What in the sweet hells had she bloody well gotten herself into?

Isolde looked up at the stars, so bright and clear this far north, laying her large paws behind her head, leaning back with legs crossed. Oh, no, staying out for the night was no issue, not at all, not after the couple of weeks she’d been abandoned on her own up here. Besides, with a bellyful of meat and a well tended fire near by, the bitter cold did not bite so deeply. 

There was the other thing, too.

She sighed, idly scratching at the fur covering the back of her hand…paw. Whatever. Isolde wasn’t fond of her worgen form, not at all. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t who *she* was, it shouldn’t have to be what Gilneans were, but so it was now. And so it was, she decided, that she wasn’t going to accept it, even when she had no other choice but to use it, because survival usually beat out stubborness.


She glanced around at the other men and women Templars. They seemed…all right. Yeah. She wasn’t willing to trust them all, not yet, and the readiness to flee despite the quiet oaths of safety hadn’t completely dissolved. Himself in particular she found herself trusting, though she wasn’t sure why, with all his teasing and his firm assurance in her suitability for the soldierin’ life. She set her jaw. She may be considering working with this lot, but she would never be a soldier. Not ever. Just a street rat with a bow and her very own top hat.

Isolde leaned back again and looked upwards. And old song slipped into her head, from when she was a child, a real kid, just able to slip into pubs and scrabble for dropped coins and crumbs amongst the rushes. Some old fellas from the North, in their peculiar dialect, who still remembered the days before the wall, before Lordaeron fell, singing a low and mournful tune that still carried a little bit of hope. It seemed appropriate, and the tune sprung to her own lips as she began to doze off under the winter’s night sky. 

“This ay night, this ay night, ev’ry night an’ all, fire and sleet and candle light, and gods receive thy saul…when from hence, away thou’st passed, ev’ry night an’ all, to Thornywood thou comest at last, and gods receive thy saul…”

Author Wallaroo
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