The Jean-Pierre stories.

((Stories and tales about RP moments or inspired by RP moments. ))

An unexpected source of inspiration

Jean-Pierre walked across the room to a small desk. The desk was filled with staples of papers, of a mildly green-yellowish color. The gear to make the paper was still drying besides the desk.
The papers seemed ordered in 2 rows of 4 staples, and the columns were labeled 1, 5, 10, 20. Next to the papers stood an oillamp, which Jean-Pierre lit up with the built-in flintlock igniter. Then he walked back to the door of his room, taking a great deal of effort to move the heavy wooden door and shut it to block all light from the hall.

He turned to his deck eagerly, smiling. "Let's see how the experiment worked." he said as put a shutter over the oillamp, blocking all light. The room turned dark and slowly a faint glow rose up from the papers. Quickly Jean-Pierre glanced over the papers,
"The first row of papers still loses its glow after less than 5 days despite the bleaching but...", Jean-Pierre thought but he quickly inspected the last paper of the second row, "The second row keeps glowing..."
He held aloft the last paper of the second row and inspected it more clearly. The hue of the glow had mildly changed and have a faint hint of green. He sniffed the paper, noticing it no longer had its fresh odor unworked paper usually has.
Blindly reaching for the lamp, he lift up the shutter and inspected the paper in the light. It was showing subtle signs of decomposition.

Jean-Pierre sighed and took a small book from his pocket, taking a quill from an inkbottle on the desk and noted,

"Experiment 5
Material: Silverleaf and Peacebloom, Glowing Spores
Treatments:
- Not Bleached
- Milling and solving the glowing spores in alcohol
- Normal paper production process
- Normal drying process
Results:
With the spores neutralized, the material providing their glow is not sustained and the papers lose their glow after merely five days.
Conclusions:
The glow can only be ensured for a day or two but the paper seems to retain its original quality after the glow has faded. This might still prove suited for a letter or note, but not for long term works. The long term duration of the glow makes it impossible to prepare the paper properly before it is needed.

Expirment 6
Materials: Silverlead, Peacebloom, Glowing Spores
Treatments:
- Not Bleached
- Drying the spores
- Normal paper production process
- Normal drying process
Results:
I avoided working with raw spores before since I feared they might damage the paper. I needed to be sure of my theory, however, that it is indeed the mushroom and its spores that keep the glow intact. With the spores not being neutralized, the paper indeed manages to retain its glow but the fungus starts to eat on the paper.
Conclusions:
The process will have limited use. The message can be read at night, without light, for days... but will eventually deteriorate completely. Furthermore, the fungus might prove dangerous for other paperworks. Long term provisions are not possible."

Jean-Pierre put the quill back in the inkbottle and stared at his paper experiments when he heard loud noises outside. He opened his window and looked down at the street where he saw a few Dwarves shouting and laughing. It did not seem unusual at first untill he noticed one of the Dwarves started glowing. The other Dwarves bursted in laughter and cheering. The more the glowing Dwarf seemed to drink, the brighter his hue became and the louder the Dwarves became.
"Oi, the Elv'n drinks a' funny! We o't to be get'n anothe bottle o' that" they shouted.

"Indeed," thought Jean-Pierre, "Perhaps I should."

Inner Fire by the Harbor Side

The sun reflected on the white stones and veiled Stormwind in a wam glow as Pierre and Graylen sat on the pavement, facing eachother in maditation like silent statues. Only a soft whisper of wind and the scraping of Shariah's quill on the pages of her book could be heard. Graylen stirred and looked at Pierre.
"Good, now we are ready to begin your training. You asked about blessings, but they are a culmination of several steps in your training. Before we can teach those, we must go through more basic steps first. Don't you think, Shariah?"
Graylen glanced at Priestess Longhill. She looked up, finishing her last word almost blindly.
"You better start with Inner Fire. It will help you prepare for your blessings and strengthen them. When you have mastered that technique, you can build up towards blessings. Inner Fire is a good start... Surely you should be able to teach him that, Graylen."
She smiled softly at Graylen, who nodded in reply and turned to a confused Pierre.

"Inner Fire, Brother?" Pierre asked.
"Yes. It will help you strengthen your body and mind."
"Is it like a prayer for fortitude and spirit then?"
"Such prayers manifest the light in the priest or, indeed, anyone accordingly. Inner Fire strengthens the bond of the Priest with the Light like stirring up the passion and faith in the Light so it may aid the Priest in his or her tasks. Despite the difference with blessings, waking your Inner fire will help you in your training for them."
Pierre nodded.
"Ehm.. so.. how.. do we do that?"
"We best start with meditation. Lay your hands together and focus on their center. Let your mind feel the connection with the Light and through the Light the connection with the universe. As you feel your mind drift afar to all that is connected with the Light, bring your focus to your heart. Let your faith and love for the Light swell in your heart. Let it flow in your heart till it bursts and the Light disperses over your entire body. Let us try."

So they continued, in meditation, as silent as the stones on which they sat. Pierre was deep in concentration and let his mind drift away on all that was connected with the Light, losing track of time. Trying to bring back his focus to his heart, he felt his heart swell with confidence and passion for the Light. But.. as he tried to disperse the strength to his frail limbs he lost control over it. He opened his eyes and saw Graylen sitting with Shariah speaking softly.
"Oh dear.. I.. failed.. I think."
Graylen turned to Pierre and stood up. He glanced up at the sun and back at Pierre, smiling.
"It took you quite some time, Brother. Were you close then?"
Pierre nodded hesitantly and played with a fold of his robe absently.
"I lost it as I wanted to manifest the Light and let it fill my body, Brother."
"Try not to control it. Let it flow. Let it fill you till it flows into every limb and drives your heart. Let us try again."

