Arancathria pulled the cloak tighter around her shoulders as the rain came down harder than ever. The heavy fabric was soaked through and clinging uncomfortably to her leathery wings, and the hood, which she had put up in a vain attempt to keep the rain out of her face, was hooked on her horns and made turning her head impossible. The muddy track splashed under her bare feet as she walked. She detested rain, and the mud that pressed between her toes. All she wanted was to find some shelter where she could dry out and have something hot to eat. As powerful as the fel energies made her, the night elf born demon hunter still liked the creature comforts of any other mortal. Being wet and cold was its own misery, and she hated it.
Dark trees overhung the path, their ancient, quiet life magic pulsing faintly. Wind made their branches quake, which shook showers of water drops upon her as she passed below. Lightning flashed, and thunder banged overhead, deafening. As she rounded a bend she thought she detected the smell of smoke. Where there was smoke, there was usually a fire, and she quickened her steps, hoping for some kind of village inn or tavern. Rounding a bend in the path she came upon a small building, a darkness pressed into the dim reality of her spectral vision. Blurry shapes glowed within it's walls. It was occupied.
It... wasn't a very impressive inn, if that indeed was what it was. It was small and built more like a garden shed than a tavern, but she decided being inside was ultimately better than being outside in this storm. She located the door, grabbed the cold metal latch, and shoved it open. A gust of wind caught her cloak as she stepped inside, the sopping hem flapping around her muddied legs as she pushed the door to, shutting out the weather. Exhausted from her journey, she turned to survey the room, and found herself met with upraised weapons and aggressive postures.
"Whoa!"
She raised her bared hands, weaponless. Belatededly she thought a lesser creature might think her talons a threat, but it was too late for that now. A blood elf hunter, smallish, lightly built and lithe, looking and smelling of the magic particular to his race, stood across the room, arrow nocked and ready- it's enchants glowed ominously in her vision. His pet, a large catlike beast (probably a lynx- they were popular hunter pets), stood growling at his feet, it's ears pinned back aggressively. An orc warrior, his ancestors touched by the fel magic that had altered his race when they came to this world, which still clung to him, stood beside the crackling hearth with his battle axe held at the ready. This one had considerable tusks, if she was determining that accurately by the edge of his aura's profile.
This was just her luck. Manage to find some shelter from the storm, and it's already occupied by the Horde. Exhausted mentally and physically, heart sick and pained, she didn't feel like a fight this night. Having campaigned against armies of demons across the Broken Isle for months, battling fruitlessly with Legion overlords and their foul servants only to lose so many for so little...
Ysera, she thought, and felt the pain of mourning all over again. For all that she had sacrificed to fight the Burning Legion, tonight- just this night- she wanted to not need her blades.
"Be at ease," she said, speaking to the blood elf in his native tongue, and then made a mangled attempt at the same in Orcish. "I will leave. I am too tired to quarrel with anyone tonight."
With a heavy sigh, she turned back to the door, but as she reached for the handle a deep voice spoke up from the corner, speaking in Common. The third aura that she hadn't taken notice of because he was the only one not threatening her.
“Stay. The night is cold. This is no weather to be out in, and we have better manners than to turn away a fellow traveler on this Pilgrim's Feast.”
An enormous bull Tauren rose from his spot, a druid of some sort, she thought, judging by the quality of his magic. His aura glowed strong and hot in her vision- he was a powerful creature, to be sure. Despite the peril he could present, she felt slightly more at ease. She generally liked Taurens; most were decent folks, many quite peaceful, but just as many were powerful, honorable warriors. She had fought alongside them. They had died at her side. It made her heart ache.
Oh, she was soul weary indeed this evening.
The Tauren clearly had some influence over his companions, because they lowered their weapons slowly, regarding her with wary suspicion. As a demon hunter, she was usually considered a monster, a foul abomination. She was shunned among her own people, for sacrificing everything she could have had, choosing instead to take on the powers of demons so she could be powerful enough to fight them. Her eyeless sockets, filled instead with glowing green fel fire, her horns and wings and glowing tattoos, and that spectral sight which made all magics visible to her, made others fear her for what she mostly was: a demon.
She hadn't made the decision lightly. Her choice had been driven by grief and loss, fueled by unending anger. Her actions had driven her away from all she knew, but had given her access to the only thing she really truly cared about anymore: bringing an end to the Burning Legion.
Since no one had offered to begin a fight to the death, Aran carefully and slowly removed her weapons from where they hung at her side, leaning the wicked war glaives against the wall near the door. Her traveling pack was next, followed by the damnable dripping cloak, which she had to fight to untangle from her curling horns and the thumb claw on her left wing. Freed of it finally, she hung it off a rusted nail in one the roof beams. She turned to her uneasy hosts then, and bowed slightly, respectfully.
“Thank you for your hospitality. I assure you, I mean no harm. I merely want to rest for a while.”
