There was recognition in his eyes. She saw him consider for a moment, then in that transformation that always made her eyes swim, she watched him shift from cat to bird. With a rustle of wings he launched from the cornice where he sat to join her on the one where her drake had left her. His form flowed back to that of a cat and he settled on the stone next to her.

She laid her hand on his shoulder remembering well the feel of his fur. When last they met, so many months ago in Dalaran she spent hours simply sitting and taking comfort in the feel of his fur beneath her hand. No words were spoken between them then. He found her trapped in her sorrow and offered her silent comfort.

Now she followed his gaze to the devastation below. Though she did not know why, she did know that druids more than anyone else were always drawn to the moonwells, those places of gentle, pure power created by the Kaldorei goddess, Elune. A smoking crater now stood where the moonwell in Stormwind had been. She could feel him trapped in sorrow.

Slowly she stroked her hand along the fur of his shoulders, offering the same silent comfort he once gave her. After a time he relaxed and leaned against her. The warmth of his furred body fought off the chill of the stone and the evening wind.

No words were spoken. Long into the evening they sat in silence taking comfort from each other’s presence. She could not heal this wound, as he could not heal hers so long ago, but in silence she could ease some of his ache as he had eased hers.

It shames me to admit that in a dark, wicked corner of my heart I cannot feel for their pain as much as I should. Our world went through this and worse. Draenor is nothing but crumbles drifting in the nether. Though broken, theirs is still complete. They did not understand the loss we had endured. The horror and deaths. They did not want to understand these things.

Now they do.

And a dark, wicked corner of my soul that I am ashamed to have and will never admit to others…. Is glad they now understand our pain.

 
Nauloera found Prophet Velen sitting quietly in a small meditation room off the city’s main temple. She could still see the tears upon his face, sense the emotional pain weighing upon him. She approached him slowly and knelt at his side offering comfort in silence.
 
When he spoke, his voice sounded hoarse from strain or tears. “Anchorite Nauloera.”
 
She reached out and laid her hand upon his. “Prophet Velen.”
 
“I am truly sorry for what you have been through.”
 
She shook her head. “There was nothing you could have done.”
 
In silence they sat for several more moments before he spoke again. “You should be with the others. It is nearly time to leave.”
 
“No.” She felt her hands tremble as she said the word. She knew Velen had not chosen her to stay but she was making the choice.
 
He turned to look at her, but she could not meet his ancient gaze. She knew if she did her resolve would falter.
 
“I must stay, Prophet. I have nothing. There is nothing left for me. I will stay in Shattrath with the others.” She clenched her hands together in her lap so he would not see them tremble. She spoke truth. There was nothing left for her. Nothing left of her. She would do this last thing for her people.
 
He shook his head sadly. “I did not choose you to stay for a reason, Nauloera.”
 
She bit her lip and shook her head. “There is nothing left for me. My home, my family, they are all gone.”

He reached out and took her hand gently in his. “That is one of the reasons I did not choose you.”

Try as she might, she could not keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks. “How can you ask me to go on with nothing? How can I continue when all that is left for me are centuries of emptiness. At least grant me the ability to give one last thing to my people!”

His hand tightened on hers and his voice held great sorrow. “How can you ask me to deprive our people of what the Light has planned for your future? Do you believe you are the only one that has lost everything? We will need our Anchorites to help guide us. You are the last of your line and our people will need what is unique in your blood to carry on our race. If not for yourself, then for our people, I will not ask you to give them your death. Instead I ask you to give them your life. That is the greater deed you can do for our race.”

She could not speak as he squeezed her hand one last time then rose to leave. She sat there weeping until someone came and urged her to prepare for the journey to their hidden sanctuary in Zangarmarsh. She wondered if the hollowed out feeling inside her would ever ease.

I realize now the request I made was a selfish one. Even knowing that, I would make it again. I did flee with the others to Zangarmarsh but only because of the plea from Prophet Velen to do so. I did, and still do, have contributions to make to my people, and to the people of this world of Azeroth, but the emptiness, the hollow feeling in my soul, remains. I try to hide the hole within me. As an Anchorite I have a responsibility to lead others to the path of the Light. To guide them and console them when needed. But when the Anchorite is the one with the wounded soul, where does she turn?

I chose to stay. My patients needed me, the Temple needed me, and there was nothing waiting for me in Shattrath. The only family I had on this world was Yaaniesa and she was now gone. I felt empty inside. All I could cling to was the power of the Light. I held to me the image of the Temple as I first saw it. This was our most sacred temple and I would stay and fight the orcs for it. It was all I had.

