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Mosur struck out with his fist again connecting with one of the thick trees not far from Westguard. He had lost count after about fifty punches, Koryander had told him to do a hundred a day.

Mosur had gone outside the walls of Westguard not wanting anyone to see what he felt was a silly exercise. He had asked her to help him be a more formidable fighter. He had started idly punched the air thinking on what had drove him to this, his fight with Zaanthe. The more he thought about it the angrier he became.

He had moved over to one of the nearby trees to give him something solid to vent his frustrations on.

Zaanthe’s words still chided him, angered him as he read into the Vindicator’s cruel words. 

What happened the last time you and a priestess got into trouble? She died, she died and there was nothing you could do about it. It was all your fault.

He hit the tree again and clenched his jaw tight.

You're the reason she died, the reason you don't have Amia anymore. The same thing is going to happen to Saashenka. You're just going to get her killed too.

Another blow.

Who are you fooling, you're no protector, no guardian. You're weak. The Light left you for a reason, you weren't worthy. Kro'kul.

Flakes of bark fluttered to the ground as another punch connected against the solid trunk.

Look at you, you're pitiful, just a broken one wearing a draenei's form. You fail in everything you do, this will be no different.

Another.

Promises of power only lead you down one path.

Another hit.

Archimonde.

His knuckles already bleed from the force he was punching the tree with.

Kil'Jaeden.

Another punch.

Demon.

Another.

You’re no better.

Mosur roared in anger as he punched the tree a final time. Fire caught licking at the tree, nibbling its bark where the shaman’s fist had landed. He turned away from the tree, the fire dying out, his hands still trembled in and anger and a feeling of betrayal. The rush held back the pain, but his hands were bloodied , his knuckles cracked and split against the tree. Dark blue blood smeared the back of both hands and his desire to prove the Vindicator wrong swelled again. That would shut him up. Him and the nagging voices he had left the shaman.

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