Chapter Text
She was meant to have caught the next ship back to the mainland. Thassarian hadn't gone through all the danger and trouble of rescuing her just for Leryssa to turn right back around and go marching off into the frozen wastes again.
It rankled, admittedly, to be saved and then sent home by her own brother as though she were still a child meddling in the affairs of her elders, but Leryssa was smart enough to know when to pack it in and let stronger hands take over. She couldn't swing a blade or bludgeon, couldn't really cast much in the way of magic (and clearly, homespun hearth magic wasn't strong enough to ward against the wiles of elvish vampires), and didn't even know enough about the undead to pick out the friendly ones from those… not so friendly. Her little boot knife had done nothing but briefly amuse the elf who took her - though if she ever found the sorry soul who had started the idea spreading that garlic, of all things, would ward away a vampire, she might see how well they enjoyed a three inch blade shoved in their stomach.
It hurt to admit, and she would never say it aloud, but Leryssa knew she would only be in the way here - a distraction at best and a weapon to be used against Thassarian at worst. Now the Lich King knew her face and knew how Thassarian would fight for her.
So she truly had meant to go straight to the docks and be off on the very next vessel bound for the Eastern Kingdoms. She'd had her scant luggage all packed up and sent ahead to wait for her, and she'd been on her way with a last small satchel of dry goods tucked under her arm. She hadn't stopped to chat with the handsome soldiers, nor even paused at any of the pop-up vendors scattered throughout the camp. She hadn't veered or hesitated once in her tracks.
At least… not until she had encountered the bloody tracks beyond the camp’s farthest perimeter, out of sight of the guards who patrolled there.
The tracks belonged to a pair of men, she was certain, though some recent bit of snowfall seemed to have half-buried them, for they were shallower than a man's tracks should be in such soft powder. The blood scattered among the tracks wasn't much - only a few dribbles - but to be dripping any blood at all couldn't be a good thing, least of all in this cold. And some of the tracks looked scuffed on one side, as though whoever made them might be dragging one foot somewhat.
The smart thing, of course - smart, and mature, and a great many other of Thassarian's favorite words - would be to call the nearest guards or soldiers for help and then be on her way. One hostile undead had already been able to pose as a living man within the heart of an enemy encampment. Surely another such creature could just as easily pretend to be an injured mortal.
...But it was awfully dark blood that lay dribbled on the snow, and she'd seen how darkly Thassarian bled now. Maybe it was somebody undead, but they truly were injured enough to limp, and not simply faking it to draw away any soft-hearted mortals who might venture this far beyond the camp.
There had been no sound of a fight, that Leryssa could recall - and the more she studied these tracks, the more she became certain it wasn't two sets at all but one, as though whoever had left them approached the camp, stopped, and wandered back and forth before dragging themselves away again.
Would anything still loyal to the Scourge do that? Drag itself away rather than try to disrupt the camp even a little? This was someone with tracks that looked fairly humanoid; based on what little she knew about the Scourge, the ones that still looked like people were usually the more powerful, more coherent ones. Surely anyone like that would have taken the initiative and been able to wreak hideous damage on an unsuspecting camp, so why hadn't they?
She thought of Thassarian - of her own brother, who had been turned into a mindless war machine years ago, and who had only broken free of Arthas’ influence alongside countless others in the last few months. He'd been a monster all the years before, but he'd still managed to wrestle himself away from the Scourge.
And she thought of the Forsaken - of Sylvanas, freed by some miracle or force of will, and of the countless undead she had lead away and freed in turn. True, the whispers held she created new undead even now, loyal to her the way Thassarian had once been “loyal” to the Scourge, but even so - she was free.
If others had broken free all on their own, even others who were monsters for years before they remembered themselves…
“Straight to the docks, Leryssa.” Thassarian’s voice was softer and sadder now than it had ever been in life, and the echo of it in her memory was nearly pleading in its tone. “Straight home, where you'll be safe. Please.”
If it had been Thassarian - and of course it wasn't, he was much farther into the heart of Northrend by now - but if it had been him, with his sad eyes and his soft, tired voice, she would want someone to show him just a little compassion. She would want anyone who found her brother injured to have mercy enough to help him… even knowing what he had been made to do before.
What if this was someone like him? Someone scared, and hurt, and all alone in a world they had no place in now at all? Maybe they'd come this close hoping to join the war effort, only to flee again in a moment of doubt.
Maybe they'd come hoping somebody here would show them mercy.
She would miss the boat home - but there would be others, and she knew better now about the dangers here. Somebody might check the manifest and see she was missing, but that was a good thing; they'd likely mention the absence to somebody staying behind here at camp, and then she could be sure somebody would be out looking for her in case anything went awry.
She'd picked up a small medical kit when she first arrived in Northrend - a surplus field kit, really. Hopefully it would be enough for whatever she encountered.
Hopefully she wouldn't need it for herself.
Leryssa glanced once behind herself, just to make sure no one was watching after her. Then she turned and headed off into the frozen wastes, following the bloody tracks as they meandered roughly to the north.