Nauloera sat quietly staring out the window of the main infirmary. Darkness had settled around the Temple of Karabor. The wounded slept fitfully and she suspected they could sense the building tension in the air. Much like the feeling one got as a mighty thunderstorm began rolling over the plains, there was a thickness, a dangerous taint in the air that was nearly tangible. The cool breeze wafting through the window did not bring the comfort it usually carried. Instead it whispered of danger unseen. It sent shivers down the spine and caused fear bumps to rise on the skin.

“Nauloera,” the word was whispered, barely audible, yet she jumped as if it had been shouted in her ear. “I am sorry. I did not mean to startle you.”

Nauloera forced a slight smile and moved over on the stone bench for Shaani, one of the senior healers who had remained. “It is nothing you did wrong.”

Shaani nodded, unable to dredge up even an attempt at a smile and sat gently next to her. She turned her gaze out the window and Nauloera wondered if she saw the silver moonlight shining down upon the grassy plains that sprawled before the Temple, or if she saw on the visions of the dead they had already sent to Auchindoun and the images of those yet to come. “There is a storm on the horizon.”

Nauloera glanced at Shaani a moment and noticed the shiver spreading up her arms and knew the senior healer was not talking about a natural storm. “I feel it too,” she whispered and turned to gaze into the darkness surrounding the cliffs of the Temple.

“The scouts will give the alarm should anything arise,” she said suddenly. “Perhaps you should get some rest.”

“I have tried,” Nauloera replied quietly. “The dreams…”

Shaani simply nodded. Many of them had been experiencing nightmares of late. Hearing the screams of their kind when they closed their eyes. Smelling death and decay even in their dreams. Haunted by the knowledge that slowly, village by village, city by city, their race was being exterminated. There would be no rescue from K’ure this time. He still lay trapped beneath the wreckage of the vessel now known as Oshu’gun.

“Nauloera! GET DOWN!”

She felt the power strike the side of the Temple as the full force of Shaani’s body thrown against her slammed her to the floor. She felt darkness, a foul taint, explode against the walls and slither along the cracks it formed. Shouts echoed through the Temple as the few remaining guards and anchorites rushed to meet the coming onslaught.

“Quickly,” Shaani rasped as she scrambled to her hooves, cradling an injured arm. “We have to seal this room.”

Nauloera hurried to follow as shouts rang out from the courtyard. Guttural voices cried out war cries and celebratory screams as she heard the guards being overrun. She helped Shaani shove the heavy stone door into place as cries of agony began to echo into the corridors.

It wasn’t supposed to happen this fast! She thought wildly as they tried to barricade the door. Their best guards, the finest and strongest they had at the Temple, had stayed to protect them and the wounded. How could they be overrun so quickly?

She could hear the cries echoing through the corridor as the battle came nearer. “Nauloera, someone has to get out!” Shaani grabbed her by the arm and all but dragged her to the supply room. “Here. There is a corridor. It leads through the depths of the Temple and out the valley wall to the east. Follow it and report to Shattrath.”

Nauloera gritted her teeth and planted her hooves as Shaani pulled aside a storage cabinet and tried to shove her into the corridor it hid. “NO! I can fight! I can’t leave my patients!”

“Don’t argue with me! None of us are going to survive! Someone has to report! There are more of them than we anticipated. If you stay, there will be nobody, do you hear me? NOBODY to remember what happened here this day! Now GO!” With a final growl, Shaani shoved Nauloera into the corridor and dragged the heavy cabinet back over the entry.

A spear of light pierced the dark, stone passage and Nauloera pressed her face close to peer back into the infirmary. She saw Shaani pick up a heavy staff from the corner as something was slammed against the door. Moments later the door gave way and orcs streamed into the room shouting in triumph. Nauloera watched in horror as they overran Shaani. She was hardly a hindrance to their maddened slaughter. Three other junior Anchorites were similarly slaughtered and then they started on the wounded.

Stifling her cries, Nauloera turned away and rushed down the dark corridor. She ran her hands along the smooth stone to find her way, keeping her hooves as silent as possible in the dark. She stopped when she heard voices nearby. Another small hole provided a sliver of light and she peered out into the main hall of the Temple.