And so they continued, once more. Pierre let his mind wander, feeling and reaching for the Light as far as he could. As he tried to bring back the Light to his heart once more, he felt his pulse increase and a joy fill his heart till it burst. A warm glow flowed through his veins and prickled in every limb till he could almost not bear sitting still. His eyes sprang open and he looked at Graylen, sitting in front of him, alone as Shariah was apparently gone.
The sun had started setting till the stones glowed faintly orange. Pierre smiled and nearly shouted "I did it!" but as he tried to jump he lost his balance and stumbled back down. Dusting off his robe, he redressed himself and glanced at Graylen's smirk feeling quite embarassed.
"I think you succeeded, Brother... well.. in the spell at least. Next time I must show you how to stand up." nodded Graylen.
"It will come quicker as you train so... train a lot. We will not always be blessed with this much time."

Battle in Westfall

A trumpet was blowing loudly from the hill behind Pierre as he gazed over the battle. Shouts of retreat could be heard from the back but Pierre didn't move. Hypnotized by the dance of death which was being displayed in front of his eyes, Pierre stood there mesmerized by the most gruesome display of war he had ever witnessed. A monstrosity built from bones and rotten flesh, barely any humanity left in its shape, wielding a large warmace was heading straight for him. Unable to grasp what was going on yet stricken with fear at the mere sight of this Forsaken, Pierre swallowed as he felt his inevitable death would soon take him. Slowly the mace started its course downwards which seemed so slow and yet so inhumanly fast. Pierre closed his eyes, wishing his last memory would be something else, something more pure, perhaps dreaming himself away in the arms of the woman he loved.

Suddenly he felt a great pain in his right arm and tigh and he opened his eyes finding himself on all fours on the ground. Scrambling up, he look at where the Forsaken should have been standing but instead there stood a tall shape clad in armor, the armor beaming in the sun and blinding him, the remnant pieces of the Forsaken still flying about the shape in a fountain of decayed matter.
- "Run lad!" a deep, hoarse voice shouted.
Blinded by fear Pierre began to run, weeping as he went and never looking back.

Arriving at Westfall Hill, Pierre collapsed to the ground, aching in his right side and his muscles burning from exhaustion. A chaos of men and women was wandering around him, all looking grim or defeated. He saw Priestess Longhill and Graylen walk in the distance towards the inn. Weeping silently he followed and he leaned against the outside wall of the inn, staring blankly about him.
- "Jean-Pierre!" he heard Longhill shouting from the inside.
Hurrying inside he soon found himself embraced with the macabre welcome of blood running freely on the floor, moans and cries of the wounded. He felt his knees tremble and weaken but he was not given a chance to flee as Priestess Longhill shouted out orders and directions.

Little he recalled of what he did then. Tending the wounded, almost mechanically, trying to avoid the eyes of the victims, guiding himself from one wound to the other in the hope to forget the miserable smell that gripped his nose and trying to shake off the horror he witnessed earlier.

Pierre gave his last bandage a firm pull before he tied the lose ends in a knot. The soldier of the Blazing Shields grunted under the pain.
"This should do, Sir. Please have your bandage checked and refreshed tomorrow, first thing in the morning. It will prove vital to check if the poison cure has done its work and to cleanse the wound again."
- "Yes yes, I will." The soldier waved his hand dismissively.
Tired, Pierre walked outside and checked how Dusk turned the horizon scarlet. Even nature would not give him a break from the bloodied scenes that haunted his mind. Rolling out a blanket , he laid down on the field next to the inn and fell in a dark uneasy slumber.

Late

Pierre opened his eyes though he could not see. It was dark all about him and he felt a throbbing pain growing on his head. Rubbing the soar spot on his head he tried to check his whereabouts. It was easily clear... he was trapped in a wooden prison. He must have been laying on its floor, bent with barely any room to stand up, let alone lie down. The warm air felt stiff as he tried to breath, hoping to suppress a panic attack. He started to strain his mind, trying to piece together the last events that put him in this unfortunate fate.
He was in his room... that much was clear. He received a letter of great urgency... a call to arms.

Suddenly, rushing like wild river a stream of images pieces together the final moments of consciousness before darkness took over. Realising his whereabouts he started hitting his wooden prison with ferocious determination.
"Let me out! Help! Let me out!" he cried but while the stiff air filled with echoes of his cries, he knew little could be heard outside. He doubled his efforts, relentless knocking on the wood of his cage.

Suddenly weak candle light peered through gaps and cracks in the wood he did not notice before. After a gasp of surprise, Pierre screamed out "Let me out! Please!".
Indeed his call was heard for soon he found the door to his prison opened.
"Mr d'Armagnac! I did not expect you to make such a noise at this hour! What evil has come over you! How did you manage to lock yourself in thy own closet?"
"I stumbled" he replied absently as he rushed for the bed and grabbed his backpack. Grabbing his staff he quickly limped out of the room, leaving a stunned innkeeper behind.
"I hope I'm not too late to help." He thought, as weeped softly thinking of his friends he had now unwillingly abandoned in battle.

The Crusade, Day 2.

With great haste Pierre folded a bandage and pressed it against the soldier's gaping chest wound. Blood creeped in the bandage, like a flood rushing over dry land. Pierre looked up in panic and threw Suzanah and Efee a desperate look. Suzanah flipped through a few pages in her prayerbook till she found the right one. Murmuring a few Draenic words softly, she put her hand above the wound. From both the book and the soldier's chest a bright symbol rose as if made from Light itself. She nodded softly at Pierre and he let go of the soldier's chest, removing the bandage along. A faint glow emerged from the wound and slowly the wound started to close. Within minutes the man's chest was healed and Pierre sighed of relief. He started cleaning the bandages and mess he made and looked at the patient. "Another soul saved", he thought. He glanced at the infirmary solemly. The wounds were healed, but the stench of blood hung thick in the air and suffucated his mind. "If this can be called salvation, that is."

