Come Raise the DeadSilvermoon remained a terribly ironic name for the city of the elves, as the golden sun gleamed on its gilded walls and streets of white and red stone, making it radiant with warm light. A vibrant contrast to the desolation that was now Tirisfal.
Aranya strolled with purpose through the streets from her personal sanctum in the capital city, to the end of Farstrider Square that was partially shaded from the heat of the sun by large red tented banners, some steps above the open training area, which was lined with dummies. The smiths needed such shade - partial as it was, and not entirely effective - to keep from completely succumbing to the heat of both the sun and the forges. One had his back to her as she turned up the steps and approached, banging on some armor.
“Excuse me,” said Aranya, just loud enough to make herself heard over the banging, and as soon as he stopped she continued. “How much for a good sharpening to a set of boot knives?” The arcanist asked.
Screaming"The E͜yes h҉ave ̷s̨ęen̵, The Ea͡r̀s͟ havȩ h̴ea̧r̶d,͞ án̶d Th͏e̷ ̶Fir̀şt́ ́may͞ y͘et͞ ͜r̷ȩciȩv̶e i҉t̵s ͘he͜ad͞ st̛àrt. Y͞et ̵The ͟V̢oi̢ce̵ re̶m͏ai͢n̨s̶ s̷i̕le͏n͏t̛. ͏I̧s͜ i͠t ̶m͡ute̕?͠ "
Not for the first time, Aranya closed her eyes, covered her long, upright pointed ears, and gritted her teeth.
It was all she ever seemed to hear anymore these days. The SCREAMING of elves, dying, in agony. Silvermoon in flames was seared into her mind forever, and Teldrassil blazed that wound back open afresh.
She could hear her Thalassian kin fighting, falling, running in terror. The wails of despair as she fought beside her king and watched him be c
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Aranya sat quietly on a gilded floor, looking out at the stars above Zandalar. She was calm, still, breathing evenly and slow, despite what she was about to do. The arcanist looked down at a beautiful crystal trinket with a crescent within it, a gift from Colpeia’s tribe after she had sent them aid in the wake of Sargeras stabbing his sword into the heart of Silithus and robbing the Tanari illusion-weavers of one of their most sacred places.
It was a gift that later came with wisdom and warnings spoken to her, as she requested training in an illusion so deep, that she could lose conscious control of herself and it would still remain in place until she deliberately willed it away. A disguise to let the Thalassian woman cross to the other side of the faction war, stay afloat of matters in the world, keep playing a hand that could matter in a world where Azerite now decided the fate of so many. An illusion as only the Shafise could craft to let her pass for ren’dorei am