Kirabel Val'thras

Bloody

It was a teasing featherlight touch, the memory of lips against her temple - warm breath stirring the tendrils of gold that curled against tanned skin. The only thing that seemed to keep her held in the realm of the living was the memory of aureate hands moving slow. Grabbing a glass, scritching at the back of his neck with coy endearment; masculine hands, hands she missed.

But it fell away from the Negotiator as body started to stir itself into wakefulness and like a familiar friend, remembered but not missed, the pain crept into the spots that had been tediously plucked at to extract information from Kirabel’s broken lips - dagger tickled sides, toes that had lost all sense of feeling from distorted angles, nails that would very much need regrowing. The usual sort of thing mixed with the beatings that were characteristic of this particular part of the job. Perhaps most of it was vengeance for her part in the torture of a Kaldorei infiltrator. Either way, it was something she knew was a possibility and damn if the tree rat’s weren’t good at keeping up with political intrigue - despite their vain attempts to cling to a society that was well past its prime.

So, it wasn’t the betraying set up from her contact in Stormwind that had surprised her. Humans were simple creatures, estranged loyalties that changed with the shits they passed each morning. No, it was who they had sent her to for “processing” that put a slight chill up her spine for this particular personage was supposed to be dead but like the legend she had gone down as, it would appear that heroes truly never die - Liastu Ravenswift was certainly that amongst other things. For the stories that had arisen surrounding the berserker Huntress of Kalimdor were both frightening and mystifying tales told about campfires to scare Orcish children who wandered too close to the verdant beauty of Ashenvale forest.

It would appear that they were right to perhaps instill a sense of fear, for this Kaldorei Huntress didn’t seem to know what death meant and it showed in the glimpses of her chaotic mismatched gaze which the tattered Sin’dorei Agent found she had trouble focusing on with only one eye. The other? Plucked by the wicked claws of a Druid of the Talon who now stood behind the risen apparition and with only the faintest touch of remorse ringing tattooed features.

“ You’re supposed to be dead.”

It was rasped and heavy with false bravado, her Darnassian a failed accented mixture thick with her beloved affectation for the Thalassian tongue.

“ I’m supposed to be many things. Ana’duna thera, Sin’dorei. Always. “

Perhaps her voice had once been pleasant to the ear, but it had a harsh crowish quality that caused it to lack any hint of emotion; calloused vocal chords.

“ Shan’serrar didn’t like the work over I gave their friend, I see. He was very valiant until the end, but then again, I wouldn’t have been able to pin down the flight pattern of your little owlet back there without him.”

Whatever concern might have been left on the silent Druidesses’ features, a willowy creature in the back had fled and the narrowed glowing slits of her gaze pierced with all the hatred Kirabel wished to drive forward.

Without warning there was pain before being thrust into abysmal inky depths of unconsciousness. It was back to the realm of delicate touches and tender kisses that she felt deep down in her heart, that oozed with a growing fear that she might never be able to feel Daxion’s lips to her own nor the weight of him at her back as she curled into the comfort of all he offered effortlessly.

It was that which she found to be truly torturous.