solo

Sookie remembers when the woman - the Lady - spoke with Kagarn.

"The child has a feral heart," she had said. "Her speech is unrefined. She has learned of love, but she is crippled by her inability to express herself. This will prove fatal to her in the long run. She has had enough of kindness. Now is the time for discipline. I will accept the burden of teaching her. You and the elf have done what you can."

At the moment of the dragon's death, Kaliera heard... something. And then she realized what it was: the death-cry of the dragon's soul. She had never been so close to a being so powerful at its moment of death before, and that scream of rage and denial broke something inside her....

"She has the gift, Vanar. She should be trained in it."

Sookie's first foray into dress-wearing has proven devastating, if you judge the experience by combat utility - which she does. The dancing is exciting, reminding the girl of her youth. Learning to dodge arrows, avoiding cuffs from angered teachers or running in step with other children during drills; all these things taught her the values of grace, poise and coordination.

A magical message from Dalaran has arrived for Light's Hope Chapel. It is addressed to "Ezra Pyreborn, or other opponents of the naga invasion". Naturally, Ezra claims it.

High Inquisitor Whitemane rides rapidly across the blasted desolation of the Plaguelands, forsaking some of the roads where she knows the Scarlet Crusade will be patrolling. More than once she is beset by the undead, sometimes a dozen or more at a time, but she does not hold her high station for being merely a pretty face.

Ezra hasn't been privy to the intense negotiation happening between Eitrigg and the leadership of the blood elves. He's been kept busy, spying on the movements and activities of the Blood Knights.

The portal between Orgrimmar and Tranquillien is not kept open regularly due to the cost in mage-hours to maintain it. But for an orc like Eitrigg, and a mission like this, speed is vital.

He is met by the undead arcanist calling himself Ezra Pyreborn, who bows low. "I received the messsage," Ezra explains. "I am at your sservice, yess."

Five figures approach the shimmering violet barrier behind which sits the city of Dalaran. Four of them are bedecked in the gallantry of the Argent Dawn: the eight-pointed silver sun of their tabards, the steel and silk and gold of their ceremonial armor, the fluttering pennant held proudly aloft by one upon which the same device is emblazoned.

The matter of the correspondence seems too urgent for Ezra to wait long. As the group sneaks back to their airship, he questions Andrew about the contents: "Anything relevant to the Sscarlet Crusade could be urgent at thiss time, yess. At leasst ssummarize your findingss for me, eh?"

There is a standard doctrine to arrival of supply caravans to the Scarlet Monastery, and the cursed Scarlet caravan operators follow it to the letter, wheeling their wagons to a halt in a designated area within easy reach of the archers on the parapet. "Halt! Who goes there?" calls the hail from the guard commander on duty. "Supplies from Tyr's Hand!" comes the response.