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As a harsh wind blew across the plains of Nagrand, Asana contemplated her life. She hadn't much liked being stationed in Nagrand the first time on Outland, and now, here on Draenor, it was somehow even worse. Outland's Nagrand had at least had marvelously stunning views across the floating bits of land, and those large canyons everyone seemed to despise so much had been almost comfortable. Well, apart from the ogres, anyway, but dealing with them had been a decent way to pass the time.

She'd been stationed in this same place for months on end, alone most of the time. It was lonely work, and she rarely had anything to report. Her post was far from anywhere of any strategic value, and the fact that she saw perhaps five people a week pass her camouflaged hideout only reinforced that. With a sigh of resignation, she packed up and headed back to her tent. It was a small affair, but it kept the pests out and the warmth in at night.

Tossing her quiver aside, and placing her bow down much more gently, Asana took a seat on her bedroll and rummaged around for some parchment and an inkpen. Once she had both, she got comfortable and began to write. Dear Father, I hope you are doing well for yourself. Nagrand is as dull as always, but I am still proud to serve Quel'Thalas dutifully...

It was rare that she wrote to her father, and she highly doubted any of her letters had made it to him. Between the bureaucracy, countless delivery methods, and general mismanagement, she would have been surprised if even a single letter had made it to her father in the years since she had seen him. But the letters were just as much for her own sake as they were for his, if not moreso. It was reassuring to write to her father, even if he may never see it, simply as a way of conveying all the things she wished to say. It was the closest she had to a partner these days.

I know I say this often, father, but I hope I can soon return home. Every time conflict winds down, it seems to simply start again with no pause, and we must once again be sent to the farthest reaches of already distant places. I think of home often, of the warmth of the fireplace and the gentle breezes in the sitting room. The first time Asana had written to home, she had cried, openly and without pause for nearly an hour. Her partner at the time, an old troll named Jaman'khan, admonished her and reminded her they were in a warzone, not the training grounds. She still smiled a bit at the memory of her old partner, and whenever she held the bow he had given her before he passed, she was reminded that he had been perhaps her greatest friend. Her only regret was that she had never been able to introduce him to her father.

As she wrote, evening gradually turned to night, and the cool winds gradually turned to biting cold. Sealing her tent tightly and putting away her parchment, Asana began preparing for bed when she heard what were unmistakably footsteps. She stopped dead in her tracks and, with a silence that could only have come from years of training, put out her candles in mere seconds. She listened carefully, stilling her breathing as much as was physically possible. Only one person, but they were well-trained. Asana tensed as the footsteps became louder, and relaxed herself as they quieted once again, whoever it was having apparently not seen her hideout.

Taking this as a sign she could relax, Asana once again started preparing for bed. She was halfway into her nightshirt when she heard the entrance to her tent being opened. She was not alone at all, it seemed. Panicking, she tossed the shirt to the side and grabbed her dagger, a gift from her father that she always kept close. Quickly turning to her assailant, blade at the ready, she swung without hesitation. She was quick, one of the best with a knife in her class.

Unfortunately for her, whoever had come into her tent was quicker. With little effort, her mystery guest had disarmed and tripped Asana, leaving her vulnerable to any sort of assault that would surely come next. As the assailant crouched down, Asana hurriedly attempted to right herself, turning and hoping to gain some advantage over her attacker. All she saw, however, was the tip of a blade, and a vaguely feminine figure wearing a tight black hood. She saw ears not unlike her own poking out from two slits, though they seemed to be heavily scarred and covered in piercings. A High Elf? Here? A She stared at the figure, waiting for the end, for what seemed like an eternity, until finally the woman simply placed the dagger on Asana's stomach. "C'mon, Asana, did you really fall for the old 'quiet your footsteps so it sounds like you're leaving' trick? That's basic stuff." The voice was clearly a woman's, but it was gruff and uncultured. She spoke with an accent that few knew in this day and age, but in the past would have been immediately recognizable as the accent of the commoners in Quel'Thalas.

Asana paused for a moment, catching her breath. She knew that voice, and she certainly knew that accent. But why was she here? "Grandmother..?"

With a tug, the woman pulled away her hood, revealing a woman with a face that had clearly seen too many fights. "Well who else would it be? Only Lorakaen Autumnwood could ever find such a great sneak as you." She was smiling as she held out a hand for Asana, and pulled her up to a standing position. "How've you been?"

Confusion flooded through Asana. "How... How did you find me here?" Surely the Farstriders wouldn't have just given out her position? She knew from experience that it was quite difficult to get any information out of them.

"Oh, I've got my ways. Some very eager young men around the Farstriders, you know. Ever take a look at them?" She grinned that sly, devilish grin that Asana had never seen on anyone else, and as the implications of that statement truly sunk in, Asana turned a deep crimson, looking away sheepishly and fiddling around with her fingers. "Anyway, enough about that. C'mon, I'm taking you to see your dad." Rifling through her pockets for a bit, she eventually pulled a piece of parchment from her pocket and unfolded it for Asana to see. Despite the smudging of the ink, it was clearly a document for her relief.

Taking the document from Lorakaen, Asana looked it over carefully, tears slowly welling up in her eyes. "...Thank you, grandmother." She hugged Lorakaen tightly, crying into her shoulder. "Thank you so much..."

"Yeah yeah, no problem. Look, don't cry, alright?" Lorakaen gave her an uncomfortable hug in return, patting Asana on the back awkwardly. "C-can we just pack up and go?"

It would be several more minutes until Asana finally stopped crying, but when she did she smiled in a way she hadn't in years. "Let's...let's go home."