Swaying softly, he walked out to the campire and burned the blood soaked bandages. He let his head hang low and stared at his robes. Only parts and folds revealed the bright cloth from which his robes were made... the rest being covered in blood and dirt from the infirmary. He tried to dust off some of the dirt and noticed he was smearing red stains on the cloth. Looking at his bloodsoaked hands, something snapped in his heart and he started to weep. To crusade had met resistance from the Horde. It felt so pointless. Aiding this cause felt empty and deprived of all beauty that the Light stood for. If this war did not respect life, how could it be fought in the name of the Light.
"How can this be Light's purpose then? Is this all what my training can lead me to?"
He felt needed to repose from this madness. He longed to wash away the filt on his clothes and hands but the river around Caern Darrow would probably make matters worse. In tears he continued his steps to the Disciple's quarters, changing robes and walking back to the campfire. Solemly he continued his labour, taking a kettle, boiling water and throwing in his dirty clothes. He sighed as he stirred his clothes in the kettle.
"If this continues, I'll have to burn them ere the end."


***

The Crusade, Day 4 and 5.

Pierre looked at the new camp. It looked more wholesome than anything he had seen in 3 days. At the entrance, Leowynn greeted him with a smile. The welcome of this camp contrasted so strongly with the soulless plagued lands he wandered through that Pierre couldn't help but smile in return.
After showing him around in the new camp, they joined the company of Graylen, Efee, Osmand, Celeste and a Dwarf at a whithered fountian. Apparently a theological debate was going on, and Pierre found himself quickly trying to follow the discussion. This unexpected gathering of friends and most interesting debate made his worries fade away and for a brief moment it felt as if the war was left behind in Caern Darrow.
He corrected his thoughts quickly but still the war felt different. The plan would be to deal a mighty blow to the Scourge and there would be less interference from the Horde. This could indeed prove a fight in name of the Light.

After the theological debate ended, without any real concensus (as could be expected considering the company) Pierre found himself alone with the two Chapterites and the Dwarf. How exactly the subject of the conversation turned to alcohol, Pierre will never remember... but he suspected the Dwarf for many days to come. What Pierre does remember is waking up in the infirmary the day after, with a throbbing headache, shaking hands and the sour taste of vomit in his mouth.
A horn blew in the camp and he tried to redress himself as quickly as he could. It proved a difficult task with his left leg still bound with the bandages and his sick stomach throwing him off balance. Barely had he stepped outside when the strong wind greeted him with a gripping cold. It made his head feel light and his stomach turn. Shivering he tried to continue but every step proved more difficult than the last till finally he threw up.
"I'll be late... but I cannot continue like this."

Fortitude

Pierre took a deep breath, the incense filling his lungs and freshening his spirit once more. He opened his eyes and looked at Priestess Longhill. A soft light with a blue hue shone through the long windows in the Cathedral's chappel. Pierre could feel the stiffness in his legs from fatigue; they were at this training for hours though he had lost the count.
"Again..." she said, in her usual melodious and dreamy voice, barely revealing any sign of tiredness.
They kneeled, Pierre grunting as his knees scraped over the stone floor again, wishing he had a cushion to rest his tired knees on.
She repeated the prayer, softly.

Pierre felt the blood course through his veins and the heat in his chest build up. His body swelling with strength and, to some extent, even courage. He let his mind be carried along with the power he felt surging through his heart, letting himself witness himself from afar as if the universe was looking down at him with a warm smile. He clenched on to the feeling. The connection with the universe and the Light itself, was ever so strong in her words. He saw her sitting next to him and getting up slowly. She filled her thuribe with some additional herbs, the smoke rising from it with renewed vigor. Walking around Pierre, she waved the metal censer on the chains, whispering prayers softly in rythm, almost in a song.
Pierre felt the words ring in his ears, the rythm pulsing in the universe as he observed it. Slowly picking up its pace he closed his eyes and added his own prayer,

"To give respect and love to all around,
To that oath of compassion we are bound,
For that we work ever so tenacious,
May the Light lend its strength to us."

Repeating the prayer over and over he continued, loosing track of time, feeling the blood pulsing in his ears ever more in rythm with the words. He noticed his hands started to bald to fists as the universe started pulling him. His mind, asking for his strength to join him where Priestess Longhill had brought it, in touch with the Light.
"Lend it your strength" she whispered, ever so softly but ever so clear.
Pierre gave in and opened his hands, letting his mind take all the strength he had to give, feeling every limb in his body numb down. He pushed on, letting it drain his heart till its beat weakened. His mind could feel the energy surge through the room, his heart filling with joy that the Light was with him. With a jolt the strength and feeing return in his body.

He let his mind return to him, the shell of a priest that was still in the room. Testing his strength, he stood up, still keeping his eyes closed. Pierre took a deep breath, the incense filling his lungs and freshening his spirit once more. He opened his eyes and looked at Priestess Longhill.

He thought he could distinguish a soft smile from underneath the shadows of her hooded face. "Good work, Acolyte."
Pierre smiles broadly. It felt great! He felt closer to the Light than ever before. "Do you really think so, Priestess?" he asked eagerly.
She stared at the wall behind him, not seeming to heed his words. Pierre waited patiently, fighting his nerves under the absent stare.
She turned her head to him again and nodded softly. "Again."

A lesson in life. A lesson in Soutshore.

Pierre rubbed his hands, massaging his acking palms and fingers. The stitching needle had become a pain to handle. Years of scribing proved a big help to handle a needle but his hands were not used to its torture. The moans and whimpers from patients echoed in his ears as he tried to fight his tears of disappointment.

Doctor Finjé's words came to mind: "A doctor must show confidence in the face of the patient, d'Armagnac". Pierre left the inn but found the people busy outside, despite the hour. Feeling trapped in the mass, he retreated to the docks. "Stay away from the docks!" shouted a guard. "There are assassins and snipers hiding, hoping to get lucky."

