Fire and blood.
Isoldei paid the mage his fee and was off to Northrend before the magic had finished cooling her heels. She grabbed the extra lined cloak out of habit rather then need; her face was burning and she needed somehow and something to burn off the heat.
She glanced up at the towers of Westgarde, still flushed, and headed deep into the woods of Grizzly Hills to hunt. Fire and blood. The wolf took over, shaking off the remains of restraint she had done her best to control since leaving himself in Stormwind. Oh, that silver tongued *barstid*. He’d made it that much more difficult, even as she smiled, and for the first time, she realized, she didn’t mind the wolf.
A crack of a branch, the rustle of leaves. Her ears perked, and her bow was left behind. No, not today. Today she would accept this, just once, and see how the fire in her would burn. How the wolf’s blood felt hunting by tooth and claw.
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