For a moment, Phetatarei was just trying to trace the raindrops abseiling down her bedroom window. She didn’t know if she should root for one of them or if she should try to guide them all to the bottom of the window. She was not a master of the elements, but maybe she could manipulate the course of some of the raindrops by tapping the glass. She entertained that thought for a second, but she quickly realised she didn’t want to escape the comfort of her bed.
Pheta, as her friends liked to call her, was tired. Drained? Battered! She had been fighting in a battleground for the whole day. She even wanted to keep on going for more than she was allowed. When the spirit healer saw her knuckles were bleeding from dealing with the impact of heavy blows on her shield, the priest doubted that the Draenei could even lift the grand shield anymore. “I know you’re never going to admit it, but I can see yer in pain. I’m going to ask a battle mage to teleport you back to Stormwind. You have aided the Alliance more than enough today, my lady.” The dwarven priest had a stern look in his eyes as if he could see her mind racing to look for any excuse to keep on fighting. Pheta knew that the red haired healer was right, but her body didn’t want to admit it. Not yet anyway.
As soon as she was pulled back from the fight and into the Alliance capital, she knew she had gone beyond her limits, again. When she came down from the mage tower, which already made her think about the bruises on her legs with every painful step she made downstairs, she couldn’t bear the vividness of the city. Student mages were busy training their teleportation skills back and forth through the garden. Little children from refugees of the Cataclysm were cheering on the students, awestruck by the power of the arcane. Vendors were trying to praise their wares. Smells, some still not familiar for her Outlandish senses, were flooding the trade district. She was pointing her nose to the scent of the forges of the dwarven district. Like most of the Longbeards she rented a room at the local inn there.
On her way there she had to cover her ears, for she couldn’t deal with the noise of the city. In a weird way she was even too tired to summon a mount so she decided to walk to the inn. As early as she arrived at her rented room she took of her armour and crashed in her bed. She had no idea of the time, she didn’t care she could not keep her eyes open anyway.
But now, hours later, it clearly was night. She didn’t fully grasp which came first, the nightmares or the storm. What she did get however is that she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep anymore. She just couldn’t get rid of the image of a raging orc trying to knock her shield out of her hand. Even as the rain was washing away all the smell from Stormwind into the canals, to the sea, she still had the reek of the orc’s breath in her nose. His eyes had been red with bloodlust provoked by his allied troll shaman. The orc was a fierce warrior and both him and Pheta were trying to get a foothold on a bridge. The bridge was around the middle of the Twin Peaks staging area. Whichever side was able to control it, had better access to the enemy. As a tank, Pheta was sent forward to try and capture the bridge and prevent any Horde from passing it. Some of the Horde would still be able to swim through the narrow river, but if they would try to wade through the water they would be vulnerable.
Her bedroom window flew wide open with another powerful gust of wind. Raindrops splattered on her face as if the orc on the bridge was spitting in her face again. She sighed, deeply, painfully, her chest filled with stress. Now she was forced to leave her bed anyway. The innkeeper would not be happy to fix up a leaky floor. Pheta pushed away her blanket exposing herself to the cold. She never liked to be cold, it reminded her of Northrend, of the journey through the twisting nether aboard the Exodar. She would not say it out loud, but the cold just sucked.
She was able to lock her window again, but now she didn’t feel like going to bed anymore. What time was it? Would there still be people downstairs drinking away their sorrows, or maybe enhance their spirits with alcohol? She didn’t feel like talking. Sometimes the horrors were better left inside her head than shared with others. Everyone on Azeroth had their hurt, she didn’t want to moan about hers. The clock of the Stormwind cathedral struck twice. Doing! Doing! The clang of metal sounding the hour brought her back to the bridge of the Twin Peaks. The orc was banging his massive axe on her shield, almost breaking the bones in her arm holding it. She redirected the power of the Light to her shield arm. While she felt the warmth of the Holy hue coursing through her veins, she still could feel the strain on her body. The orc was aided in his battle by an angry raptor trying to bite Pheta’s face off. The raptor was the pet of a nearby Tauren hunter who herself was aiming her arrows at a Druid behind Pheta. Suddenly she heard how the troll shaman put down his totems, ready to heal the orc from any harm caused by the Draenei paladin. In response Pheta’tarei mumbled a prayer.