“Warm yourself by the fire,” the Tauren said gently, before he began digging through an enormous rucksack that could have fitted an entire squad of dwarves.
Before long, there was a pot of water heating, and honeymint tea to drink. She didn't expect them to want anything to do with her, much less share their own rations, but the Tauren, surprisingly delicate, held out a cup in his large burly hand, and insisted she take it. The tea was sweet and hot, and dispelled the chill inside as she drank, a welcome warmth after a long hard slog. They sat around the fire in silence, sipping their tea, staring at the flames. No one offered any conversation, not even introductions.
Fair enough, she thought, enjoying the warmth of the fire on her face. She was technically an enemy of the Horde, despite the fact that she predated the factional conflict that so plagued the world today. She chose her faction on the day she had stood before Lord Illidan and pledged allegiance to his cause, and had felt the fel magic burn in her blood and the demon mind battle with hers. She had gouged out her eyes in horror at the things she saw, even as it gave her the power to fight it. Even now, she could feel the whispers of the demons in her mind, gnawing at her every thought. Every waking moment was a battle of its own.
She wondered, as the bull finished his cup and set a pan among the red hot coals to heat, if their tolerance for her had something to do with this feasting day, recognized by most of the races in Azeroth as a time for hospitality, generosity and kindness to others. She couldn't remember the last feasting day she had attended, much less been invited to. The presence of a demon hunter tended to make parties awkward.
A delicious smoky smell arose as the Tauren laid a slab of fatty bacon into the pan, greasing the skillet with its savory fat. The earthy smell of potatoes followed as he chopped them up with his knife. They sizzled in the hot fat, and made her mouth water. The others stirred themselves to their own meal prep. The blood elf turned out a loaf of still-fresh spice bread and a little jar of something which smelled strongly of wildflower honey. The orc unwrapped several slabs of gamey meat, which he placed directly on the hot rocks to roast. They sizzled and spat in the heat of the coals, and her stomach growled insistently.
Aran opened her own pack and rummaged through her supplies. There were always several packets of Illidari-style rations ready at hand; they were perfectly wholesome and nourishing, but not exactly thrilling fare. She dug through the somewhat rain-wet contents of her bag and removed several slightly withered apples that she had probably been carrying around a little too long. They were still good though, so she might as well use them. She discovered a packet of spices she had picked up somewhere and, forming an idea of what she wanted to make, rummaged for other ingredients. Some flour, some sugar, some muskenbutter, a splash of water, and a little deft work with her knife, and she fashioned a heap of spiced apple cakes, which she cooked in her own pan with more of the butter, until she had a whole stack of the flat, crispy fritters. She added a sprinkle of more sugar to their tops. She recalled a distant childhood memory of sweet seed cakes topped with sugar. The little crystals made desserts look pretty.
Then, having made far more than she could eat herself, she offered them to her fireside companions. This clearly surprised the orc and the blood elf. There was a hesitation, where they probably took the time to look at her offering with suspicion, but the Tauren accepted an apple cake with a murmured thank you and, after he'd taken a bite out of one, complimented her on the quality of the recipe. Be it shame at their churlishness, or reassurance that the Tauren trusted her cooking, the other two must have decided the cakes were safe. The blood elf accepted one next, with a little nod, and after a moment, the orc lost a little of his hostility and also accepted a cake. She took one for herself, and they ate their cakes as their food cooked, everyone seeming to enjoy the sweet treat. It warmed her heart a little that at least on this one night, she could offer them something other than conflict.
She honestly didn't expect anything else for the rest of the night, but the blood elf sliced off several pieces of bread, smeared them with honey, and then reached across the fire to offer the first slice to her. She smiled, and thanked him in his language, which she had learned from her blood elven comrades among the Illidari. The first bite was fragrant, the bread soft, the honey sweet and delicious. She would have been perfectly happy with her apple cakes and the honeyed bread, but when the Tauren's potatoes and bacon were cooked, he shared them with everyone, savory and rich, the potatoes cooked until golden and crunchy and the bacon crisp at the edges. As she ate, eyes half closed in a dreamy expression, a large piece of meat arrived rather suddenly, speared on the tip of the dagger that had fished it from the coals.
Glancing up, she looked at the orc with a mixture of surprise and some other emotion that rose within her chest, as overwhelming as a high tide.
“The meat is good elk,” he said gruffly, in Common. “It will fill your belly and give you strength.”
She nodded thanks, a lump forming in her throat, and as she ate the rich and succulent meat she had been given, she realized that this was probably the most kindness strangers had ever shown her since she had become a demon hunter.
The night was long and cold, the storm fierce, and the company remained stoically quiet, but the hostility that had been present before was gone. Now they sat in companionable silence, their bellies full of hot food, and their souls nourished by the simple generosity of a shared meal. For a while there were no factions; no Horde, no Alliance, no Demon Hunter.
Just people.
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