A/N

Yep, it's one of those oneshots, where I take the 'poke lines' of a Blizzard hero or unit, and apply it to narrative format. This time, from Cassia, as she's portrayed in Heroes of the Storm.

Oh, and I'm calling it - if there's a second hero pack for Diablo III after the necromancer, it'll be the Amazon. Why? Xul appears in HotS, and then D3 gets a necromancer based after his aesthetic and skill-set. Cassia appears in HotS, and an Amazon has been teased, so...just saying...

Warmatron

"You have the warmatron's attention. Make it count."

"Come now. Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"Friend? Pah. You presume too much."

"And you're a poor liar."

Cassia, Warmatron of the Amazon Caste, slayer of the Prime Evils, favoured servant of Xaera, stood there for a moment, as she beheld the paladin before her. Stood there, before she walked over. Walked over, before she stopped. Stopped, before she suddenly grasped his palm, before drawing him into an embrace.

"A poor liar indeed," she said, drawing back. "And you still smell terrible."

"It isn't easy to clean yourself when wearing armour."

"Which is why I was always faster."

"And why I could afford to get hit."

She smiled. A true, honest to Athulua smile. She couldn't remember the last time she smiled like that. Likely over twenty years ago, before the world darkened, and remained dark. Before her mind was forever darkened as well, by all she had seen and done. A darkness that touched at her even now, even as she clapped her hands together.

"Drinks," she declared.

Her servants bowed and scuttled off. Men, all of them, while Amazon Caste warriors stood guard. It was a situation that she'd come to despise over the last two decades, but even her influence with Xaera wasn't enough to overturn Askari society at the drop of a copper.

"Come," she said to her friend. She led him out of the hut to the wooden walkway outside. "We have to seek what light we can now."

He nodded and followed her out into the light, as they beheld Tran Athulua in all its wooden, arboreal glory. Trees were above them, the ground beneath them, the sight and sound of the ocean nearby. The Skovos Isles weren't paradise, but in this day and age, as the world fell ever deeper into despair, it was as close as one could come to Heaven on Sanctuary. Provided, of course, one wished to do so. For she'd heard the tales of what had transpired in Westmarch and the lands beyond. It wasn't demons, but angels who had taken all those lives.

She glanced at Roland – a paladin, and one of a number of allies she'd fought alongside twenty years ago. They'd fought together, bled together, nearly died together. Somehow, they'd all survived the ordeal, before going their separate ways after Mount Arreat and the destruction of the Worldstone. Somehow, they, at least, were still in this world. His face was softer, his hair greyer, but still, he looked the part of a servant of the Light.

"You got old," she blurted out.

"Hmm?" He looked at her.

"I said you got old," she said, as she took a glass of wine from a servant, who handed the second glass to the paladin. "The years have been kind, but not that kind."

"And you?" he asked, looking at her. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I say what Askari always say – a grey head is a crown of glory." She took a sip. "Of course, it was likely an old person who started that saying."

"Well, count your blessings," Roland said. "Few live to be our age."

She sighed. "The Askari have another saying – life is an ethereal armour. One moment it's here. Then, just when you get used to it, it's gone."

He tapped his own armour. "I like to count on this as well though."

"And you're well to do so."

They both stood and drank – the wine tasted bitter, she reflected. Too bitter, even for her taste. It had been imported from Westmarch a few years ago – back when Westmarch could still be said to be a country, and not just a land of scattered people without a ruler or hope. Some had even fled to Skovos, only to be turned away – the Askari were an insular culture. Those from the mainland had no place here beyond the ports. It was only by her grace that Roland had been allowed to see her now. And by her insight, she could tell that he was troubled, even if he appeared to be enjoying the wine more than she was.

"So," he said. "What are you doing now in your life?"

She looked at him. "Are you interrogating me?"

"I'm making conversation."

And poorly, she reflected. But nonetheless, she answered. "Raising an army."

He looked at her. "An army?"

"An army," she repeated. "The oracles predicted that the Dark Exile would transpire, and it did. They foresaw that the Prime Evils would rise again, and they did. They predicted that one of their own would slay them, and she did."

"Very nice self-fulfilling prophecy there."

"And they predicted that the demonic hordes would plague the world once more, and from everything I've heard, they have," Cassia said. She finished the wine, and handed the glass to her servant. "So far, Skovos has been spared."

"So far," Roland repeated.

She gestured to the servant. "More wine," she said, before turning back to face her friend. "Yes, so far."

"While the world around you burns."