The guard eyed Pierre up and down. "An' tha' won't be 'ard with ye." Pierre nodded absently at the insult and walked back, trying his luck on the side of the inn. Releasing his tears in silence he went over the events of that day.

--

"You just killed your patient, d'Armagnac. But please, continue." The truth of his words had gutted him. He had been so focused on the arrow that he forgot to mention the bleeding had to be staunched first. Doctor Finjé continued the treatment calmly, despite the pressure, despite questioning Pierre.
"You would have worked your best and for all your work she would have died" he said. Pierre felt defeated. He knew the procedure and yet he failed. He wiped the tears that itched on his cheek and looked at the stars. One of those stars would have faded away had he performed the treatment and not Doctor Finjé.

His next patient tried to fight him in the middle of the operation. Pierre rubbed his right temple, where he had recieved a firm blow. A terrifying man had then placed a dreadfull blade against the chin of his patient to guard him. Pierre's nerves got the best of him. He dropped his flask of alcohol, spilling what little was left. Then he dropped his needle on the dirty floor, not having any alcohol left to rinse it. Without Aleysia's gear, he would not have made it.

All people seemed to know what to do or where to go. He wished he did too.
Brother Beladon talked about his service in Northrend, knowing he was fighting for true justice and how the battles had taught him much. Pierre looked at his acking hands. He was not much of a fighter. Could he not fight for justice then?
Not having any words of his own to reply, he tried to reply with a fitting passage from a book he read:
"A warrior of the Light respects his enemy. He will respect his abilities and his strength. A warrior of the Light will deflect all his attacks, using the strength of the enemy against himself. He will treat every blow as a lesson, learn to become stronger and more experienced with every attack. He will do so because a warrior of the Light acknowledges that training alone will not help him win a battle. He knows that some lessons can only be learned through experience in the battle field."
The book was titled "Warriors of the Light". Pierre thought it was meant to inspire children but liked its writing style. He didn't get a chance to mention it, however. What did it matter anyway? Who was Pierre compared to a soldier like Beladon?

---

Pierre reached for the badge on his robe: 'Gallant of the Knowledge Chapter'. It seemed to mock him. He didn't show much gallantry nor knowledge that day. He longed to flee his situation. He longed to find the comforting embrace of the woman he loved. He would smile again when their eyes would meet. His love would surpress his worries. She would lull him alseep with her captivating scent. But then he remembered that she was lost to him.

He shuddered, crying softly, crushed with defeat.
"Why these dark times attack me, dealing blow after bl-". He raises his eyebrows and his tears stopped almost instantly, only a faint shiver still noticable in his breathing. All his emotions burned in his lungs as he cried out with all his might: "You fool!"
Shocked from the strength in his voice he looked around in shame. "Oh dear.."
He could hear a few muffled laughs. One guard shouted "Soiled 'ur dress ey?" Pierre walked to the front of the inn, fiddling his robe. "Naw tha's disgustin'" mentioned the guard.
Pierre nodded in agreement: "Sad are times when scribes cease to understand metaphors."

He entered the infirmary with determination, sat in a chair and picked up his medical notes. "And learn I shall".

Shield

Pierre put his staff in the corner of his room, behind the door. His shoulders were acking from the training. Ever since Sir Beladon showed him a few moves to fight with a staff, he had promised himself he'd keep training on them. He looked at this training staff, a few dents and bends visible from the several weeks of beating. His wrists were acking as well. He could feel the strain of them whenever he continued his scribework. He sighed softly, feeling the training dummy was probably in a better condition than both staff and himself. It made him feel useless on physical combat, but he would continue. "The Light is lifelong teaching" he thought and stepped to his desk, encouraged, as if the Light would reward him eventually.

Bending over a book, he studied the description of the shielding spell. The symbols were crystal clear, but he struggled to apply them. "Draw upon the power of the soul to defend itself", he said outloud. One of his apprentices already mastered this spell with incredible ease. He wondered if he should try a different angle. Brother Graylen had started the training with him. He tried to recall what Brother Graylen was doing. He was establishing a link with his soul, trying to reach out to it. The feeling was similar when his apprentice cast the shield on Pierre.

He pondered. "Reaching out doesn't seem to be enough. Perhaps I... I should tell it to defend itself."
He sat down on his chair and began his meditation, relaxing his shoulders. After a few basic techniques to strengthen his bond with the Light he focused on his inner self and tried to bestow the idea of protection in his heart and soul. The result was greatly... disappointing. He tried again... and again... and slowly forgot about the time as night approached.

--

With a flicker his candle extinguished as the room darkened about him. Pierre opened an eye, only remain as blind as if his eyes were closed. He did not really fear his dark room but it reminded him of shadows crawling onto him everywhere untill all was dark. "Ahh! Fear, perhaps, could motivate my soul to react." He felt tired but wanted one more session before he would sleep. And so he began his mediation again, reminding himself of the prayers and rituals he had been thought. He could faintly remember the scent of Shariah's incense.