She could see the shock in the orcs bloodlusted eyes. The orc was mighty but he also knew his limits against the power of the Light, suddenly his paladin enemy started glowing, her blue eyes beaming with confidence. Suddenly the orc felt how his feet were seething hot, the Draenei's shield started to glow and he couldn't look at his radiant target anymore, she was covered in the Holy Light. Suddenly the orc realized that his prey was becoming the hunter, she had not yet tapped in her Holy powers, he had underestimated the cunning of this lady. He assumed that one blessed by the Naaru, didn't know how to fight dirty. As soon as she bashed her shield in the raptors mouth, killing it in an instance, he realized he was so wrong. His hunter assistant, shocked by the sudden death of her pet, stopped a while too long to shoot her arrows at the Worgen druid. Before the Tauren realized what was going on, she was trapped in a Cyclone. The Worgen started channeling a tranquility spell and before his eyes the orc could see how nature's blessing was mending the wounds of his enemies.
Still the warrior had not lost confidence, yet. His shaman would still be able to empower him, and bless him with the warmth of water healing. Enraged with the realization that the paladin had been toying with him he grabbed his axe in his strong hands and started spinning around at an insane speed. No-one could force him to move now. Who would be so stupid as to get near his flurry of Bladestorm. He grinned, surely the paladin would have to step back now, clearing the bridge from any Alliance influence. When he spun back with his vision towards the shaman he saw a shield of Light bouncing off the Troll, right at his face. The orc felt the pain, but did not bother until he realized the Shaman was not able to heal him anymore. When he spun around again he saw a Gnome rogue appear from the shadows killing his healer in one blow. By the time the orc had spun another time, the rogue was nowhere to be seen. The Tauren hunter lay on the ground, bleeding. He stopped turning, realized the Draenei had not moved an inch, before he could curse her and her Holy Naaru, he felt a warm sensation in his chest. The Dranei paladin had cut open his chest with her axe, imbued with Light. While he fell to his knees he spit his blood right on the Dranei's helmet. As he drew his last breath he was looking for mercy in her eyes, but it was nowhere to be found.
Phetatarei was staring out the window, huddled in her blankets. It felt like she was freezing, but she knew it was not the cold that made her shiver. In the distance she could still see the torch light of Stormwind's guards sheltering from the storm through the night. It had been a while since there was any danger in Stormwind, but on the realm of Azeroth, nothing was ever really safe. It was hard not to feel hatred for the orcs who had destroyed Stormwind in the second war, the orcs that destroyed her home, the orcs that had aligned with the Burning Legion, the same Burning Legion that had corrupted her Eredari ancestors. Still when lightning struck and thunder roared she was confronted with the orc's look of dispair. He was fighting for the Horde and she was fighting for the Alliance, but there was no glory to be found in war. The urgency of survival, the politics of their leaders, that's what had led them to the battleground.
Phetatarei smelled the ovens turning on, the forges being lit and the scent of fresh bread. The storm was not fully over yet, but dawn had returned. No rest for the wicked they said. She knew she was not fully rested, but she decided to take a walk in the early morning rain. All she longed for was the warm embrace of her mother. Mother was dead, and Pheta had grown too big to be fully covered in her caring arms anyway. She poured herself a cup of honey mint tea and went to the Cathedral of Light. She was in need of a confession.
She knew where she was although she had never been there. She heard the stories of course, she read the scrolls, she knew the surviving images, but although she never truly set foot there it still felt like she wasn't here for the first time. As she breathed the miasmic air, there was some familiarity to the scent. A formula of decay and fel energies. Without a doubt this was the work of the Burning Legion. Oh, how they had destroyed the lives of the Draenei, forcing them to live a life of exile for millennia. Even her own grandparents were survivors from the diaspora. But as she wandered along, she quickly had to admit, however odd it seemed, she had woken up on Argus.