Orcs could be seen still rushing about, their faces twisted in hideous glee as they defiled the Temple. Blood stained the walls and floors, furniture lay scattered and broken, tapestries and sconces torn from the walls. Smoke began to fill the rooms where other areas had been torched.

In the center of the room stood an orc, large even for his race, issuing orders to the others around him. She watched as Draenei survivors were dragged into the room, their injured bodies thrown harshly into a corner. He stared at them as more were brought in, beaten, bleeding and broken. She gasped as Shaani was thrown to the floor, moaning weakly. Even from here she could tell the Anchorite would not survive long if her wounds were not treated.

When no more were brought in, another orc approached their commander and spoke to him in their deep, guttural language. The commander nodded once and turned to walk over to the captives. Nauloera could not look away. She knew she should leave, should get out and away, but she could not tear her eyes from the scene before her.

The orc commander looked around and stopped, staring at one of the least injured, who in turn stared back, defiant.

“We have no use for prisoners here.” The speech was slow and thick but clearly intended to be Draenei language. Nauloera dared not wonder how he had learned it. “You will be marched to Hellfire in the North. Call out those in hiding and it will be easier on you.”

She saw doubt on the face of the Anchorite. “There are none in hiding,” he said. “We had no time.”

Nauloera stared, in shock. Taken to Hellfire. There may still be a chance. If she could follow them, perhaps free them or notify her people where they were, perhaps they could get them out of the hands of the orcs. Hellfire would be a march of weeks. They would have to act soon because judging by the wounds on the captives, many of them would not survive a forced march of that length.

When the guards began rounding up the captives and taking them from the room, she used the noise to cover her steps as she hurried further down the corridor. If this corridor came out the eastern face of the valley, that was far below the courtyards and even this room. She would have to hurry to reach it in time to see where the captives were taken.

She had no idea how much time had passed. The darkness of the corridor forced her to slow down to travel it or risk injuring herself at unexpected turns or slopes. More than once she stumbled and fell to the floor skinning her knees and hands on the rough stone. She nearly panicked when she came to the end of the corridor. The wall felt smooth and she could find no way out. She wondered if she had taken a wrong turn and ended up in a dead-end.

She calmed herself after a moment and remembered the entry to the corridor. It had been covered by a heavy cabinet. Hidden from easy view. This end was surely well hidden as well. She carefully ran her hands over the walls investigating every tiny imperfection in the stone she found. When her fingers slipped into a small opening in the darkness she let loose a gasp of relief. Inside she could feel small levers. As she worked them in the darkness she heard the wall let loose a low groan then felt it slip open slightly. Putting her weight against it she pushed it open far enough to fit her body through and pre-dawn light filtered into the space.

She stepped out into a crowd of thick brush and carefully made her way through it, along the wall. She crouched down into the brush when she came within sight of the main courtyard. Her people, the surviving Anchorites and Acolytes from the Temple were gathered there surrounded by orc warriors. She briefly wondered if she could cause enough distraction to allow them to escape but discarded the idea just as quickly. Archers lined the walls and the nearby area was heavily infested with more blood smeared orcs. She would have no chance of doing anything effective. She would have to wait until they began the march then hurry on her way to Shattrath for aid.

She watched as the orc commander barked a few orders to the others surrounding the captives. The reaction was swift and merciless; they set upon the captives like rabid animals. Every last Draenei was mercilessly slaughtered before her eyes. She clamped her hands over her mouth to hold in her own screams of sorrow and rage. The orcs smeared the blood of the slain over themselves crying out as if murdering helpless captives were some great and honorable feat. Over it all stood the orc commander, a pleased expression on his face.

Nauloera hurried as quickly as she could back to the hidden corridor. She scrambled inside and pulled it shut behind her, collapsing to the floor in the darkness and muffling her sobs in the folds of her robe. How could they do this? All of them slaughtered. Butchered like animals. No, less than animals. The orcs showed more honor in the hunting of beasts than they did her people.

I do not know how long it was before I was finally able to leave that darkened corridor. I still wonder to this day how the orcs did not find me and leave my body to rot at the base of what had been our most sacred temple. Eventually I left. Some instinct led me to Shattrath but I do not remember the journey. I do not think I cared if they found and destroyed me as they had the rest of the healers and clerics of the Temple. I do not think I cared if the beasts of the world found me and devoured me. Everything I loved, everything I cared for, had been destroyed. It was as if there had been so much taken from me, there was nothing of me left.

