Siori hung her head a little as she watched the ships begin to sail off. Her sister Naeda was on one of them, and it left her feeling empty. For the first time in five years she would not be at the forefront of battle this time. Well, the shadows of the forefront. Mattias Shaw had always included her in the missions. She could still remember when the ships landed in Howling Fjorde. When her fellow Night Elves called out to take back Mount Hyjal from the forces of the Firelands, and how she joined countless others on the Molten Front. Holding the ground endlessly.
But all she would hold on this night was her daggers, and hope for her sister. That and 40 silver would buy her a pint at Bruuk’s Corner in Ironforge. Instead of returning to tell stories of war, she would spend this Winter Veil listening to them. Of course that meant familiar faces would return from this new land that had appeared to the south, among the mists.
Siori was an Elder now. She could pass on her wisdom to others, but the days of battle had passed her by. She knew it, though it was not made any easier. She looked at the ships, her eyesight still better than ever, seeing Kuroma, and Magik, Killthryn and finally Wontan the Gnome. She had imbued the latter with what knowledge she could. Truth be told, where she excelled in the shadows and espionage of the mind, he was the equivalent on the battlefield. In that regard, he would be a better asset on the front. She was proud of all of them and knew they would bring great victories. Still, she wept a little.
As they sailed out of sight, her eyes lingered for a time longer before she pulled her white mask over the lower portion of her face and turned inwards toward Stormwind. She would head to the Dwarven Mountain. Tumunzahar would no doubt be there -with a meal, wine, and laughter. And most of all, a shoulder.