Although she realized where she had been transported, she couldn't grasp how she had traveled here and more importantly when. What was the last thing she could remember? Northrend? No she had traveled home from the continent after she aided in the defeat of the Lich King. She knew Arthas to be dead, for good this time. After traveling to Stormwind together the Longbeards had celebrated their victory in a tavern in the dwarven district. As her dwarven and gnomish friends were dancing on the table, spilling beer everywhere in the process, Phetatarei had enjoyed an iced tea. She was happy to feel some warmth again after a long year of fighting the Scourge on the arctic continent. The cold always reminded her of the Twisting Nether.
So the last thing she could remember was sharing a drink with Tashlyn? By the Light, how did she cross the Twisting Nether this time. She tried to look around for a vessel somewhere nearby, but she couldn't spot any kind of transport. As she peered towards the sky she immediately recognized the green hue of fel energies. But as she turned around she could see a setting sun hugging the horizon in a field of bright reds, yellows and orange. Was Argus not completely turned by the Burning Legion? Was she the first Draenei to travel back to their true home planet? Was she the first drop of Light that could cleanse the demonic influence?
Suddenly she saw a herd of Talbuk hastily running by. And behind them were some Draenei. One of them was stuck on the Talbuk saddle and was being kicked on the head while the Talbuk tried to loose the weight. Everyone involved seemed frightened! Then suddenly one of the Draenei addressed Pheta. "Young girl! Why are you standing around here, don't you know we need to run to Velen? Our prophet is waiting for us on the highest mountains. The mysterious Naaru have promised us a cure from the fel."
Could it be? Was it really him? Although Draenei are known to live for millennia they were capable of aging. The young man talking to her, he must have been her grandfather. It seemed like he already had lost a tentacle at a young age. Maybe in a recent fight against the Burning Legion Manari? "Papa.. I mean Pantrocleias, let me aid the wounded. I am voiced in the ways of the Light."
Could she dare talk about the power of the Naaru? Would it confuse her Grandfather. At least Phetatarei now had some clue as when she was? About 10 millennia before her own birth. By which strange powers had she been summoned here?
"How do you know my name, stranger?" Pantrocleias' brow was sweating, he clearly had been struggling recently. Now Pheta could get a closer look and she realized he was splattered with the green blood of Manari. He must have been fighting them. "It doesn't matter much at this moment. We must continue. Guard the rear, we need to protect the elders and children there. The Manari are right on our heels!"
While the Talbuk ran on towards the top of the mountain. Phetatarei descended. There she found a group of stumbling elders and young children. One of the elders was losing blood through a wound in her knee. She was hopping on her good leg, while two children tried to keep her stabilized. With a smile of compassion Phetatarei summoned her gift of the Naaru. As a blue holy symbol glowed in front of her eyes, the knee seemed to mend within seconds.
"How? Who? What did you do?" Asked one of the marveled children. Of course they had never seen the gift of the Naaru before. Although it was known to all Draenei native from Draenor, it made sense that the people of Argus had never seen it. Pheta, felt embarrassed. "It's a trick I learned," she replied quickly, "It helps me connect my own spirit with the wounds of those surrounding me. It's a way of healing without exhausting myself. Come now, child, we must continue."
Although the Draenei caravan had gained some speed with the mending of wounds by both regular priests and the aid of Pheta. The Manari were gaining on them. For these pure Eredar, it must still feel strange to encounter such demons. They had never before encountered the scourge, they didn't know about the Dreadlords. It pained Pheta to think about these horrible things, but at the same time it gave her confidence. How many demons had she killed with the aid of her newfound friends of the Alliance. The Exiled still needed to wait for millennia, but in a way, it gave her comfort that in the end, they would find new allies. Argus and Azeroth were lightyears apart but still, she felt the warmth of her friends aiding her.
