The silvery white light of the moon filtered in through the thick canopy of fir trees above her. The elvish woman-child wandered small, and insignificant before the great peaks of Northrend. Her heavy plate boots crunched in the snow beneath her feet; the metal tarnished and dirty, once illustrious. Remora, Sun-blessed, Blood-Knight, daughter of a walking corpse, a sister and a traitor. The laughing woman was dead in her chest, and she clutched at her empty flask of firewater like a child clutches a toy. Here, the night was unusually quiet, the cold seeming to have sapped the energy even from the wandering servants of the Lich King. Here, she could lose herself in the belief that there was no one left in the world. That everything had ended the night her old life did. That, somewhere within the silence, buried under all this snow were the faces and voices of everyone she'd ever known. Mel let out an unstable sigh, fog billowing from her chapped red lips. Sucking in her breath, she felt the sting of the cold in her lungs and held it there; closing her eyes to the world, allowing the darkness to wash over her.
She had failed. It was not so surprising, perhaps, but for the memory that continued to flash behind her eyes. She simply had not been there, had not been told, had not been allowed. She supposed that it was deserved; there was always a price for brief forays into happiness. The young woman had reasoned with herself- she was not the only one to suffer- the various tragedies, so close together, had affected all of her people. Why would a blood traitor have any higher chance of redemption than that of her peers? If, out of everyone, even Dmitri's little girl wasn't spared- why would any of them? His voice echoed in her mind on repeat; "she was just a child, she was just a child". At the sound of his voice, her eyes snapped open and she let out her breath. Was she losing her mind? "I wouldn't say that. Where would it of gone anyway?" The familiar warm, chiding voice whispered to her, edged with laughter.
The former paladin pushed away his voice from the edges of her mind, shivering from more than the cold. Bringing up her pace, she continued her brisk walk through the trees. She knew her mother would have thrown a fit if only she could see her now. The ranger-general had always loved her daughters hair. Mel could remember back, back to when she was just 'Remmy', sitting on the edge of her mothers lap; a thin comb being run through her curly hair. Flinching a bit at the memory, she reached up to finger her matted, frost-strewn curls. Whispers of the voices returned to her, and she stopped, focusing on shutting out her thoughts with the cold. Over the months she'd been here, Mel had become quite adept at simply not thinking.
Finally, she was there. In front of her loomed a heavy, solid rock face. Snow had piled up along the base, and the thick roots of trees twisted along the surface of it, disappearing into the snow. She made her way a few paces forward and began to brush the snow from the roots, revealing a small passage hidden by frost. Struggling a moment with her heavy gear, she managed to slip through, landing several feet below with a thud. She lay there for a moment longer before pushing herself off the ground and slowly removing the various pieces of her armor. Beneath the dull gleam of her old gear was thick, insulating leather. As she removed each piece, down to her boots, she lifted them and walked by memory through the dark. The only sign that she stopped was silence, as the clinking of metal against metal stilled.
A flickering golden light began to dance above, somewhere a ways above her. This light spread, and began to illuminate the chamber dimly. In front of her were sheets of stone. She placed the armor down, starting with the helm and ending with her boots. Allowing herself a moments repose, she stretched, the hide along her arms cracking against itself. Here, the wind couldn't reach her, but it was still cold. The thick, frayed collar of a plaid shirt poked out from beneath the leather, the material worn from constant wear. Pacing over to one of the dirt walls, she drew the light illuminating the room to her hand, tightening her fist until it lingered only in her fingertips- just enough light to see by. Leaning up against the wall was a clumsily made bow and quiver. Slinging them over her shoulder, she took one last glance back into the chasm before starting her climb out.
