Common Tongue

Stone Meadow was a town on the border of Lordaeron and Stromgarde. Its buildings weren't made of stone, and it wasn't situated on a meadow either – rather dry scrubland that existed as a barrier between Lordaeron's more temperate climes, and Stromgarde's constant aridity. So why it was called "Stone Meadow" of all things, Vereesa Windrunner had no idea. And, right now, sitting in the Inn of the Crossroads, she didn't particularly care. She was just staring at the pint of beer in front of her, wondering what it would be like to get drunk.

She was an elf. Elves didn't get drunk, or at least, that was the image they wanted to portray themselves as having. Truth was, they could get drunk, but only on far more potent swill then the grey, festering ooze in front of her. Swill that the Inn of the Crossroads didn't serve, and thanks to the destruction of her homeland, probably never would. So, just sitting there, hunched in back and broken in spirit, she took another sip of the liquor, hoping for the oblivion that only alcohol could provide. Hoping as she had for the past year for things that never occurred. Hoping, and getting her hopes dashed against stones on non-existent only meadows.

She rubbed her eyes and looked around the inn's interior. It stank. The liquor stank, the patrons stank, and the only saving grace was that it stank less than the town outside. Stone Meadow had once had a population of around 340. Now, a year after the start of what people were already calling the Third War the town's population had increased tenfold. Refugees fleeing south, desperate to escape the Scourge, only to find that Stromgarde could provide little protection as the sky had rained fire. Lordaeron lay in ashes. Dalaran had been razed to the ground. Quel'Thalas…she winced, and took another sip. In the space of a year, three kingdoms had been removed from the face of this continent. Had the war continued, she had no doubt that more would have followed suit. But in this uneasy, quiet peace, people kept moving southward. The Burning Legion's forces still lingered, and the Scourge controlled the northlands. People fled to Stromgarde. To Stormwind. Some sailed for Kul'Tiras, others beat their hands feebly against the wall surrounding Gilneas. Some, she'd heard, had even tried their luck in Khaz Modan and Aerie Peak. And some just ended up in places like this. Drowning their sorrows, and unlike her, finding solace in oblivion.

"Some," as the case was, were humans. Big humans. Small humans. Fat humans. Skinny humans. Some of them wore armour, either in the red of Stromgarde, or the white of Lordaeron. Some were clad in rags. Many more of them were on the streets outside, begging for coin, selling what belongings they'd managed to take with them to get safe passage to southern lands. Some were even set on heading north, to take part in a helpless battle to reclaim their homes. And some, weren't human at all, such as dwarves and gnomes. Three of them, off in the corner, were elves. All of them male, all of them clad in light armour, all of them in conversation.

"They say the prince is in Dalaran."

They were speaking in Thalassian, and talking quite loudly at that. No doubt they figured that most of the people in the inn couldn't understand a word they were saying, and in Vereesa's experience, that was a fair assumption to make.

"Prince Kael'Thas?"

"No, Crenel, the other son of King Anasterian."

Vereesa couldn't help but smirk. It wasn't polite to eavesdrop, but with ears as big as hers, she figured she might as well use them.

"Figures," said the third of the three elves. "The prince spends years breaking bread with the Kirin Tor, and now he's there breaking his oaths to his own people."

"Harsh, wouldn't you say? He returned to Quel'Thalas after the fall of Silvermoon."

"To do what? Leave us again? Head back to the Violet Citadel to see if he could find another whore to woo"

"Lor'themar Theron is-"

"He's not the prince. Kael'Thas is. And he should be here, with his people."

Vereesa winced. The comments weren't directed at her so much, but an arrow could cut through more than one body, as surely as words could wound more than one soul. Nevertheless, she kept listening.

"There's talk about a resistance movement," the first elf said. "The Alliance has retaken Dalaran."

"The Alliance?" the second asked. "What Alliance? The Alliance died even before King Terenas did. And besides, if Dalaran has been retaken, what of it? It's a dead city, taken by the dead, then from the dead, by people who will likely be dead themselves once the bulk of the Scourge marches southward."

Vereesa couldn't fault the argument. She hadn't been at Dalaran when it had fallen, but she'd seen its ruins. The Scourge had been the ones to break through the gates, but there were tales of fel magic playing a role in the city's destruction. The towers had collapsed as if by from some unseen hand, and after that, the Burning Legion had come. Once, her bow and blade had been reserved for the living dead. Days later, they were reserved for the cursed spawn of the Twisting Nether.

"Well, it matters not. Kael'Thas, be he prince or king, is the leader of our people. If he's at Dalaran, we should be there."

"Our people. Which people is that, Teredal?"

"Excuse me?"