With the powers she learned from her paladin mentors, she summoned the Holy Light, as she started glowing of her own. It was clear that the Manari were not used to such resistance. They averted their eyes, trying not to look at this young warrior. With a smile on her face, Pheta consecrated the ground around her and she saw how the demons close to her started to melt away.
With a smirk she threw a shield of holy power towards a group of flying demons, it bounced from one to the other and three of them fell down, defeated. The uncorrupted Eredar didn't know how to react to this phenomenon, but in gratitude they made their way to the top of the mountain.
As they reached the top. Phetatarei saw her own grandmother, Matreia. The woman would hate her and her father, but at this moment, Matreia was still shining with hope and confidence. There was no worry about children or grandchildren on her mind. With a glow of holy power, Matreia blessed all the people around her.
"Don't worry children of Argus," she voiced, "Our prophet Velen has arrived." Behind some kneeling figures, a giant Eredar appeared, gleaming with calm in these times of despair. Phetatarei knew Velen, she had seen him. She had met him personally, first on the remains of the crashed Exodar, which had served as the capital of the Draenei ever since. Later she had aided Velen to reach the Sunwell, where Velen used the essence of the fallen Naaru M'uru to redeem the Sunwell and cure the Blood Elves of their Fel addiction. She had known him as a calm but strong leader, with a beard with which he could have clothed himself, if ever the need would arise.
Here in this time and place, Velen was not young, but he wasn't ancient in any way either. He was gleaming with brilliance, and it was clear already that the Naaru had favored him. The promise of a life in eternity was smiling on his lips.
"Children of Argus," he repeated, "our time to leave our beautiful homeworld has come. Argus is not what it was once before. The Burning Legion has already started the corruption of our people and our earth. We will not stand to be corrupted like them. We will not join the army of infinite destruction. I have promised you another way. The way of the Naaru. Some of you have already been blessed with their words, but soon you will see the incredible power of the Naaru for yourselves. They are like angelic beings of Holy Light in which one can find only peace and calm."
Although the words of Velen had a soothing quality, it was not possible for Pheta's kin to relax completely. They were kind of helpless on top of that mountain and the Legion forces were encroaching from all sides of the mountain. It was all the Draenei could do to try and hold them back. But soon they were surrounded by Felhounds, Dreadlords, demons, Corrupted Eredar, Legion soldiers in all forms and sizes.
Suddenly a storm broke out. Out of nowhere some of the demons were zapped by lightning, while heavy rain soaked the steep slopes of the mountain and some of the felhounds got stuck in the mud. Several tornadoes were forming around the mountain and dragged away some of the flying atrocities.
Velen had raised his hands towards the sky and started praying in gratitude, as he knew this would be the blessing of the Naaru, as they had promised him. In the cold washing rain, the Draenei huddled up together. Children were brought to the inner circle, while the elders tried to keep warm their aching bones. As by accident Phetatarei was pushed in between Matreia and Pantrocleias. For the first time in her life she had been hugged by both of her grandparents. She knew the Naaru would arrive soon. She had not lived it before, but she knew the stories, some of them tainted by legend, some of them carried some truth.
Impatiently Phetatarei waited, as the storm around them raged on and grew in intensity. Some the tornadoes had dragged away some Draenei from the outer circles. The lighting which first had saved them from the demons now struck faster and faster, closer and closer. The Draenei got scared, the Talbuk that had raced to the mountaintop as well startled, began running and trampled some of their masters. And before she could blink, Phetatarei saw how Velen himself got struck by a bolt of lightning.
"NOOO!" Pheta cried at the top of her lungs. This was not supposed to happen. Where were the Naaru? Where was their blessing? She smelled how the burned flesh of Velen reached her nostrils. She threw up, as did other Draenei around her. People started running in fear and disgust. Some fell down the mountain, the ones that didn't die on the rocky slopes were torn apart by the Manari, who fed on the fresh bodies.