Eventually I was found by a patrol of my people and taken to Shattrath. I remember little of it. It was as if I was trapped in a fog of horror. There I remained until I heard that the orcs were coming for our last city. It was then that I knew what I must do.

The word is strange. War. Combat for survival against another race. Ever we have tried to live peacefully with the other races we met along our great journey. Even the orcs. I remember that day three summers ago when we heard that fever swept through the village of orcs not far from here. You, Aloor and two others took potions and supplies to aid the weakened tribe. You were so gentle in your assessment of them. You described their gratitude as “gruff”. I do not think even you could find such kindness in your heart now.

I do not know how much you have heard in the Temple. Perhaps a great deal considering that is where Prophet Velen resides. But there is no kindness towards the orcs now. They defile our dead, they sack and slaughter our people mindlessly. They murder children and babes in the womb. They desecrate our holy places. And still we know not why.

All of the children and injured of Anlenor have been sent to the safety of Shattrath. How long they will remain safe there is uncertain. It seems lately there are more injured than healthy. We fear we will have to abandon our home soon.

I do not know if I will be able to write again. Things have changed so much. I miss the gentle summer evenings listening to the song of the river and the night birds. No more do they sing. The sounds of the night now are terrifying or mournful. I care not to listen any longer.

Please stay safe in Karabor.

Your loving sister,
Yaaniesa

Nauloera touched the paper of the letter gently wishing she could be with her sister. Though she had no way of knowing what the situation was like in Anlenor now. The letter had been written nearly two weeks ago.

Nauloera knew more about the war than she cared to. Wounded from the nearby settlements were coming in to the Temple daily and the stories they carried with them were filled with horror and death. Nauloera worried constantly about her sister and those she left behind in Anlenor, but travel was restricted to military messengers and evacuees being relocated to safer havens and her skills as a healer and medic were far too badly needed here at Karabor.

She folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket before returning to the infirmary to help care for the injured there. Despite their best efforts, the smell of death and sickness permeated the room. Even the afternoon breeze they allowed to waft in through the windows could not cleanse the suffering of those who had already faced the vicious attacks of the orcs.

The odor of burnt flesh mingled with blood seemed to follow her where ever she walked. Even in the once tranquil gardens, she could not escape the smell of death. Though the sight of some of the wounds sickened her worse than the smell. Flesh that seemed to be burnt, yet the wound was surrounded by a terrible green, nearly black, area that rotted away the flesh if it was not cut from the body. The first of these wounds that Velen saw left his face ashen with grief. Nauloera eventually learned such wounds were created by fel magic. Dark bolts of corrupt power that injured the body and poisoned it slowly if they were not killed outright.

She tried to numb herself to the pain and suffering she witnessed. Even now, as she changed the bandages and whispered prayers of healing over a badly injured soldier who would not likely make it through another night, she tried to shut down her heart. Even with as many deaths as she had already seen, she could not. Each death, each wound, each cry of pain or whispered plea for release, left marks upon her soul and heart. Every night, when she finally retired to her small room, she wept herself to sleep, knowing tomorrow would be another such day of suffering.

“Nauloera! Indriina!” Nauloera looked up at the senior Anchorite as he rushed into the room with fear and determination in his eyes. “We have to prepare the wounded. They are being evacuated.”

She gasped and stared at him, stunned for a moment as other junior Anchorites began flooding into the infirmary, chattering and shouting instructions to each other. She shook herself and quickly finished the bandage she was working on before rising to throw herself into the scramble to prepare the wounded for travel. If they were being evacuated, Karabor would not be safe much longer.

As she rushed about the room gathering supplies and barking instructions for her specific patients, the senior Anchorite, Endaarel, came up beside her and gently took her arm. “Nauloera, I need to speak with you a moment.”

She nodded and followed him to a small room off the side of the infirmary. “Do you have special instructions, Anchorite.”

He shook his head, his expression grim. “No, Nauloera. I have news of Anlenor.”

Nauloera felt her heart begin to race and a lump of dread formed at the base of her throat. She wanted to speak, to run away from him, she knew she did not want to hear this news, but could not force her body to respond.

“There is no gentle way to say this.” He paused taking a deep breath before continuing. “Nauloera, Anlenor… it was attacked. Three days ago. There… there was nothing left.”

She felt her hands begin to tremble but could not stop them. She heard a vast roaring in her ears but could not silence it. The world around her grew dark and the sight of her sister weeping when she left their peaceful little village flooded her vision. In the distance she could hear someone sobbing. She blacked out before she could recognize the voice as her own.