Focusing on his inner self, he started channeling his emotions and thoughts as Graylen had taught him. He let his mind rise to that universe of Light, observing himself in that dark room from a distance. He took a deep breath and focused on the darkness around his body, letting it take the shape of all that he feared. Suddenly a force grabbed him and pulled him down into the room. He landed next to his body, all color slowly disappearing from his face. Around him voices and from the past loomed up, brought forth by shadowy figures he remembered so well, the icy stare in their eyes freezing his heart and lungs.
"I'm leaving you, little Brother. You'll have to stand on your own feet", said a young man. "But.. I.. I don't want to be left alone", he replied.
"We can't be together, Pierre", lisped a silken soft voice, grinning. "But Annie! I.. love you..."
"Damn it son! Can't you get anything right? Curse your hands and the blood that's on them! I wish you were never born." cursed an old man. "But I.."
"I will destroy you!" shouted a vile Orc.
He felt his limbs turn numb, the heat of his body slowly seeping away as fear crawled over him, consuming his lifeforce. He felt a final, desperate beat of his heart thump in his neck and ears as a dark thought filled his mind "This is the end."
"Losing patients again, d'Armagnac?" sneered Doctor Rentarn, his devious grin could be felt through the mask.
"No." he replied. All shadows stared at him in silence.
"No!" he shouted in confirmation and suddenly all went dark. The chair beneath him and was sent flying backwards, ricocheting against the wall. Loosing his support, he fell backwards and knocked his head against the floor. He grinded his teeth in preparation for the pain that would soon burst in his head but... he did not feel a thing. He gasped for breath and opened his eyes. A soft glow was about him.

Levitation

Pierre put his staff in the corner of his room, behind the door. His shoulders were acking from the training. Shaking a strange feeling of Deja Vu he looked at the staff. He recalled he once found physical combat such a needlessly dangerous thing. His last event with the holy shield training made him think different. He would first consult with Priestess Longhill or Brother Graylen before continuing his training with shields.

"Something lighter for tonight, perhaps?" he said to himself as he scanned his books on the Light. His eyes stopped at a book about levitation. Softly smiling he picked and began to read it. He had read it before, actually, but he had understood the time had come to relearn what he knew. The spell seemed... rather simple. One would conjure the Light inside a corpus to levitate it.
After inspecting some symbols, he glanced at one of his quills.

He aimed his hand at his elegant Dalaran quill, trying to feel out the quill with his mind. He thought of the bird that had grown the feather, the lifeforce that had flown through it. Conjuring the Light as Shariah had thought him, he tried let the Light flow into the veins of the feather. The feather shuddered. Pierre raised his eyebrows and doubled his efforts. The feather started hovering.

Letting the feather come down again, he looked in surprise. This was going much easier than he thought.
"Time to try something heavier!" and Pierre grabbed the first thing he could find, a small box with vials filled with herb mixtures for his alchemy training. He ran to the hall of the inn and held the box above the stairway.
"Maybe... I... should take something less vital." He thought.
"But Light comes to the needy!" he said and he released the box. But his mind couldn't grip the box. He desperately tried to let his mind grip to something else: the lock, the handle, the vials, the ...
*CLANG*
The box and vials hit the first floor with a loud bang, shattering into innumerable pieces. Some of the herb mixtures started to smoke as they reacted with air.
"And pride comes before the fall" he sighed as he ran downstairs. "Oh dear o dear..."

"Dear Light Pierre! Have you turned mad?", innkeeper Allison shouted. She walked up to Pierre, carrying a large staple of plates. "You frightened me. I almost dropped my precious plates. What has come into you?"
"Oh dear, forgive me, Allison, I.. I didn't mean to.. I... eh.. well you see, ehm, I was training a levitation spell... like this and... " he aimed his hand at her. Suddenly her feet swooped up and she launched her plates in the air.
*CLANG*
Pierre's jaw dropped as he stared silently at Allison, hovering above him, looking so furious she could probably fire bolts of ligthening at him.
"I.. eh..."
"You'll pay for the damage", she sneered.
Pierre nodded silently and bit his lip.
"I guess I'll.. eh.."
"Clean this up! And put me down!" she shouted.

A cure
A blue liquid dripped slowly from a tube. Each drop turned into a small crystal before it landed in a dish. Pierre scrutnized the crystals and nodded in approval. He turned to the other construction on the table. An erlenmayer flask vial was heating a thick golden yellow liquid. He hoped Doctor Finje would forgive him the for borrowing some of his alchemy gear. The gear was so carefully and orderly stored, that his hands on the gear felt like a tainting disturbance of a shrine.
"I could mention it was for my study.. but who am I kidding? I used this to save lives. I will undergo Doctor Finje's judging stare if I must to save these people."

Pierre thought back of a conversation he had at the medical bay. A woman was pleading him to request help from practisioners of shadow magic. It was a terrible thing to think. Whether or not shadow magic would save these people, shadow magic would never come without a price. But the Light had burned any sample of the disease they obtained. Neither solution was acceptable. Those people had suffered enough.
Two elves had come to support him in his reason. "Of all people", he had thought to himself, but he accepted their help gratefully. The older elf, the man, had treated his black lotus. It would now grow quicker and spawn more seeds.

The choice of the Black Lotus almost immediately came to mind. He was glad to see the flower prove its worth. The dark nature of the flower did not cause a reaction with the disease, allowing some symptoms to be surpressed but also causing stronger halucinations on some patients.
But despite its positive effects, it was not potent to remove the disease. This worried Pierre greatly. He would need a strong purging cure that would also heal the patients.

He had looked through the books of Alchemy that Doctor Finje had directed him to for his studies. He hoped he could mix A, B and C and obtain something that would combine the beneficial effects of all three. But he also knew that alchemy does not always work this way.
Pierre sighed. He was never this rash in his work. Had the urgency then driven him to such actions?

When the yellow liquid began to boil, he removed it from the flame. He grabbed a blue crystal with his pincers and dropped it in the liquid. It melted and dissolved in the potion. He continued adding the other crystals untill sudenly the liquid started to change. It sizzled and blurred completely. "Now!" he though, and he quickly stirred the potion with a thin wooden stick. It began to smoke.

He waved away some of the fumes to check the color of the yellow potion. It had obtained a wholesome golden color that almost radiated light.
The he took a syringe with a black liquid, his black lotus extract, and poured a few drops in it. The potion started to flicker. A thick purple cloud was forming inside, changing constantly in the spinning liquid. Slowly the potion homogenized to a soft glowing golden liquid, though occasionaly a ray of purple light would escape the flask.