"This can't be happening, this can't be happening, this can't be happening," Pheta repeated to herself as she saw how her own grandparents had been trampled. Their faces distorted by the hooves of their friends and followers. If they had died on Argus; how could she herself been born? As Pheta started to question her right of existence she saw how her hands started fading away. As sand running through an hourglass, her whole body started to blow away with the wind. She wanted to cry out in panic, but even her voice had disappeared. Something lifted her off the ground, she never knew what it was. The last thing she remembered was to see her legs falling down on a pile of desecrated bodies. Somewhere in between all the mud, blood and puke, she could see the staff of Velen, glowing in vain.
”How long has she been like this?” The friendly night elf priest had asked Melrien. Melrien and Phetatarei had taken the boat from Menethil Harbor to Auberdine together. “We faced a storm on her way around the north of Kalimdor”, Melrien explained. “Pheta was so relieved to be travelling back to the Exodar. Although she does not have any surviving relatives from Outland, she felt like only the Draenei could understand what she had lived through. She was looking forward to speech in a ceremony for all the fallen Draenei near Azure Watch. The storm hit us at night, I couldn’t catch any sleep so I watched over Pheta as she was moaning in her sleep. I think she still is in real pain.”
Melrien and the priest both looked at the tormented expression on the young Draenei’s face. The Night elves and Draenei had felt connected as both their races suffered for millennia after facing the Burning Legion. The Draenei had lost their home, the Night elves had lost the gift of life, they were a dying people incapable of birthing any children. The priest sighed and caringly squeezed one of Melrien’s hands.
”I’m afraid your friend is not the only victim. Word has travelled by crow and pidgeon. People have been facing these nightmares all over Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms alike. From what we’ve gathered both the Horde and Alliance are suffering, even Sylvanas, queen of the undead is caught in a vengeful slumber. All over the world sleep walkers are attacking friends, family and lovers.”
Melrien knew what the priest was trying to say. As a druid she was well versed in the mysteries of nature and the importance of the Emerald Dream. “You’re trying to say that the Emerald Nightmare has spread outside of the dream? What happened to Stormrage?”
Of course Melrien knew that Malfurion Stormrage had disappeared within the emerald dream for a very long time. Supposedly he traveled within to fight a corruption, known as the Emerald Nightmare. Now that Melrien had travelled to Darnassus together with Phetatarei, she learned that while the Lich King lay defeated, a new threat had already arrived.
”The good news”, the priest declared, “Is that Tyrande and Malfurion are reunited. Together they are engaging leaders of the Alliance and Horde to fight against the nightmare lord. Who this so called lord could be, I do not know.”
Melrien thanked the priest for this explanation and nodded a curt goodbye as he sped on towards his other patients. The sleepwalkers were strapped to their beds for the safety of both others and themselves. Compassionately Melrien lay a hand on her friend’s forehead. She seemed to be burning from the inside out. As she strained to break free from the leather straps that held her back, the bands only tightened. “I’m sorry, Pheta. I have to go, more and more people need my help. Stay strong, wherever your mind takes you.” Saddened, Melrien strode away, but she knew her paladin friend would understand. She herself would give her own life, to save others.
Nagrand, this time she immediately recognised her environs. She remembered travelling here as a youth with her father. Before the war, she had accompanied him looking for Khorium, a rare ore that had travelled with comets striking Draenor. Or was it Outland?
The last thing she remembered, was seeing how The Prophet had died, struck by lightning. She was on Argus? Wasn’t she? Then how could she have traveled to Nagrand this time? Were there still any Draenei around? A horn sounded, followed by drums of war. Orcs! Knowing her luck they were on the warpath. Phetatarei anxiously scanned her surroundings looking for a place to hide. Where to hide in a savannah? A clefthoof herd was grazing in the distance. Safety!
As she hugged into one of the younger clefthoof’s furs. She thanked the Naaru that this time she had not materialised in her clanking armor. Instead she was wearing a loose tunic with an earthly tone. She tried to peek out from her hiding place without grabbing the orcs’ attention. It was hard hiding in a green savannah speckled with brown hues when your own skin happened to be blue.
