I own nothing except Vician Trannyth, all else belong to Blizzard

A/N...

Yea, I'm back with a new story. Hopefully these shorter things can help with the other writings

Sylvanas maybe a bit OOC, but meh? I am writing this at 4:30 in the morning, so . . . yeah.

Warning: Use of language, rotting body part, Politics and Sylvanas

1: Nervous

He was always nervous when he walks into her chamber. Vician Trannyth was never nervous of her—how could he be?—he's followed the Dark Lady from the founding of the Forsaken; he has always followed her orders without question, he has always met his foes with twisted ferocity, and he holds equal respect among the Forsaken as much as the Forsaken hold for Nathanos Blightcaller, the champion to the Dark lady herself.

He was never nervous of her. He was always nervous for her. Politics is a dangerous thing and he fears for his Lady's sanity, dealing with the idiots of the world; idiots such as Garrosh-just thinking about him, infuriated Vician Trannyth. How dare he call the Dark Lady a bitch! What insolence!

Pushing the thoughts from his mind, Vician walks into Sylvanas' chamber, kneeling down at her feet. "You summoned me, My Lady?"

Sylvanas nods her head, "Yes I have. Arise, Trannyth." Rising up, Trannyth looks up into her face, and he dons a solemn look to cover up his strange look. For 8 years he has followed her and every time he sees her face, his undead heart seems to skips a little. He has memorized the features of her face, her deep red eyes, her high cheekbones, her flawless blue skin, the way she subtly bites her bottom lip when deep in thought, how she cocks her head to the side slightly when something interests her; like she is doing now, her head cocked, staring at him. "Something interest you, Trannyth?"

Vician Trannyth mentally scolds himself for staring at the Dark Lady, and bows his head sheepishly, "I…um…N-Nothing, my Lady." He mumbles out.

Sylvanas raises a long eyebrow, clearly seeing his nervousness. "Speak, Trannyth."

Vician sighs nodding his head. "I am . . . merely nervous, My Lady," he says, lying to her.

Sylvanas nods her head, accepting his lie. She cocks her head again, "What would make you nervous, my most powerful warlock?"

Shrugging his shoulders and looking up at her, he smiles weakly, "Politics, My Lady."

Sylvanas pulls back, her eyebrows rising as she looks over Vician, "Politics? I never knew you were interested." She muses—mostly to herself, a small smirk playing on her face.

Trying to ignore her cute smirk, Vician stumbles for an answer. "I . . . I am merely nervous, My Lady, for your . . . well-being dealing with all the idiots of the world."

Sylvanas is taken back, her eyebrows shooting upward, never having someone care for her before—at least since she died. Quickly composing herself, she offers a small smile. "I . . . appreciate the concern, Trannyth, but I can handle the politics," placing a finger under his rotting chin, she moves his head up and looks into his eyes, "so, don't be nervous. I can't have my most trusted warlock nervous."

Vician closes his eyes, breathes in deeply, and breaths out through his mouth, composing himself. Opening his eyes he nods his head, "Thank you, My Lady."

Sylvanas nods her head, "Good. I had summoned you here because every time we talked, you would be nervous; I'm glad we cleared this up. You are dismissed."

Vician nods his head and turns to leave. He turns back towards Sylvanas and asks, "If I may be so bold, My Lady, perhaps we could discuss Politics sometime; perhaps over lunch?"

Sylvanas smiles lightly and tilts her head to the side, "My, you are being a bold one today," she mutters softly to herself. Raising her voice, she answers, "Yes, I would like that."

Vician bows once more and leaves her chamber. He is always nervous for her. But, he can live with that, for it made him so giddy.