Pierre put down the erlenmayer and took up a quill, scribbling something down:
"Black Lotus to counter the disease and mingle with the magic, Ice cap as purgent and to counter the fever, dreaming glory to heal. Experiment two:
- Crystalized Icecap
- Boiled Dreaming Glory elixir
- Extract of Black Lotus
Results:"
He laid down the quill and sighed "I pray the Light blessed me with luck." as he walked to the infirmary, looking for a test subject.

Glimfeather

With a gentle stroke, the tip of the q

With a gentle stroke, the tip of the quill colored the bleak yellowish skin as it glided with utmost precision over the parchment. The ink, mingled with an oily substance, would take longer to dry but the diluted pigments offered a unique, sightly faded style that added a shadowy effect to its writing. Pierre raised his head a little, trying to observe this finishing touch to his text. Adding a mild highlight and shadow to his refined writing made the letters shine as if the Light itself was in them: a style he adored to use for this, now finished, prayer book.

Pierre placed his quill safely in its holder and leaned back. The completion of a book usually filled him with renewed wonder but as he glanced about his candle lit room, he did not feel the usual satisfaction. Instead the stream of emotions he eagerly tried to push away with his passion for writing flowed back and engulfed his heart in a bittersweet embrace.

A pendant on his chest was glowing faintly, emitting its warm glow as always. Pierre let his writing hand rest on it, but he found little consolation in its presence. The generous gift had cost its creator her life, a cost that still filled Pierre with sadness.
"Dear Light.. how I miss you so. You sacrificed so much for me, and given me a purpose I have yet to understand. But why.. Why could we not have walked this path together? Why did it have to go this way?"
He stood up and began to extinguish his candles. Despite burning twice as many candles as usual, his room did not feel any warmer.

Leaving his residence, he walked the familiar road to the south east end of the Trade Quarter. The Gryphon master eyed Pierre silently as he approached.
- "Going out fer another late night stroll, Pierre?"
"Yes, I.. Ehm... How is Glimfeather?"
- "Glim's fine, boy. He's eager to fly as always."
"Yes, I'll ... do that. Please.. Lead me to him."

They walked to the stables where the Gryphons were kept. Glimfeather, Pierre's snow white Gryphon, shook his wings and pressed his head against the bars of his cage, when he saw Pierre enter. The bird always seemed eager for Pierre's company... A company Pierre enjoyed as well, and often sought when he felt alone. When the Gryphon master left, Pierre stroked the bird's head and neck and it let out a few low approving screeches in return. It never ceased to amaze Pierre how, of all beings in this world, he had found a good friend in a Gryphon.

He recalled a time he was dreadfully afraid of them. He recalled jumping back at the sight of the first Gryphon he saw. Sir Venji had a talent for surprising Pierre with an array of most unsettling creatures. "Tamed" he called them, but that added little to Pierre's comfort. He briefly thought there was another, red haired woman, running around with a similar talent. The Gryphon was the first creature Venji had showed Pierre. It took a mighty good speech to draw Pierre from his hiding under the table and make him approach the bird.

Despite great efforts from Venji, Pierre didn't trust the Gryphons fully. Their wild turns, the wobbling as they flapped their wings, their strong climbs and steep descends had proven infallible to make Pierre sick at the end of any trip. But the work for his order began to demand travel and journeys... And soon it had become clear that his pony, or any single horse, wouldn't be able to bring him everywhere he needed to be, or in time required. The Gryphons offered by the Flight masters did not offer much comfort and Pierre found himself growing tired of landing with a sick stomach. One day one of these flight masters, most likely out of pity, approached Pierre.
- "You are gripping the bird like a panic stricken animal, boy. You don't trust them and they sense your fear. It's why the birds don't like you and some might even try to toss you in a fit when they land."
"Oh dear. I .. had no idea.. But how can I trust these birds if I barely know them?"
The Flight master gave him a measuring look.
- "If you need more trust and time to know them... Why don't you consider getting your own Gryphon?"
"How... How much time and gold would that cost?"
The answer of the Flight master turned Pierre pale. Yet this would be a requirement if he were to continue his work for his order, a work he considered as a duty to the Light.
"Very well, I.. I'll need time to gather such wealth. But I think, perhaps, ehm.. I should."
- "Alright, boy. You better come pick one. We have a nest that can soon begin its training. It is best the bird gets used to you as soon as possible."

They walked to a stable, where a big nest displayed several young Gryphons. Pierre was frightened to see how large these 'young' Gryphons were, but their playful innocence made him feel more at ease. At least, they weren't as intimidating.. yet. It didn't take much time for Pierre to chose the white one, with feathers radiating brightly in the rays of sunlight that shone through creaks in the cabin's wooden walls.
- "Fine choice, boy. Now... pick a name."
"Glimfeather."
- "What a touching name." The man rolled his eyes. "Now, hand me your shirt."
"I beg your pardon, Sir? My shirt?"
- "Aye. I'll separate him from the group and place the shirt in his new nest. It makes him used to your scent. It helps increase the bond you'll have to grow with him. Come visit him daily if you can. Weekly at the least."

In the following weeks, Pierre visited the bird once every morning and every evening. The lack of words, or need to talk for that matter, quickly aided in Pierre's liking of the creature. He felt he could be himself, no questions asked. He almost hoped the bird would never fly, ensuring he could keep the comfortable friendship as they had. But Glimfeather did not escape his fate. He proved a quick learner and soon the Flight master ordered Pierre to fly with the bird.
- "He's still young, so he can't wear the armor yet nor a heavy burden. But your cloth robes and light built should do fine."
But the first flight together was all but fine.