As we followed the road it disappeared on occasion behind the surrounding rocks and mountains of earth, yet each time it reappeared like a beacon of beauty to welcome us. Never in our travels through the many worlds my people had seen had I felt so much like I was going home as I did at that moment. My heart sang for Karabor; it yearned for it. Something deep within, buried for many long centuries, awoke and reached for the promise it could feel within that temple.

I hold to myself that vision of the temple. That first, beautiful view of one of our most sacred sites. The shining structure, so large, yet not dominating the stone at its back or the rolling hills of golden grasses stretching out before it. I longed to see the sun rising against its face or setting at its back. I could hear the promise of tranquility carried on the breeze from it. As our elekks entered the main courtyard I felt shrouded in peace and Light. This truly was a temple fit for the lessons taught to us by the Naaru. More than anything I had ever seen, Karabor was a true home of the Light.

Eyes closed, face turned up to the sun, Nauloera sat upon the bench with the gentle rustle of trees from the temple garden surrounding her. Colorful birds who made their homes in the trees and bushes sang through the morning. Nauloera could feel the life of the garden, could feel the flow of the Light as it brushed everything there, kissed it with its gentle touch. Often she spent her meditations within the gardens rather than in the closed walls of the temple. The Light was strong where ever one stepped in this place, but only in the gardens could she feel it mingle with life itself.

“Acolyte Nauloera.”

Nauloera knew that voice. Every Draenei did. No other among them was so easily recognized by the slightest word or glimpse. Her eyes snapped open and she scrambled to her hooves to drop into a clumsy bow before Prophet Velen.

“Prophet Velen,” she stammered, not daring to look up. “My apologies. I did not realize you were in the garden.”

She felt him touch her shoulder, his signal that she should rise, and looked up nervously at him smiling at her. She had seen Velen before at ceremonies in her small town, but not very often. It was not until she came to Karabor that she could see him well. One had but to look in his eyes and see his age worn over him like a thick cloak. The oldest of all their people, the time could be read upon his face, in his stature, in the glow of his eyes. If one looked close enough the sorrow and trials that had faced their people from the time they fled Argus were etched into the lines of his face.

“I often come to the gardens to meditate. I see you have discovered the same peace here.”

She smiled and looked around at the surrounding trees. “Here I can feel life and Light mingle.”

Velen nodded and motioned her to walk with him as he began a stroll through the garden. Sunlight dappled the white paving stones along the path, the pattern of light and shadow shifting before them as the wind stirred the branches of the trees.

“You have not been at the temple long.” He said. It seemed more of a question than a statement.

“I have not, Prophet. I am Nauloera from Anlenor.”

He smiled and nodded slowly. “Anlenor. A small, quiet place. I have enjoyed my visits there in the past.”

Despite her nervousness, Nauloera smiled proudly. “It is small, yes, but tranquil. I could hear the waters of the Crystal River from my bed at night. It would sing me to sleep.”

“Do you find the same tranquility here at the Temple?”

She frowned in thought for a moment over the question, unsure what answer he wanted to hear. “I find tranquility here, and knowledge. I have learned much in the short time I have studied here. But it is… different. The Light is strong here. Everywhere one goes you feel it, taste it, breathe it from the very air. The gifts I never knew I possessed grow stronger each day and seem more natural, more a part of me than I ever imagined.”

Velen nodded carefully again as they rounded a bend in the path and stepped into the deeper shadows of the garden. “Did you think the Light’s gifts would come to one who they were not a part of?”

She looked up and studied his ancient features for a moment, wondering if there were some sort of silent chide hidden within his question but all she saw on his face was the same serenity he often expressed underscored with his deep scars of sorrow. “I do not know,” she said finally. She struggled to explain when he turned his gaze fully upon her. “I never felt like I was missing anything. I have never been adept at the arcane arts like so many of our people are. I have never felt as close to the Light as so many others, yet I was content. I was complete and happy. But… when I felt that first brush of healing light pass through me into my sister, suddenly there was a great emptiness that needed to be filled. As if I were a vessel that had sat on display and suddenly was put to service holding water. Though I never missed not having such a close tie to the Light, suddenly I knew… I could not live without it. I could not dwell in darkness any longer.”

She sighed and looked up at him again. “I cannot explain it any better than that. I know it may not make sense to you, but that is the only way I know how to put it in words.”

