Darkshore was always such a quiet place.
It was like the only quiet corner left in a noisy world. This was the only commercial port the Night Elves had opened to outsiders. Beneath the eternal night, the Night Elves lived peacefully here. It had been this way tens of thousands of years ago, and it was still this way now.
The Elves always liked to lean by windows overlooking the sea, playing stories of the past on their lyres, singing songs, and savoring the beauty of time in their memories.
For a long-lived race, memories were the real stories.
"Rikaode, darling, it's time to get up. The children are waiting for you to tell them a story."
A gentle female Elf with white hair and pointed ears shook my arm vigorously, rousing me from sleep. I opened my eyes and looked at her.
Right, this was Daisi, my younger sister, a child who never seemed to grow up. Even though she was already 350 years old, she was still a child.
I struggled to sit up in bed and coughed twice. My adventure in the Plaguelands had left me unable to pick up a weapon ever again. Weakness had taken root in my body. My fingers were still nimble, but I could no longer use a dagger to strike the target in front of me with precision.
Just surviving was a blessing. If old Tirion Fordring hadn't found the best Priest in the Silver Hand, I might have already returned to the Moon Goddess's embrace. And being able to return home and see Daisi's face again was the happiest thing of all.
But I had also gained what I wanted.
Wealth, a good life, and the family affection I had always overlooked.
I thought I was helping old Tirion Fordring