Jorn Raveloe stood in the center of the new camp, watching the sun rise between tall pillars. This place had once been the court of a great mage's house. Untarnished metal gleamed on its broken spire where it rose to the North of where Jorn stood. A moss-choked fountain at one end of the enclosure still gave forth a thin trickle of water. It glittered as the early light fell on it.
Sunrise. Looks like I get another day.
A low tap-tap sounded behind him.
"Thought you'd be getting some sleep, Priest," Jorn said. "Been a long night."
"No longer than yours," the Elf said. He reached down idly to rub his bad knee. "I did not know that bandits could raise the divine shield."
"Never heard it called that," Jorn said. "But it's been in my family a long time. My old Dad had it, before the Scourge got him. And his Dad, too, but he never saw the Scourge. Got hung for a thief by the Alliance."
"My parents fell before the Scourge also," the Elf said. "In Quel'thalas. It was why I followed Jaina Proudmoore, and why I became a priest instead of settling down to have little Elves."
"Guess that makes – " Jorn's brain caught up with his tongue at this point. He turned and stared down at Priest. "Have little Elves?"
"I'm afraid my age was not all I lied about, when I joined the army," Priest said.
Jorn looked wonderingly on the skinny blond Elf. Built like a toast rack, and legs
as stringy as any bandit in camp. Who'd guess?
What he said was, "Got a pretty deep voice, for that."
"I always have," Priest said. "My mother did also."
"She as tough as you?" Jorn asked.
And Jorn Raveloe reached down and lifted a lame Elf up over his head, and looked at her golden hair in the morning sun, and laughed and laughed and laughed.
Strange tales are told in Dalaran.
They say there was a bandit
With a face as seamed as any mine
Who went and wed a homely Elf.
I understand they got on fine.
Now tell another, if you can.