Velen smiled and took her hand in his, patting it paternally. “I understand quite well.” He released her hand and they continued their walk in silence for several moments before he spoke again. “What do you see before you?” He waved his arm indicating the path ahead.

She frowned, curious about the question and a bit confused. She looked ahead at the path noting the trees and leaves about her, the small animals skittering in the underbrush, the white stones littered with fallen leaves and somehow she knew that was not what he meant. She looked more at what lay ahead of them, at what others might not see. Streamers of light, with particles of dust shining in them like tiny stars, caught her eye and she smiled, taking a moment to relish their beauty. “I see light. Ribbons of light shining through the trees chasing away shadow and revealing the beauty hidden within.”

“You speak true, for it is there to see,” he said, nodding as if satisfied with the answer. “Look again, though. There is more.”

She stared at the path once more, the stones, the leaves… and the lines of shadow. “The light never truly chases away the shadow, does it?”

He smiled and looked ahead at the path. “It does not. There is a balance that must be maintained. One cannot exist without the other. By your first answer I know which path your heart will follow. Which path in the balance you will tread. But always remember the need for balance.”

She frowned again, a thought jumping to the forefront of her mind and she wondered if she dared voice it. “I.. Prophet Velen, I mean no disrespect, I only seek to understand. But… the… man’ari. Do they not wield shadow? I have heard that some of the advanced Anchorites work with shadow but considering what it has done in the past…”

She expected a sharp rebuke, or something for her audacity but it never came. A shadow of pain crossed Velen’s face before he answered. “They draw their power from fel magics. A darkness that knows nothing of balance, it only knows destruction, consumption, subjugation. Light and Shadow have a relationship of give and take, but fel only takes… and devours. It breeds a hunger for power, it is greedy for death and decay, is sucks life from all it touches. That is the difference.”

Fel magic. Nauloera mouthed the words silently and shivered, a feeling of dread coming over her. Even the very word seemed ominous and evil.

“I must take my leave, Acolyte Nauloera.” He patted her hand once more and inclined his head to her. “I have no doubt you will make a fine Anchorite when you have taken on your robes of healing.”

She smiled and bowed to him. “Blessings of the Naaru to you, Prophet Velen.”

“Blessings of the Naaru,” he said, and slowly walked away through the light and shadows of the garden.
I thought about that conversation many times. I still do when I rest in my room at night after spending the day healing or training. I do not feel like an Anchorite worthy of such praise, yet the power still comes to me. It still flows through me; into the vessel waiting for it. Yet am I deserving of such praise when I hold such feelings of hatred, despair, and fear?

Try as I can, I am unable to shed these feelings. Had I known they would cling to me long afterwards, perhaps I would not have struggled so hard to escape what happened at Karabor.

“Nauloera!”

Nauloera jumped at the sudden interruption, sending the ring skittering across her worktable and dislodging the gem from its setting.

“Yaaneisa! Don’t burst in so suddenly like that!” She scrambled to recover the gem and stuff it and the ring under a polishing cloth on her work table hoping her sister hadn’t seen it.

“Sorry, but the hunting party is back and it’s our turn to help butcher.” She laughed and beckoned her sister to follow. “Leave those silly rocks and let’s go.”

“Gems!” Nauloera grumbled as she rose and followed her sister from the small set of rooms they shared. “They are not rocks, they are gems.”

Yaaneisa grinned and shrugged, black waves of hair falling around her light blue, impish face. “Rocks, gems, all just solid dirt.”

Nauloera smiled at the playful tease. “You’re just impatient to go stare at the hunters as they strip of their tunics sweaty from the exertions of the hunt.”

Yaaneisa’s cheeks darkened and she shrugged again. “I’m just looking forward to fresh meat for dinner tonight.”

Nauloera chuckled. This was an argument that went on between them quite frequently. Yaaneisa would tease her about her rocks, and Nauloera would tease her in return about her flirtatious ways. She knew her sister wanted a mate. Wanted the happiness they had both seen on the faces of their parents as they grew up. Nauloera hoped she would find it someday, but also hoped her headstrong sister would not rush into a mating that wasn’t suitable for her.

They exited their small dwelling into the central courtyard of the city of Anlenor. Several draenei also hurried to meet the hunters as they used one of their mighty elekks to drag a newly slain clefthoof bull to the area reserved for preparing the beasts. Anlenor was small compared to other draenei cities, so one of the enormous clefthoofs, larger again by half than the huge, gray elekks, would feed the city for several days.