Pierre screamed in panic as Glimfeather jumped up several times before he took flight. As the bird still turned sharply and unsteadily, Pierre closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself somewhere safer. While that did save Pierre the astonishing sight of a deep dive that would have made him faint, it did not spare his stomach. After a rough landing, Pierre slid of the bird and threw up. Glimfeather inspected the vomit and screeched in disappointment at this poor choice of food he expected as reward from his master.
- "You better give him some meat, boy. He earned that."
"Oh dear.. he .. can think about food after such a rough ride?"
- "Yes, boy. He deserves a reward for the effort. Come now, grab a rat from that box over there and toss it to him."
A rat! Pierre felt his stomach revolt at the idea of grabbing a rat from a whole box of them, let alone see the rat be devoured by his bird.
"I.. eh.. get.. something else, I think."
He quickly ran to the butchery and bought a more wholesome looking piece of meat. Any would have done, and he took the first piece displayed on the counter. Fate had it be a piece of horse meat. Unknowingly, he bought the Gryphon's favorite treat.
Glimfeather devoured it with unsettling speed and overwhelmed Pierre with soft head-buts in gratitude.
- "Friends for life", said the Flight Master. So far, he had proven right. Glimfeather and Pierre grew closer as they learned how to fly together. Pierre, doubting his abilities to steer more than the Gryphon's, developed a deep trust in Glimfeather. Eventually, he simply stopped steering the bird and merely used his reigns to signal the bird where he would like to go. Glimfeather would do the rest.

Growing ever more confident on Glim's back, Pierre fell in love with the freedom he felt in the sky, the wind blowing in his face and the life on the ground seeming so distant from high up. It became a get away whenever his heart was troubled, like tonight. Pierre saddled Glimfeather and together they took off, leaving only the beating of the Gryphon's wing resonate in the wind.

Pierre opened one eye and looked at the familiar, colored windows at the altar of the Cathedral. He had prayed on his knees on this very same spot for two days. No sleep nor food had he taken. Oddly enough, his knees did not suffer the usual cold from the stones. Opening his other eye, he smiled at the window. He felt refreshed and stronger than before. He rose to his feet, the very grace of his move radiating his self control and new found strength. The prayerbook in his hands felt light. He could feel the muscles in his arm bulge as he lifted it. Had his clever physical training paid off?

Pierre walked through the majestic hall of the Cathedral. A few hooded people awaited him at the end of it. Pierre knew they had come with evil intent... With resolve he marched on and raises his hands.
"Honorable guests ... Hear me. I know why you have come. Rethink your action. This shall not bring you wealth nor wisdom. See the path of the Light and let it set you free from the tormentors that ordered you here."
High Priestess Laurena positioned herself right behind Pierre and nodded. "These are wise words.. Follow them."
The guests stared at Pierre and at Laurena, then silently turned and walked away. Suddenly one turned and approached Pierre. "I'm sorry.." he said. The man lowered his head appologetically and ran after the others.

A horn was blown outside. It was a call to arms. Pierre ran out of the Cathedral. Glimfeather, his snowwhite Gryphon was already waiting for him. But Pierre was stopped in his tracks by the sight of the Square. It was filled with a densely packed crowd, unlike he had ever seen before. They all were beautiful women... and they all were silently looking at him as if they had been waiting. Only whispers could be heard.
His sharpened senses heard they were words of magnificence addressed at his person.
Pierre smiled confidently and jumped on Glimfeather's back.
"I'm off to save us from the Horde!" he exclaimed.
One woman walked forward and looked at him desperately.
"But... Brother Pierre... Will you not teach us your knowledge of the Light?" The entire crowd held its breath in anticipation of his answer.
"Better yet! Read my book!"
The crowd gasped in amazement. And with a strong beat of its wings, the gyphon brought him in the air above the square of cheering women. He could have sworn some had fainted at his words.

And then suddenly he heard a high pitched voice behind him that seemed to freeze every muscle in his body: "JP!!".
Rhebeca's knees suddenly landed in his back and threw him off his gryphon. He felt gravity begin its relentless pull. As they were falling, the girl cheered on. "Whee!"
The ground was approaching with immense speed... and then Pierre hit it, head first.

Pierre jumped up from the wooden floor next to his bed, his bedsheets still wrapped up around him. He rubbed his head where he hit the floor. His room was dimly lit by the morning light creeping through the shutters. Pierre rubbed his head again and sighed "Oh dear..."

Pierre placed his hands on her head and gently began to chant a song with lyrics of better times and comforting thoughts, of Light and of hope. His eyes stared openly but had long stopped watching the huddle of cloth and blood that cover this woman so precious to him. The contrast of his chant with the pain stuck in his heart weighed on his mind and eventually his voice.

He muffled a call to the Light in his mind, praying his voice would be strong enough to stand firm and deliver a song for these hurt hearts in this dire time. His conscious started distancing itself to a lone corner of his mind, steering his actions from a distance. The more he separated this overwhelming sadness from his heart, the stronger the small speck of hope in his heart rang in his voice.

As the song ended, he looked at Wulfgnar. Wulfgnar's balled fists and grunting offered no doubt about his determination to seek justice, but Pierre's heart had no room for such pursuit left. The emotions stirred and would soon overtake him.
His medical expertise had helped her, unhindred by emotions as Doctor Finje taught him.
His voice had spoken of hope and strength, unhindred by grief as his patient had once taught him.
Now his heart needed time to weep before it drowned in tears, as his soul taught him.

After assuring Wulfgnar he'd stay for observation and wishing him a fair night in neutral tone he pulled a chair close to the improvised surgery table. Alone in the room with her, he finally allowed to let his emotions run free and express the pain his heart. In silence he let his tears run freely, not making a sound to disturb her dearly needed rest. The medical treatment was over but he still reached for a water soaked bandage. Gently he dabbed her brow and started to rinse her face from dirt and stains till her drugged sleeped almost looked sincere and peacefull. With a tremblind hand he tucked a few of her hairs back behind her ear, restoring her ever so serene appearance.

