The Trail –

The carved runes glowed only dimly there, in the rock, as Aunne, her piecemeal armor creaking with the motion, kneeled to touch them with gauntleted fingers, frost slowly spreading over the stone next to the dried, sluggish blood in the runes themselves.

“Give him back.”  The Draenei’s hollow voice nearly whispered each word, considering each one, as though tasting them.  She nodded – standing, cold eyes tracing the blood spatters and bits of bone that remained, the burned spots along the rock that bore the telltale shudder of fel magic.  The Alliance had been here, not too long ago, and most of the bodies were missing – and the demons, of course, never remained long after they were broken.

More’s the pity.

The former Knight clopped quietly through the rotting camp  a single long blade held loosely, a hazy cold steam wreathing from the runes etched on the weapon as she half-whispered, half-sung a strangely upbeat tune.

“Etsiyona?”  

But no answer came, of course – this was all days ago, perhaps longer, and she felt almost nothing that would help.  No life beyond the plants nearby, and the animals that cowered and watched.   Even the blood was too far gone and dried and dead to be any help..

But she knew.  She returned to the claw marks there in the stone, resting a gauntleted hand in the paw print.

“I follow.  Soon, yes?”

In the distance, the roar and challenge of a demon was met by the scream of one of Odin’s chosen – and the Draenei turned to go.  As old as the trail might be, it was still a trail.  Perhaps one of those nearby would know more… and it was surprising how much demons would say when they were not allowed to die.