As she watched from out of her hiding place she could see the orcs carrying war trophies on their belts and shoulders. Trophies made out of different Draenei body parts. Phetatarei tried to hold her shocked gasp, but a bit of air still escaped in a high pitch. One of the orcs, immediately turned her head towards the grazing clefthoofs. As Phetatarei was holding on to the young clefthoof's fur, she could hear the orcs talking. Soft grunting voices. Through the years she picked up some of the orcish language, but there was no talk of blood and thunder this time. After halting for a while the orcs started marching again.
Shattrath must have fallen already, Phetatarei thought to herself. Had the orcs already opened the Dark Portal, she mused. Once, twice? Could there have been some Alliance presence on Draenor already? Or was this Outland? She could only guess. She climbed on top of her clefthoof savior in an effort to get a better view on things. She could see the crashed Genedar in the distance, or Oshu'Gun as the orcs called it. Both Draenei and orcs honored the site in remembrance of their elders. As she looked up, she could see fel energies crackling through the sky. Ner'zhul had probably already doomed Draenor into Outland. Remembering the orcs' trophies, the Draenei culture had probably already been wiped out. She tried to get a view on the marching orcs, they had halted. Somewhere in the distance, Phetatarei could make out blue, gray and purple dots. Draenei!
As she was running through the fields of Nagrand, Phetatarei could hear one of the few orcish words she knew by heart. "Lok'tar O'gar!" The orcs were charging in on her people. Pheta wondered if she still had access to her paladin powers. She tried to summon her warhorse, but to no avail. Could she call upon the Light to enhance her powers? She opened her heart and tried to sift the Light through it, looking for a blessing. Nothing. "Guess I only have my bravery and cunning left to me." She thought to herself. "Naaru be with me."
She closed in on her fellow Draenei and she could recognize them better now. Some of them were armed, most of them were dressed in the same rags she was wearing now. Some earthy tunic, probably the first thing they could grab after escaping Shattrath. Were they on their way to Telredor? There were some children in the group as well, they looked worried as the armed Draenei were trying to make up a defense.
The female orc that had watched the clefthoofs, searching for Phetatarei was leading the charge. She was waving a spiked club around her head, her eyes were red of madness. The orcs were filled with bloodlust. "Hey, tuskheads!", Phetatarei cried out. They probably couldn't understand the insult, but at least they were distracted for a second. As the orcs turned round to get their sights on the stupid lonely Draenei, she flung a handful of clefthoof dung towards them. With a satisfying splotch it landed on the wardrummer. "You really got them angry now, Phet'."
Enraged by the insult, the orcs turned round and started charging the lonely Draenei. How had she dared to laugh with the mighty orcs? Didn't the bitch know the age of Draenor had come to an end? The uneasy peace had passed, and now the age of BLOOD AND THUNDER had started. As the orcs were focused on the dung flinging Phetatarei, they didn't realize the other Draenei had flanked them. "For ARGUS!", they cried out, flinging spears toward the raging orcs. On of them struck right in the neck of an orc warrior and he fell.
Now a through skirmish had started. As Phetatarei rushed in to join the battle, she recognized one of the Draenei faces. It was her father, Sathykon. She knew he was no warrior, he had been strong, but not a fighter. Tears welled up in her eyes. Before she knew it the club swinging orc, smashed her fathers' skull to bits. This was no time of mercy. Phetatarei's heart broke. "No! This is not supposed to happen!" Again, Phetatarei was filled with despair. What kind of cruel timeline was she thrown into? As she dropped to her knees, three orcs surrounded her.
As a lady to the Naaru she had fought many battles. At the age of thirteen she first had to take up arms, after the fall of Shattrath. In later years, she had joined the Alliance and the habit of killing orcs continued under a new banner. She had returned to Outland, learned about new enemies like Illidan and Kael'thas. She had helped Velen in restoring the Sunwell. Phetatarei had traveled to Nortrend to root out the scourge, another pestilence that had sprouted from the womb of the Burning Legion in days past. She had stormed Icecrown Citadel, together with her fellow Longbeards. Tirion Fordring had slain Arthas with their help. Now she was stuck in this twisted timeline, where all she could do was fail.