"Sin'dorei, Teredal. That's what Kael'Thas calls us now. Children of blood, in honour of those who perished at Quel'Thalas."

Vereesa frowned. Sin'dorei. That was new. She'd heard rumours prior to this conversation that Kael'Thas Sunstrider was indeed at Dalaran, that he had pledged himself to the tattered remnants of Lordaeron's army in a bid to defeat the Scourge, but this was the first time "sin'dorei" had reached her ears.

"Sin'dorei," she murmured. "Children of blood." She frowned. "Blood elves?"

"Blood elves," one of her kin said, though still unaware of her eavesdropping. "Well, if that's what the prince calls us, then that is what I call myself then."

"Call yourself a lapdog, might be more accurate that way."

Vereesa heard the sound of wood being dragged across wood – turning around, she saw the chair being dragged along the floor as one of the elves got to his feet. "You have a plan?" he asked. "Besides wallowing here among…" He glanced around the room. "These people?"

Vereesa frowned.

"Quel'Thalas is gone, Teredal," said the first elf. He got to his feet as well, leaving what Vereesa assumed was Crenel sitting down. "We have nothing to gain from fighting for a dead kingdom."

Teredal shoved him. "You're a coward."

"And you're a fool."

Crenel got to his feet as well. "It need not be Dalaran," he said. "We could travel north. Join the rangers."

"Or we could-"

"Oh would you stop yapping?!"

Four pairs of elven eyes turned to a pair of men near the trio of elves. Both of them had tankards, both of them wore chainmail, and both of them had shortswords at their belts. Vereesa could smell the beer on their breath, but she could also tell that they weren't intoxicated. They were angry, and the alcohol had fed that anger, but not to the extent that they'd lost all their senses.

"Yap yap yap," the first man said. "That's all you do. That's all you damn elves do."

Vereesa winced. Prejudice was prejudice, and seeing it directed at anyone was never pleasant. Especially since…She glanced at the door, wondering where her husband was. He'd been gone well over an hour, and even for his scatter-brained keeping of time, that was far too long.

"Oh I'm sorry," Teredal sneered, his words now in Common rather than Thalassian. "Talking too loud for you? Why, with ears as small as yours, I'm surprised you can hear anything."

The one named Crenel slunk back into his chair. The other elf however, said, "well, that's what you expect. Small ears, small brains." He laughed, before spitting at one of the men. "Surprised you can even understand us."

"Who says I can?" One of the two soldiers (the bigger one) put his tankard down and took a step towards Teredal. "Human country, human language. Get used to it donkey ears, because from what I hear, you ain't got a home to go back to."

"And you don't have a home worth a damn," the second elf said. "You're from, what? Lordaeron?" The man remained silent. "Must hurt, doesn't it? Your prince kills your king, then he burns your kingdom to ashes." He shoved the man. "Always the same with you people. Bad enough you breed like rabbits, you turn out people like Arthas Menethil in the process."

"Yeah?" the second soldier asked. "Well, how often do you get down to it? Must be hard, since you've all got sticks up your arses."

Vereesa got to her feet. She didn't want this. She really, really, really didn't want this. But people were looking. Most of them looked on with trepidation. Some looked on with glee. A dwarf in the far corner smoking his pipe cocked a pistol.

"It's always the same with you," the first human said. "Turn up late for war. Let us do the dying for you when orcs burn your forests, then you leave at the first sign of trouble."

"Funny how trouble always comes from your end, you overgrown dwarf." Teredal shoved the human. The man shoved him back.

"Bad enough I have to speak your language," Teredal whispered. "But I have to endure your smell, and your hands-"

"Your arrogance…"

"Your buffoonery…"

"Your fickleness…"

"Your barbarity…"

"Your-"

"Alright, that's enough," Vereesa said.

The way they looked at her, it wasn't what she was hoping for. A combination of annoyance and lust, and she wasn't sure which was worse. Nevertheless, she continued to speak, using Common.

"You're angry," she said. "I'm angry. There was the Scourge. The Burning Legion. We…" She took a breath, and shifted her gaze to the elves specifically. "You feel it, don't you? The emptiness. The gnawing. The sense that something's…wrong."

Something flickered in Teredal's eyes, and Vereesa knew that she'd struck the mark. Ever since the destruction of Quel'Thalas, there'd been a gnawing within her. Not from grief, not from anger, but a sense that she'd lost something. Like her very soul was being eaten away. She saw the elf next to Teredal look at her, and saw the blue light from his eyes flicker. Just as hers had so often now.

"The war's over," Vereesa said. She turned her gaze back to the two men. "We survived. Somehow. For whatever reason, the demons have fallen silent, as has the Scourge, and we should count our blessings."