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

As a harsh wind blew across the plains of Nagrand, Asana contemplated her life. She hadn't much liked being stationed in Nagrand the first time on Outland, and now, here on Draenor, it was somehow even worse. Outland's Nagrand had at least had marvelously stunning views across the floating bits of land, and those large canyons everyone seemed to despise so much had been almost comfortable. Well, apart from the ogres, anyway, but dealing with them had been a decent way to pass the time.

She'd been stationed in this same place for months on end, alone most of the time. It was lonely work, and she rarely had anything to report. Her post was far from anywhere of any strategic value, and the fact that she saw perhaps five people a week pass her camouflaged hideout only reinforced that. With a sigh of resignation, she packed up and headed back to her tent. It was a small affair, but it kept the pests out and the warmth in at night.

Tossing her quiver aside, and placing her bow down much more gently, Asana took a seat on her bedroll and rummaged around for some parchment and an inkpen. Once she had both, she got comfortable and began to write. Dear Father, I hope you are doing well for yourself. Nagrand is as dull as always, but I am still proud to serve Quel'Thalas dutifully...

It was rare that she wrote to her father, and she highly doubted any of her letters had made it to him. Between the bureaucracy, countless delivery methods, and general mismanagement, she would have been surprised if even a single letter had made it to her father in the years since she had seen him. But the letters were just as much for her own sake as they were for his, if not moreso. It was reassuring to write to her father, even if he may never see it, simply as a way of conveying all the things she wished to say. It was the closest she had to a partner these days.

I know I say this often, father, but I hope I can soon return home. Every time conflict winds down, it seems to simply start again with no pause, and we must once again be sent to the farthest reaches of already distant places. I think of home often, of the warmth of the fireplace and the gentle breezes in the sitting room. The first time Asana had written to home, she had cried, openly and without pause for nearly an hour. Her partner at the time, an old troll named Jaman'khan, admonished her and reminded her they were in a warzone, not the training grounds. She still smiled a bit at the memory of her old partner, and whenever she held the bow he had given her before he passed, she was reminded that he had been perhaps her greatest friend. Her only regret was that she had never been able to introduce him to her father.

As she wrote, evening gradually turned to night, and the cool winds gradually turned to biting cold. Sealing her tent tightly and putting away her parchment, Asana began preparing for bed when she heard what were unmistakably footsteps. She stopped dead in her tracks and, with a silence that could only have come from years of training, put out her candles in mere seconds. She listened carefully, stilling her breathing as much as was physically possible. Only one person, but they were well-trained. Asana tensed as the footsteps became louder, and relaxed herself as they quieted once again, whoever it was having apparently not seen her hideout.

Taking this as a sign she could relax, Asana once again started preparing for bed. She was halfway into her nightshirt when she heard the entrance to her tent being opened. She was not alone at all, it seemed. Panicking, she tossed the shirt to the side and grabbed her dagger, a gift from her father that she always kept close. Quickly turning to her assailant, blade at the ready, she swung without hesitation. She was quick, one of the best with a knife in her class.

Unfortunately for her, whoever had come into her tent was quicker. With little effort, her mystery guest had disarmed and tripped Asana, leaving her vulnerable to any sort of assault that would surely come next. As the assailant crouched down, Asana hurriedly attempted to right herself, turning and hoping to gain some advantage over her attacker. All she saw, however, was the tip of a blade, and a vaguely feminine figure wearing a tight black hood. She saw ears not unlike her own poking out from two slits, though they seemed to be heavily scarred and covered in piercings. A High Elf? Here? A She stared at the figure, waiting for the end, for what seemed like an eternity, until finally the woman simply placed the dagger on Asana's stomach. "C'mon, Asana, did you really fall for the old 'quiet your footsteps so it sounds like you're leaving' trick? That's basic stuff." The voice was clearly a woman's, but it was gruff and uncultured. She spoke with an accent that few knew in this day and age, but in the past would have been immediately recognizable as the accent of the commoners in Quel'Thalas.

Asana paused for a moment, catching her breath. She knew that voice, and she certainly knew that accent. But why was she here? "Grandmother..?"

With a tug, the woman pulled away her hood, revealing a woman with a face that had clearly seen too many fights. "Well who else would it be? Only Lorakaen Autumnwood could ever find such a great sneak as you." She was smiling as she held out a hand for Asana, and pulled her up to a standing position. "How've you been?"

Confusion flooded through Asana. "How... How did you find me here?" Surely the Farstriders wouldn't have just given out her position? She knew from experience that it was quite difficult to get any information out of them.

"Oh, I've got my ways. Some very eager young men around the Farstriders, you know. Ever take a look at them?" She grinned that sly, devilish grin that Asana had never seen on anyone else, and as the implications of that statement truly sunk in, Asana turned a deep crimson, looking away sheepishly and fiddling around with her fingers. "Anyway, enough about that. C'mon, I'm taking you to see your dad." Rifling through her pockets for a bit, she eventually pulled a piece of parchment from her pocket and unfolded it for Asana to see. Despite the smudging of the ink, it was clearly a document for her relief.

Taking the document from Lorakaen, Asana looked it over carefully, tears slowly welling up in her eyes. "...Thank you, grandmother." She hugged Lorakaen tightly, crying into her shoulder. "Thank you so much..."

"Yeah yeah, no problem. Look, don't cry, alright?" Lorakaen gave her an uncomfortable hug in return, patting Asana on the back awkwardly. "C-can we just pack up and go?"

It would be several more minutes until Asana finally stopped crying, but when she did she smiled in a way she hadn't in years. "Let's...let's go home."