The orc Lady pushed her face in that of the lonely Draenei. Phetatarei could feel the tusks boring into her skin. She could smell the foul breath of the orc, reeking of Draenei blood. The orc grabbed on to her horns and cracked on of them off, flicking it into the distance as if it was nothing but a tooth pick. Phetatarei could not understand what the orc was saying, but it couldn't have been nice things. They had forced the former paladin to her knees. Slain all the other Draenei in front of her eyes, drank their blood, from cups made out of skulls from former slain. They wanted her to feel weak, embarrassed, stripped of her power and it had worked.
Melrien had returned to the ward. She had aided the druids in defeating the evil creatures that had seeped through from the Emerald Nightmare. Fandral Staghelm was improsoned and as to Melrien's knowledge Malfurion and Tyrande had defeated Xavius. In fact Xavius was sealed into the rift of Aln, but this was a secret that only the Night Elves' leaders had to carry. A tale to be told in other times. After the terrible war against the Lich King, the Emerald Nightmare had claimed more deaths. Azeroth would never be without war, Melrien mused.
But now was a time for celebration. All around Azeroth people were waking up from their terrible nightmare. Peace however short-lived it could be, was to be fêted on. Melrien was a healer by heart and she cared deeply for her friends and allies. As soon as she knew her healing abilities were no longer needed to aid the forces battling Xavius, she swiftly returned to Darnassus to check in on Phetatarei. It had pained her to leave her friend in distress, but she knew she would be safe with the Night Elf priests caring for her. As Melrien entered the ward, people were waking up around her. Most of them Night Elves and Draenei, but there were also some other races of the Alliance, and here and there even members of the Horde had found refuge in Darnassus.
Before long, Melrien found Phetatarei, still strapped to her bed. Her wrists and ankles were a bit bloodied, as the leather had cut into the Draenei's skin. She looked skinny, it was clear that the paladin had not eaten for a few days. Her muscles were still tense and her face had a worried, even horrified look on it. Melrien did not dare touch her friend in fear of startling her. With a soft voice she spoke to Phetatarei: "It is over Pheta. It is time to wake up."
Phetatarei was still on her knees. She was bleeding and bruised. The orcs had taken their time with this particular Draenei, finding joy in the torture. Suddenly the female leader smiled at Phetatarei, almost with a look of compassion. "It is over.", she said. But this time the orc was speaking in the Common tongue. How? "Phetatarei, my friend. It is over." Nagrand started fading from sight. The pain subsided and instead of the tusked orc, she was now staring into the face of her good friend Melrien. "Where are we?" Phetatarei asked in confused. "And why am I tied up?" "Wait, let me release you, this most all seem very strange to you indeed. We are in Darnassus, safe. You must have faced so many horrors in the last few days." As Melrien released the straps she called upon the spirits of nature to heal the wounds of the paladin.
"I'm thirsty", Phetatarei said with a soar throat, "and hungry!" "That's a good sign." Melrien was washing off the blood from her friends' arms and legs. She had prepared some tea and brought a few dumplings. She offered them to Phetatarei, warning her that she should be prudent in eating. "Your body will need some time to recover, and your mind might need to double that effort. The priests of Elune will take care of you Pheta, and I will check in whenever I can. I have to aid in the preparations." Phetatarei looked puzzled. "Preparations for what?" "The wedding of course!" Melrien looked upon her Draenei friend with a big smile. "Tyrande and Malfurion are finally getting married after thousands and thousands of years!" The druid could not hide her enthusiasm, with a rhythm of joy, she strut off, humming some kind of elven wedding theme.
Phetatarei was dead tired. Ironic, she thought to herself, how she got drained of sleeping to much, spending time in nightmares. She enjoyed the honied tea, Melrien had brought her. She tried to eat the dumplings without giving in too much to her appetite, she didn't want to put any strain on her tired body, but it felt so good to enjoy a steaming meal. Although she longed to a sense of home and belonging, the Exodar would have to wait 'till after the wedding. The crashed vessel wasn't going anywhere.