The first soldier frowned at her. "Blessings," he muttered. "Who are you to speak of blessings?"

"As someone who counts them every day for my continued presence in this world," she said.

Teredal spat at her. "Those are fancy words, but who are you to say them?"

"Who are you, anyway?" asked the second elf.

She looked at him. "What is your name?" she asked.

"D'au Clearriver."

One of the humans snorted. "Stupid name," he murmured

D'au looked ready to hit him, but Vereesa continued talking. "It is good to know you by name," she said. "And I will entrust you with the knowledge that I am Vereesa Windrunner. And I say to you now-"

"Windrunner," Teredal murmured. "As in, Alleria Windrunner?"

"Yes," Vereesa said. "I-"

"As in, Sylvanas Windrunner?" Teredal asked.

"Yes," Vereesa said, her heart torn between yearning to see her sisters again, and frustration that even after they had left this world, she was still living in their shadows. "I-"

"Vereesa Windrunner."

All eyes turned to Crenel, as he slowly rose to his feet. His voice low, and his eyes downwards.

"Vereesa Windrunner," he whispered. His gaze rose to meet hers, and Vereesa could see his eyes blazing. "Hiding down here, while her kingdom burns."

"Not hiding, I was-"

"Is your man-pet here?" Crenel whispered.

"Excuse me?"

"Your mage. Your toy. The child of the Kirin Tor whom you've gallivanted around with for years." He looked at the soldiers. "No wonder you come to your aid – I suppose the red-haired monkey has rubbed off on you."

Vereesa took a breath. Her left hand formed into a fist. Her right clutched the hilt of a dagger in her belt, hidden beneath her cloak. "Choose your next words carefully Crenel," she whispered.

He laughed. "You speak their tongue so well. No doubt his has meshed with yours well. Common tongue, for a common whore."

The humans began to move. Teredal and D'au moved to stop them. Crenel drew out a blade.

Oh hell.

He tried to stab her in the stomach. To where Vereesa knew lay the balance of more than one life. So, with the instincts of a ranger, with the instincts of a mother, she moved with speed enough to grab Crenel's arm, slam his hand against the table, and plunge her dagger into his hand.

Crenel screamed. One of the elves punched her. Then the world went mad.

It was a brawl. The people around her screamed, cheered, or tried to get into the fight themselves. The elves were attacking the humans, the humans were attacking the elves, and both of them were attacking her for the crime of trying to get them to stop.

"That's enough!" she yelled, pushing one of the men into the corner. After a second, he drew out his sword.

Really? He swung. She ducked. She kicked him in the groin, then headbutted him in the face, her forehead hitting his nose with a crack. She spun round, and her own nose suffered a blow from one of the elves. Teredal, D'au, she couldn't be sure anymore. Either way, she grabbed the elf's arm and promptly broke it.

"If we can just-"

Someone grabbed her from behind, and before she could react, slammed her onto the table. The impact on her back was bad enough, but her head hit the wood with such force that she momentarily lost consciousness.

Rhonin. Her head continued to spin. Alleria. Sylvanas. Sylvos. Liressa. Lirath. Zendarin…

The moment ended. Memories of better days ended. Her mind returned to her body. She found that her assailant had jumped on her, and was pulling at the space between her legs and-

She screamed. She pulled the dagger out of Crenel's hand, and sent it right to the monster's neck.

"Enough!"

It never reached it. Everything stopped. Humans, elves, dwarves, even the gnomes in one of the inn's corners shut up. All eyes turned to the inn's entrance. Vereesa's as well, as she saw her husband standing there. His eyes blazing with magic. An unearthly wind blew into the inn, and everyone stared. Not just at the mage, with a ball of fire hovering above his open palm, but a quintet of footmen, bearing the tabards of Stromgarde, and the grey armbands that denoted their role as watchmen. One of their number walked forward, taking off his helm and revealing a face with more scars than skin.

"This it?" he asked. "This what we do now?"

One of the elves drew out a dagger and began walking forward. The footman drew a pistol from his belt and pointed it at him.

"Try it, skinny."

The elf fell silent and the man looked at his cadre. "Get them into the stockade. They want to kill each other, let them do it behind bars."

What followed was a series of curses, shouts, and cheers, as the footmen hauled the brawlers away. Vereesa expected herself to be given the same treatment, but while she got plenty of looks as she lay there on the table, her head spinning, now hands reached for her. And no words uttered for her, except by Rhonin.

"Vereesa?"

Her husband.

"You alright?"

Still laying there, her head spinning, she smiled. "You can shout really loud, you know that?"

