Khaeris Dawndancer

War

No one on Azeroth was untouched by War. From the tiniest babe to the oldest crone. She was no different, even though she'd spent considerable personal effort to avoid the wars. She was no fighter in any traditional sense. She wasn't ashamed to say she'd fled the Scourge at Silvermoon. She knew how to hide. She knew how to distract. She knew how to inspire others to be protective.

The Fourth War--the Blood War--was over. That's what they said. Pollux was home more. Briefings and basic work, but home nearly every evening. Work on prosthetics.  She worked at the clinic, but babies and sinuses snuck up and started out numbering rehabilitations. Mercenaries relaxed and laughed in bars. Spies quietly pooled their information in shadows. Children were in the parks again, playing mages and murlocs.

It didn't seem possible for a war to end and Khaeris didn't truly believe it. Too much. It had been too much. War had not been 'over' since the orcs had come to Azeroth. Since the Elves had desecrated Trollish lands.  Since silithid had swarmed. Since elementals had raged against Old Gods. Since demons had chased the Draenei through the expanses between planets.

War didn't end. Preposterous. War was like the tides. Waxing and waning, but never still.

Still, she could breathe for now. She could restock, reevaluate her holdings, and reconnect. War would come again, war would take and destroy. She could feel it hovering over everything. Something was brewing already.  Something had been started long, long ago. It was coming to bear fruit and the large voices of the world were going to reach for that heavy, sticky, and rotting fruit soon. It hung too low.

She wasn't ready.

No one was ever ready.