A Noble Cause

The early morning air was still and quiet, the only sound cutting through the mists drifting before the rising sun was the *clump* of the undead steed's hooves on the soft grass. Biara reined the horse in, slowing it to a stop and earning a hiss and baleful look from the creature as she slid from the saddle. Paying it no more mind, she slipped into the enveloping mists, heading deeper into the ruins of Silvermoon and towards the looming statue in the distance.

She walked stiffly, her gait pained as she made her way towards her goal. Her battlerobes were torn and dirty, and the left sleeve of the outfit had been torn to shreds by an assault, leaving the pale flesh of her wrist broken open. Dried blood clotted the wound, and more blood stained the fabric and dotted the skin on her face. Around her, her wards flickered balefully, their strength diminished from almost constant bombardment by enemy spells; the Magistrix had clearly been fighting for hours, and was bone weary.

She slowly made her way to the ruined statue, slipping down to the ground before it and using a tumbled block of stone as a backrest as she settled in. Her gaze roamed over the bronze huntress, as it had thousands of times before this, the blue green of her eyes absorbing the sight as if it would bring her solace. She sighed after a time, letting her eyes close and her thoughts wander.

In her mind, she saw war. She saw spells flaring and the clash of blades. She saw men and women of a variety of races locked in deadly combat, falling down into death as they were struck fatal blows. She heard the cries of those who were wounded, heard the screams of the civilians in Darnassus as if she were standing there again at that moment. She sighed again and opened her eyes, looking up at the statue.

"It seems I'm destined to come here through good times and bad, father," she said softly. "It dawns on me that you probably had your own place, in the wars you fought long before my time. I wonder if you felt the same way, or if you were content, knowing that no innocents were harmed by your actions?"

She fell silent for a moment, thinking about what her father must have experienced in his own battles against the trolls that constantly threatened Quel'Thalas. Likely he had very little reason for remorse when he struck them down. Likely he never had to raise a hand against those who could not defend themselves. Not like his wayward daughter, who was forced to bathe in the blood of innocents to keep the remnants of her people safe.

She looked away from the statue, back out across the stillness of the ruins of Silvermoon. Her voice came out hushed, as if afraid of breaking the silence of this place. "I wonder if others judge me as harshly as I judge myself? Do you think Knight Brightdawn would care to see me now, like this? Would he be proud of me, or simply flee in horror like all of the others before him? Can he even understand what it is that I must do, what I have to be responsible for? Would he understand the noble cause for which I engage in such horror? Could I ever explain it to him?"

Her gaze returned to the statue, almost accusing now. "It's not fair you know, father. If you and mother had never left, if I had never had to take up this mantle, then perhaps I would never have had to ask these questions. I don't blame you, I know you are not at fault, but it's still not fair..."

The Magistrix trailed off, burying her face in her hands as tears came. The darkness of her closed eyes was no comfort though; she could see the faces of the dead parading before her then. She wept for a time, both from the pain of her injuries and the exhaustion as well as the sheer horror that war brought with it. Despite her words to the contrary, she never returned from battle unmarred.

After a time, her tears ceased and she grew calm. She hugged her knees to her chest, her head bowed, unseeing and uncaring of the world around her. The mists drifted silently in the pre-dawn light, her only company. The solitude and pain reminded her that she was truly alone; there would be no one to return to in her spire to comfort her. There was only here and now; only the dead to hear her lament.

She sighed, her mind seething with wayward thoughts until finally she became too exhausted even to do that, and drifted into fitful sleep in the gloom of the ruins. Hours would pass, and the Wretched of the ruins would not dare to approach her sleeping form, the wards protecting her a deadly warning to their kind. She slept like the dead, but all the while inside, a little part of her yearned for someone to come and tell her that it was alright; to soothe away the sorrow and carry her from that place.