She huffed, burying her chin within the thick layer of fur around her face and throat. Even in worgen form, the cold was bitterly deep, and the extra layers were needed. After spending all that time in the scraps of leftovers Stormwind had left her, the solid clothing of the Templars was a blessing.
Another huff, curls of breathy smoke hanging in the air. Isolde kept her gaze fixated on the icy expanse, scanning back and forth in a regular pattern. In a few, when the cold got too much to hold still any more, she’d hop on the griffin and move on, chasing the shadows from a new angle in hopes of seeing *something*. Something in the twisting time scape that was the Dragonblight. She’d be damned if she’d let old gloomy guts call her a soldier again, but, dammit, this…this wasn’t that. This was just being decent. Not a bugger, turning her back on a someone who’d let her warm up at the forge, who talked to her like a human being, who took shite as well as he’d dish it out�
She got up, striding to the thick warmth of the griffin’s feathers. There’d been no news yet from the keep, and by all accounts there was nothing saying himself would even appear back here. Isolde knew little of magic, and didn’t care much for it, an attitude that was not growing any warmer thanks to the whole chaotic mess. Time and magic, feh! She kicked up and swung her leg into the saddle, tying her hood close about her face and sliding wind-proof goggles over her eyes.
That barstid. That *barstid*! Disappearing now and she’s already paid for a dress and she’d be damned if she’d let him get away with that. She would show him. She would watch, and watch well, and make sure he was safe. Even if she was so angry she could spit nails. She would stand watch for a good man. That barstid!
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