There was something about the sound of rain that always helped ease Zaanthe's mood. At some point, some many decades ago, the vindicator had decided it was something about the predictability of it. The rain never lasted too long, it came with at least a degree of frequency, and unless he happened to find himself in a flood plain or marsh, was never too much trouble to deal with. It was also useful to help drown out the noise of the crowd that had gathered in the inn, allowing him to concentrate on the white noise and close his eyes.


“Letter for one 'Vindicator Zaanthe'?”


It must have been some time between closing his eyes and opening them again, made apparent by the sudden lack of any crowd and in fact, any company whatsoever. Zaanthe blinked his eyes a few times, stretched his arms, and sat up. The man was huddled under a hood, damp with the rain, though he offered a completely dry envelope forwards having huddled it under his coat. Zaanthe cleared his throat and took it from the extended hand, muttering a thank you and a blessing before the man hurried away. Zaanthe brushed his hand over his face, took the letter and tore open the top, careful not to rip into the letter within. Settling himself in his seat, he unfolded the paper within, and read over it.


Then he read it again.


He only made it halfway through the letter on the second run before he had scrunched it into a fist before knocking his hand against the wooden table in front of him, cursing in Draenei. He had thought for a while in his own mind with snippets like 'Of course', and 'I should've known'. The rest however had boiled in his throat and came out in a harsh flurry of his native tongue, cursing and yelling in short, sharp staccato, syncopated with the occasional strike of thunder from outside.

“Where are they now?! They stand between us when I strike him, but when he does the same to her? When they could've been useful?”


Of course, it was ridiculous to expect anything of anyone who wasn't in the vicinity of Mosur when it happened, but simply ranting got much off of Zaanthe's chest. Cursing and blaming the Templars who had intervened in their fight was convenient, and they weren't around to talk any sense into him, which made it surprisingly cathartic. The vindicator slammed his fist into the table once more, and stepped out of the tavern and into the rain.


Names and faces sprung up through the stone-floored keep that offered their greetings and well-wishes to the vindicator, but he rudely shouldered past them. He had no time nor patience for any other being at this moment, let alone those not of his kind. Zaanthe made it to his small quarters, namely a bed and a place to store his armor, and gathered his belongings for travel before stepping out once more into the grey skies of the fjord, his visage grim and dire.

Author Zaanthe
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