She sighed as they were each handed the large carving knives and set to helping skin the huge animal. Several of the hunters were issuing orders and giving directions as they got started on the task. Nauloera chuckled as Yaaneisa smiled coyly at some of the handsomer males. “Only you could find a way to flirt while skinning a clefthoof,” she whispered to her younger sister.

“You should try it,” Yaaneisa whispered back as she smiled at another male. He smiled in return and inclined his head gently at her. “It’s fun.”

Nauloera glanced at the hunter and chuckled at her sister. “That one is Ivrandor. He would be a good choice. He’s very kind and quite good with the hunting beasts.”

Yaaneisa sighed and went back to her task, carefully beginning the process if cutting the meat from the bones of the clefthoof. “Do you think so? He is quite handsome. And he’s always been very nice to me.”

Nauloera noticed Ivrandor approaching them and smiled wickedly. “Here’s your chance to find out.”

Yaaneisa looked at her sister puzzled for a moment before glancing over her shoulder at the approaching hunter. So startled was she, that she lost her concentration on the slab of meat she was cutting and the knife slipped, cutting a large gash in her hand and arm. She dropped the blade and cried out in pain as blue blood began welling from the wound and running onto the ground.

Nauloera dropped her own knife and quickly drew her sash from her waist and wrapped it around the wound. “Healer!” She called, looking around for the healer that tended the wounded in Anlenor.

Seeing what happened, Ivrandor rushed over to them and offered his own sash to combine with the one quickly soaking with Yaaneisa’s blood. “Anchorite Aloor isn’t here right now. One of the hunting party was injured and couldn’t be brought back into town until Aloor had tended him.”

Nauloera cursed quietly, tightly wrapping the second sash around the wound. She tried frantically to hold the wound closed but could tell by the amount of blood still soaking through that an artery had been cut. Yaaneisa grew paler and began to sway on her hooves as shock set in over her. Nauloera and Ivrandor helped her sit down and Nauloera could feel tears welling in her eyes. She felt helpless, she did not know what to do, and she knew full well that if the bleeding wasn’t quelled soon, her sister could die. She ran her hand up her sisters arm, trying to find the artery hoping to pinch it off. Ivrandor seemed to be trying to do the same thing.

In helplessness and sorrow, tears streaming down her face, Nauloera wrapped both hands around the wounded arm and cried out, “Somebody do something!”

She would recall later that she felt the warmth flow into her and through her before she saw the golden glow envelop her hands and then travel slowly up her sister’s arm. She felt the power as it used her for a channel and suddenly knew how to direct it. With hardly a thought she sent it flowing into Yaaneisa’s arm and could feel torn tissues mending. She could feel the wound closing, the blood ceasing to flow freely. When she finally felt the warmth fade, she carefully peeled back the blood soaked cloth to reveal an arm and hand bloodied, but whole. With a cry of relief she clutched Yaaneisa to her and held her for several moments, crying onto her shoulder.

Yaaneisa gently hugged her in return, her strength still spent.

Ivrandor stared at them in wonder at what he’d just seen. “You have the healing gift,” he said in a whisper.
I did eventually finish that ring for Yaaneisa. Just before I left to go to the Temple of Karabor. When Aloor returned later that day and heard the tale of what I had done, he insisted that I travel there as soon as possible. Three days later found myself and all of my belongings packed onto the back of a waiting elekk being escorted to our most holy temple to train in the ways of the Light. I watched my sister, weeping gently as I left, and wanted nothing more than to stay with her in our quiet little city laughing over rocks and her flirting with the males. As great a blessing as this was, I would have given it up in a heartbeat to have joy, rather than tears of sorrow, be the last expression I ever saw on my sister’s face.

The history of my people is a long and tragic affair. Much of what was recorded was lost under the boots of the hideous orc war-machine on Draenor. Through countless centuries my people fled the Burning Legion. Fled two who had once been our leaders, yet who sold their souls, and the souls of their people, into slavery in exchange for power. Only Velen and those few who would hear him and follow him escaped the same fate, yet a burning grudge against us continued to feed Kil’Jaeden. He pursued us for longer than many of the races upon this world could comprehend.

It was on Draenor, a beautiful world we dared to hope we could call home, that he found the willing – nay, eager- instruments of our destruction. The orcs.