She frowned – 'you,' she noticed, not 'us.' She likewise noticed the look in Roland's eyes, how he'd not only lost all interest in his wine, but also in the scenery. He was looking right at her. Through armour, flesh, and spirit, his gaze penetrated her. Enough to make her uneasy. Enough for her to protest, and murmur, "I train the army. I don't have the authority to dictate how it's used."

"No," he said, sipping a bit of his wine and turning his gaze away. "Of course you don't."

"It's true."

"And I believe you."

Did he, she wondered? Was that why he was here, to plea aid for the world at large? Roland called Westmarch home, it couldn't have been easy for him to see his homeland fall, but…

She took the wine from her servant and finished a third of it in one gulp. But what could she do? Only abandon her people and go on some Light-forsaken quest with no end goal in mind bar killing as many demons as possible. Which might sound good, except that she was older than she was twenty years ago, and twenty years ago, slaying demons was a means to an end, not an end in itself.

"Of course," Roland said, as took another sip of wine, "you may not be needed at all."

Cassia frowned – "how so?"

"I assume you've heard of the Nephalem."

She snorted. "The Nephalem. Who hasn't in this day and age?"

"Very few. But I'm curious as to how much you've heard on Skovos."

She shrugged. "Tales, rumours, fantasies. The liberator of Caldeum, the champion of Bastion's Keep, slayer of the Prime Evil, defender of Westmarch." She paused. "How much have you heard?"

"More stories with more details," Roland said. "Enough to know that the Nephalem did turn the tide at Westmarch. Enough to hear more…disturbing, rumours. Of the innocent falling alongside the guilty." He frowned. "Power corrupts, as the saying goes. Likewise, the saying claims that absolute power corrupts absolutely. And when one wields greater power than any angel or demon…"

"The Amazons have a saying as well," Cassia said, trying to lighten the mood. "Tell me where you need a javelin, and I'll deliver it lightning fast. That's the Amazon promise."

"And you also have a saying that lightning never strikes twice, but javelins do," Roland said. He returned his gaze to her, and she felt no more uncomfortable for it. "Where are those javelins now?"

She frowned. "I told you, I only train the army, I don't get to use it."

"Then will it be used?" He took a step towards her. "If ever?"

She frowned – she didn't want to argue like this, but there were fellow Amazons here, and she couldn't afford weakness. Not for them, nor for her. So, she stood tall and proud, murmuring, "don't presume to lecture me Roland. Not in my home. Not now. Not ever."

He paused, before saying, "of course not." He drew back, and looked out over Tran Athulua once more. "Funny, isn't it? Twenty years ago, men defeated the Prime Evils. Now, I wonder if men may need to defeat one of their own."

"Don't be cryptic Roland, it doesn't suit you."

"Then what does suit me?"

"Honesty. Because I know you too well to think that you travelled to Skovos just for a visit. And that you're too smart to think that talking to me is the way to have aid sent to Westmarch." She took a step forward. "So, why are you here?"

He smiled sadly. "A visit," he said.

"What?"

"A visit," he said, the smiling becoming wider, but sadder. "Oh, don't be so surprised. My homeland's gone. The days are dark, and my life grows short. I've lived long enough to slay the lords of Hell, and lived even longer to see that a greater evil might arise from within humanity itself. So all I can say is, be prepared. Because the Nephalem has even made it to Greyhollow Island and back. Is Skovos really so isolated as to be completely safe?" He took another swig of wine, finally finishing it. "Good wine. Westmarch, is it not?"

Cassia nodded.

"Hmm. I prefer it from Khanduras myself. Westmarch was many things, but it wasn't a country of good clime for winery."

"We can offer you alternatives."

"I've seen much you could offer," Roland said. "Just not the will to give it." He held out a hand. "It was good seeing you, Cassia. Perhaps in the next life, it will be under more pleasant circumstances.

She shook it gingerly. The next life. She was old, but not so old that she was preparing for the hereafter.

"Farwell."

And like that, he was on his way out. To the sea, to Westmarch, to wherever. A place where she could go as well, with the only price being abandoning her people, and turning her back on her queen. She stood there, rooted to the spot. Stood there, and watched her friend depart, before saying-

"Roland?"

He turned and looked at her. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Nothing that she wanted to say at least. Only a saying – "try not to get blinded by the light. Unless you want to get lost in the dunes in the middle of the night."

He smiled. "A saying of Aranoch, is it not?"

"Kehjistan, actually. I only used it when we crossed Aranoch."

"Ah, well. One desert is as good as another." The smile remained for a bit before fading. "Farwell, my friend."

She nodded, and watched him depart. Stood there, and reflected how indeed, lighting never struck twice.

That if she was lighting, she had struck once, with such fury, that she could never leave the ground again.