Beckyann rode slowly through the streets of Dalaran, her deathcharger's hooves making loud echoing noises in the somewhat subdued city. Ever since the purging of horde sympathizers, the atmosphere of the city was somewhat strained. It made sense after all; many of the residents had been forced to part with good colleagues or had seen the atrocities that came with resistance.
For Beckyann, visiting the city was something of burden as her memories fought to surface. Although she'd spent only a short time in the city and had gained only a little through her association with the Kirin Tor, Dalaran itself had stood like a beacon of hope in her mind, her path towards her shining future when she was younger. Returning to it now in her current state brought a bitterness with it that was tinged with the haunting memories of the young woman who had first stepped foot in the city, intent on making more of herself than poverty had declared she would be.
It was as these thoughts circulated through her mind that a song penetrated her thoughts. The man's voice was deep and rich, and he had a talent for song that few would rival. As his words floated over to Beckyann, she found herself turning her head, her baleful eyes scanning the streets for the source of the sound. She spied him only a short distance down the road, his arms spread wide as his ballad continued, people passing him by giving him only a brief nod or perhaps a coin slipped into the battered hat on the street before him.
Although Beckyann had come to the Alliance-dominated city to pick up a few rare spell components she needed for her work, she found herself drawn to the man's song. Even at a distance she thought the melody sounded familiar, and she tugged on her steed's reins to guide it towards the man, which it did with only a few of its customary hisses of anger. She slowed it as she approached, her head tilted as she listened to the words.
It was an old ballad, a tale of heroes of ancient times and one from her homeland. She'd not heard it sung in many years, and never had she expected to hear it during her quick foray into Dalaran's shops. The man was old and well traveled judging by his appearance. His gray hair and beard had very little hint of color in them, and the age marks around his eyes and the haunted look they held told her much about his history. That he was a beggar was beyond question now; the state of his once fine coat and breeches left little doubt that he'd been wearing them for many years without a change of clothing.
He looked at her, actually meeting her gaze as he sang, nodding to her once and continuing the song. That he would dare stare into her glowing eyes was impressive to Beckyann, although she suspected it might be more the sign of one who had nothing more to lose than bravado. Even so, his song didn't falter at all as she sat atop her mount, watching him and letting the memories that his song brought rise up.
She'd been raised on tales like the one he was singing; songs of brave heroes and men who would seek out the darkest perils and put them to the sword. She remembered listening to such tales by the hearth in the winter, her father's voice telling of the fierce battles and stunning triumphs of men and women of legend. The spark of excitement that such tales had brought had never left the young Beckyann, and when she set out to make something of herself, they often bolstered her courage even when she felt despair nipping at her mind.
As the song drew to a close and the man's voice stilled, Beckyann realized that she'd been daydreaming, actually recalling her past and smiling like she might have when she was alive. She studied the man, neither of them speaking or moving as he watched her, likely wary of her steed.
What he didn't know, what he could never know, is that Beckyann herself had once begged at the very spot he now occupied. He would never come to comprehend the sheer willpower that had made her stick it out in a city of mages that cared little for a poor girl from Corin's Crossing. He would never know that her life had changed on this very spot when she'd finally, after weeks, managed to hold the attention of an Archmage long enough to earn herself an audience.
Just as he'd now captured her attention.
She shifted in place, reaching up and removing something from around her neck, slipping it from beneath her breastplate. She held it in her hand, studying it for a moment, admiring its beauty. It was a golden necklace, encrusted with diamonds and other precious gems. She'd taken it from the House Woodbury crypt that she'd visited recently, and had yet to part with it simply because she enjoyed the look of it. Without a second thought, she tossed the extremely valuable jewelry into the air, watching as it landed in the beggar's hat. His eyes widened in shock as he stared down at what she'd thrown; it would feed him for years to come.
"T-thank you, M-miss," he said, his voice choking up. "T-tales will be sung of you and your generosity one day."
Beckyann smiled, shaking her head and snapping the reins of her deathcharger, urging it to move. As she passed the man, she nodded at him once, her voice low, "It is not you who should be thanking me, but quite the opposite. Thank you for reminding me of where I came from, and where I still can go even now. Be brave my good sir, be strong."
As she rode away she never saw him jump to his feet as he stared at her, his eyes taking in the inscription on the pommel of her runeblade. He smiled, holding his hat with the precious gems in it close to his chest, his voice a whisper now as well, "Thank you, Lady Eastberg. Light bless you!"
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