I wish to tell some of the tale so that it will not be lost like so much of our history already has. Sometimes the words flow into my mind easily, screaming for release. Yet other times my heart is so full with sorrow and pain, the words cannot bear to take form. I feel almost as if the tale must be told, if only to bring some sense in knowing that not all is lost. Not yet.

The Archivists of my people work diligently to record our history. There is much to tell and those who remember it all, so few. Only Velen remains from the original exodus from Argus. The first flight from the man’ari that our elegant and gifted race would become. So many more were lost in the slaughter on Draenor. Our cities were destroyed, our beloved temples, defiled. Even our treasured Ata’mal crystals, all that we had remaining from our lives on Argus, were stolen from us.

The orcs sought not just to kill us, but to humiliate us, to defile us, to destroy everything sacred and precious to us. They hunted us with less respect than they would give animals. In our time there, not once did we bring them harm. We traded fairly with them, aided lost youths or injured hunters when needed. Even I remember quietly delivering healing potions to the nearby clan when a fever swept through them. Though we were not close, my people and the orcs, neither were we their enemy.

Velen says I must not let bitterness consume me. That I must learn to live on, to understand and to forgive. He is the wisest, the most respected, the most beloved of my people. I try to live by his example, to heed his words. I am an Anchorite, a spiritual guide for my people, yet no matter how hard I try, bitterness, hatred, even fear, still linger in my heart.

I suppose if I am to tell the tale correctly I should begin rather than ramble on. Unlike the tales the Arcivists will record, this is not a general, sweeping history of my people. Rather, I will focus on the view from my own perspective. I fear in the history that the Arcivists record, we will lose sight of the fact that my race is made up of individuals. Each glorious and unique in their own way.

I think it important that any who read this understand that we are Draenei, the Exiled Ones. No longer are we Eredar. We cast that aside when we chose goodness and freedom over slavery and power. Each Draenei has their own tale to tell. I pray that all can be heard and remembered so that one day, should the Burning Legion and Kil’Jaeden succeed in destroying us all, something of us will remain.

I was not yet born when my people fled Argus. Sometimes, Velen will still speak of it. His face grows quietly sorrowful and his ancient eyes fight back tears as he speaks of a beautiful world, tranquil, at peace and inharmony with itself. The Eredar were a curious people, but a gentle one. They worked with the forces of the world to create great wonders, to heal ills, to reach inner peace. Though he does not say such aloud, I can see in his face, and hear in the words he will not speak, how much the betrayal of Kil’Jaeden and Archimonde pain him still. He knows our history must be remembered that we do not fall into such a terrible trap ever again. I can see, though, he bears a great burden as the only one that remembers. If he could, I believe he would let it go forever.

Kil’Jaeden and Archimonde thought of Velen and his followers as the betrayers. Yet it was they who betrayed our people. They who sold us into darkness for power. They bargained with the being, Sargeras, to become his lieutenants. They gave our entire race and world over to him to become the most powerful members of his terrible army. Man’ari. There is no word that translates directly. It means to become something hideous, unnatural, something so terribly twisted as to be beyond comprehension. This is what they turned the Eredar into.

Man’ari. Even the word leaves a vile taste in ones mouth. That Kil’Jaeden and Archimonde were so blind as to not see that was what our people would become frightens me. Two of our leaders, entrusted with the welfare of all our people, gave it up so easily like trinkets. If not for Velen’s wisdom, his gift of sight, we all would be such.

I once heard tales from the elders among us. Those that, while they did not remember the original escape from Argus, were the ones charged with remembering our history and passing it along. They speak in awestruck tones about the great display of light rushing to save our people, the few who would become Draenei, from the advancing onslaught of the terrible, blood-thirsty man’ari. They speak of how the first sight of the great vessel brought to save us by the blessed Naaru, K’ure, brought first fear, then a great relief of joy as they realilzed they would be swept away to safety. There was sorrow for the loss of Argus, but there was nothing to be done. Sargeras’ forces would devour it, strip it of all life, destroy it before anything could be done to save it.

K’ure, the Naaru that came to save us in our darkest hour, the being of Light, taught us of its ways. My people embraced it, celebrated the Naaru’s wisdom, beauty, goodness. He taught us well its mysteries and we were eager students. I am one of our Anchorites. What others of this world would call a Priestess. I help teach our young, heal our sick, and guide our people on the path of Light.

It was on Draenor that I began my training as a Priestess. It was there that my history began.