

‘In your heart you are a Bard, Huntmistress Weaver, in a land where the singing of songs has been forgotten, as I am a Ranger in a faction that gave up that skill a thousand years ago.’

Ana looks at this Elf, older than hundreds of generations of her family, stripped of his armour and with only modest daggers at each hip, and something primal stirs within her. The outfit he wears is undoubtedly alien but somehow worryingly comforting, a memory that should not be sparked from seeing. It’s not an outfit, but a costume, that over centuries was adapted and refined.

‘My Lord, your attire…’

‘… is familiar to you, yes? You have seen this before, perhaps many times, but not been aware that it was far more than simply clothing. This is also a uniform I have not worn since this world was far, far younger than it is now. Please, sit, we have much to discuss., and I would venture to suggest that you will be hungry, after working all morning. My people, with your permission, will conjure for us a flavour of times past…’

---