Darkshore was always such a quiet place.
It was like the only quiet corner left in a noisy world. This was the Night Elves' only trading port open to outsiders. Beneath this eternal night, the Night Elves lived peacefully here, just as they had tens of thousands of years ago.
The Elves always liked to lean beside windows overlooking the sea, playing stories of the past on their lyres and singing songs, savoring the beauty of time through their memories.
For a long-lived race, memories were the true stories.
"Rikaode, dear, time to get up. The children are waiting for you to tell them more stories."
A gentle female Elf with long white hair and pointed ears shook my arm hard, shaking me awake. I opened my eyes and glanced at her.
Well, this was Daisi, my little sister, a child who never seemed to grow up. Though she was already 350 years old, she was still a child.
I sat up in bed with some difficulty and coughed twice. The result of my adventure in the Plaguelands was that I could no longer wield a weapon. Weakness had taken root and sprouted in my body. My fingers were still nimble, but I could no longer use a dagger to strike the target before me with precision.
Surviving at all had been an extraordinary stroke of luck. If Tirion Fordring hadn't brought in the Silver Hand's best Priest, I might already have returned to the Moon Goddess's embrace. As for being able to return to my homeland and see Daisi's face again, nothing could have made me happier.
But I had also gained what I wanted.
Wealth, a good life, and the family bonds I had always overlooked.
I had thought I was helping reunite Tirion Fordring's family, but as