They'd had enough coin to stay in the inn for the last two weeks. But whatever they earnt from tasks such as hunting (demons, dead, and animals alike), it hadn't changed their situation. The inn, like all inns in Stony Meadow, was full, and the owners were charging a premium for those who didn't want to sleep on the street. Looking out the window of the room, Vereesa could see the beggars in the streets beyond. The desperate, the diseased, the depraved. And beyond them, to the lands of the north, far worse things beside.

You feel it, don't you?

Her own words came back to haunt her and she continued to rub the back of her neck. Since the fall of Quel'Thalas, there'd been an emptiness inside her. Not mere grief – she had enough of that to fill a lake with tears – but rather, an empty lake in of itself. Waiting to be filled with what had been removed. A thirst, a gnawing, a hunger…and from what she had seen, from what she had heard, she wasn't the first high elf to feel the same way.

Or blood elf, she thought. She whispered the words out into the night. "Blood elf. Sin'dorei." She frowned. She couldn't fault Prince Kael'Thas in the same way her kin had, and if he wanted to honour the fallen, that was his right, but still, the name left a bitter taste on her tongue.

"Vereesa?"

She didn't turn round as the door to the room opened, nor look at her husband as he walked in. She was caught between wanting solitude, and wanting his company. Torn between those choices, as she was so much else. So she just stood there, as he walked over.

"You alright?"

She leant back against him. "Fine," she murmured.

"Ah yes, fine. Truly the most beautiful word in the language of Common. So ambiguous, so far-ranging, it can cover everything from truth, to lies, to things that are not-fine themselves."

Vereesa couldn't help but laugh. She took his arm around her chest and leant against him. Feeling warm. Feeling safe. But the feeling of the latter was something she knew was an illusion, and as surely as Silvermoon's supposed impregnability had been an illusion, she knew it had to be shattered eventually.

"How much?" she murmured.

"At this rate? One week."

Vereesa winced. One week until they ran out of coin, and were forced out.

"Maybe we should head south," Rhonin said. "Head for Strom. Even Stormwind."

"Or north," Vereesa murmured.

"North?"

Vereesa broke out of his grasp and walked over to the window. "There's still a fight," she said. "Quel'Thalas, Lordaeron, Dalaran…"

"Vereesa..."

"Who are we, Rhonin?" She looked back at her husband. "If we keep our backs to danger, if people continue to die, who are we?"

"Those who survived."

"Rhonin…"

"We fought. We survived. The Third War's over."

"While my home lies in ashes. While…" She took a breath, as she formed a fist and put it to her chin. The light in her eyes flickered, and the light may have given way to water if Rhonin hadn't put her arms around her again.

"You've spent decades fighting," he said. "You're the last of the Windrunner sisters, as surely as I'm the last of my own family.

"And?"

"And should our thoughts not be on who's to join that family?"

Vereesa turned around. Anger. Gratefulness. Fear. Regret. Joy. All kinds of emotions swilled around inside her. With her right hand, she reached for her dagger. With her left, she lay the palm against her stomach. Of what had been conceived as fire and death had swept the world. Of what continued to grow. Of her son or daughter, who would be born into a world that would be less safe than the one she had grown up in. And as tonight had demonstrated, lacking none of the prejudice of the old order.

"Vereesa, if you want to head to Quel'Thalas, or Dalaran, or hell, Lordaeron, itself, I'll support you, but…"

"But?"

"Just make the choice for the right reasons. And remember that it's not just your life who'll be in your hands."

Vereesa snorted. "Of course. You can't even go anywhere without me saving you."

Rhonin frowned, and Vereesa's smirk faded. Ninety percent of the time, Rhonin was a snide, snarky bastard that she found too infuriating to keep around, but even more infuriating to be apart from. It had been a cycle that had begun at Grim Batol, had continued for years, until vows were exchanged, and continued even as steel and magic had met bone and fire. And now? Now, she was at the Inn of the Crossroads, facing more crossroads than she could count. Knowing that whatever road she chose, she'd have a passenger with her.

"It doesn't have to be tonight of course," Rhonin said. "And I mean, tomorrow I'll be working with the town guard to hunt down a group of demons that were sighted two miles from here, so while I'm risking life and limb, and you're enjoying breakfast in bed, I guess that'll be a nice good chance to ponder life choices and-"

She kissed him. Partly to shut him up. Partly because she wanted to. Partly because when she did so, the hollowness, the emptiness that was beginning to consume her evaporated completely. She withdrew her lips and looked at him.

"Or, you could do that I suppose." Rhonin shrugged. "Either way works."

Vereesa laughed and began kissing him again.

After all, Rhonin's tongue…it wasn't so common.