In a particularly quiet corner of the Blue Recluse, two draenei sat across from one another. One was immediately recognizable by most Templars as Vindicator Zaanthe; a great blue bundle of plate armor and sour frowns. Across from him, however, was a new face–yet somehow, she was familiar. Nigh-white shoulder-length swept neatly into a side parting, expressive eyebrows knit into a pensive frown above bright silver eyes, a discerning gaze that seemed to always be judging in nature. Her chin pointed to a thin, delicate end that was kept held high, making it all the more easier to peer down a long, narrow nose. Her facial features were nothing if not sharp, harsh.

This woman was Ravaji. Zaanthe�s sister. That was where the familiarity stemmedfrom–the two were immediately recognizable as relatives. The likeness, even across genders, was striking.

Having just settled down, Zaanthe was the first to speak, his voice steady and baritone as ever. �I need a favor, Rava,� he started, placing the palms of his gauntlets down against the worn, wooden table in front of himself with a soft thud.

�I�m well. I hope you are too,� the woman quipped, bright eyes stoically set at his, expression unchanged from the flat, disinterested state it settled in.

Zaanthe closed his eyes for a brief moment, sighing quietly. �We can catch up somewhere else, some other time. I�m particularly adverse to this tavern,� he explained, glancing about. All sorts of strange folk gathered at the Recluse. Perhaps that�s where it got its name, the vindicator mused. �There�s a man I�d like you to speak with. He�s troubled by visions.�

Ravaji sat quietly for a moment. Her left brow peaked. �I�m no therapist. There are others he could confide in more capable than I, brother,� she dismissed, reaching down to pick up the glass of water she�d ordered moments ago, taking a sip.

�He believes they aren�t his own. He thinks they may be� prophetic? Or a clue to something about his past. He has no memory prior to his death, he claims,� Zaanthe began to elaborate, though he was soon cut off when Ravaji raised her hand, flat palm facing towards her brother.

�I am no Auchenai. You know this. Spirits of the dead are not my domain,� she quickly interjected, shaking her head.

�No, sorry–You misunderstand me. He is an Ebon Knight. The dead re-purposed. I�m not sure I explained this before�� Zaanthe groaned. Introducing Azeroth and its oddities was difficult. Ravaji had lived in her world without so many of the quirks the vindicator had grown to accept as normal.

�Ah! The unchained servants of the lich king. No, you didn�t explain them at all, Zaanthe,� Rava chided, narrowing her gaze at her brother. �But, I found myself curious enough to read in my spare time here. You make for an atrocious tour guide. Having to educate myself about this place is a daunting task�� the priestess murmured, incredulity heavy in her tone. �His name?�

Zaanthe thought for a moment, before cursing himself silently. �I didn�t ask for it. We�ll go to Westguard and meet him there.�

Ravaji shook her head. �Just tell me where and when. I�ll meet him,� she stated, setting out her demands for her contribution in what was looking to become an utter mess. After a brief pause, she spoke again.

�… Tell him I�ll be bringing company. One other. Someone else who can aide him, and myself.�

Author Zaanthe
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