He covered her under a warm blanket and stuffed it under her arms and pulling it between her hands to look like she was holding it in a natural sleep. It almost seemed like nothing had happened. He warned himself not to blind himself from the truth but he couldn't help taking heart at this peaceful appearance. Then he placed a hand on hers and whispered to her and himself of times without worries, when he longed to walk by her side and listen to her words. He spoke of how he missed her and how, in her absence, he had obediently followed her instructions. He spoke of the things he had done, hoping she'd look at him and be proud. He confessed how she meant more to him than a Priestess and a teacher. Then he pleaded her to recover and be the same woman he so eagerly followed.

When his heart had shed its final tear, he laid his head on the table and let an uneasy sleep take him.

Pierre plodded through the dust and sand of the Stonetalon Mountains, lost in thoughts. He didn't even heed the relentless assault of the dust to stain his white robe. His mind was lost, struggling to grasp all the words he had just shared with "her", as if somehow the entity she formed in his mind was too ominous for a name.

His mind projected her image before him. She was as impressive and frightening as ever. With a Light, brighter than his, and a Darkness greater than he dare imagine, she instilled a sense of helplessness in him. In her presence, Pierre felt as if he walked but a thin path between an unsurmountable cliff of Light and the bottomless chasms of the Shadow.
She was an enigmatic appearance, a dark air so profound it stopped his heart, mingled with a bright grace in her smile that it forced his heart to continue. She bore this balance between light and dark with a puzzling elegance, making him feel but a clumsy fool, lost somewhere in the middle, barely managing to walk the path of Light.

"She had come to speak with me, to take away doubts and help me cast away my fear of her", Pierre told himself. He wondered how that plan could possibly unfold itself, when her being and the words she spoke seemed to shake the foundations of his faith.
She unveiled a world before his eyes, so mingled with Light and Dark, so frightning real, that his life seemed but futile and meaningless in this stream of it.

His mind raced for an easy way out, something to help him ignore this conversation ever happened. But the warm voice of his heart whispered in his ear:
- "There was genuine care in her voice and actions".
There was truth in that. He remembered the mirth in her voice as she spoke about loftier things, the gentle touch of her meticluously tended hand... and an inexplicable desire to express more about who she was. But even that revealed more than Pierre could bear: a history so dark it would make him burst in tears, or flee in panic, had the confusion and fear she brought not stricken him senseless.
And just when he felt doubt over his very being creep over him, a lost boy in a world too large to fathom, she changed the subject to him... and told him to remain exactly who he was. He would have willingly accepted it as a judgement, if it would spare him her world of extremities, the strongest light and deepest darkness, too perfect an elegance, too profound a sadness. But the warmth of her voice as she spoke to him didn't fit that image. It was the piece of the puzzle that proved his understanding wrong, and left him with little else than to rebuild all he thought he knew of her.

Pierre sighed. "To take away doubts and help me cast away my fear of her", he muttered. He deemed her capable of redefining the world, if she'd have a mind for it, but not that. There was a sad gaze in her eyes sometimes, even when she laughed softly. It seemed, behind this shell of extremities, meticulously groomed features and an elegance in words and style... there was exactly what she claimed to be: a living being.
"With a heart.." Pierre concluded. At least that, he began to understand.

The land lay barren, beaten to dust by the constant warfare. Death crawled from the earth, coughing up the excess of bodies it consumed. Dust swirled from the ground with every whisper of wind, either an attempt of the land to conceal its wounds in vain, or a feeble attempt to choke whatever war-crazed troops remained. The land, dying under the feet of the very soldiers that tried to save it, hungered for water and peace...It began to feed on what little spirit was left in the soldiers.

The camp offered but little refuge from the horrors outside. Hope was at an all time low. No soldier shouted for victory, lest he were deemed delirious. Wishes of safety and well-being turned personal: "I hope you, at least, will make it.". Such wishes for the army as a whole seemed lost and were left unspoken. The lack of recovery rooms in the infirmary had forced the troops to host their injured friends amidst the healthy troops. What seemed like a smart encouragement for the injured to help them recover, twisted into a morale breaking sight. If a soldier healed, another injured brother in arms took his place. Slowly a grim mood began to settle over the tents. Whispers echoed the darkened minds: "At least we were the lucky ones". Here and there, soldiers would blame the leaders for their situation.
Hope of victory had been replaced by a stoic sense of duty. Some relied on their religion, to accept their fate and keep a stallward face. Some crawled into a corner and looked about them as if they were but lost children in a world of terror. Fear, of loss, of pain, had settled in their hearts and overthrown their mind. Others fought such fears by accepting defeat. Loosing that fear liberated them from doubt, but turned their talk and humor black.
What battle spirit was left after the battle of swords, faced another battle in the camp.

The occasional cough of a sick soldier, too weak from injuries or fatigue to fight the simplest of diseases, the unfocused stares and muffled greetings conjured an orchestra of false tones like a wail from a thousand voices.

Pierre held Irys' hand tightly as they walked under this orchestra of despair. In this darkened world, her hand felt like a stronghold for his heart and mind, a reminded of a better life and time.
Time... Pierre thought. Of all resources this war cost him, time seemed the one most dear right now. To escape this madness but for the briefest of times, to be with his love and know only this. He exhaled through his nose as he glanced about the gloomy camp. Further in the camp, a captain was detailing how wrong she felt the commander's tactics were.
Pierre shook his head in disappointment and guided Irys to the infirmary. The gloom from the camp was replaced by the snoring and wailing patients. The Elven lanterns, usually uplifting with their bright colors, emphaszied the ill view of the patients by contrast.. Like painted eyes and mouths on pale visages.. the face of a grim clown.

Pierre braved a way past the injured to the first floor... the treatment room. Perhaps there, they could find a brief escape. They did. The pale moon shone brightly into the room, blessing Irys with her mesmerizing glow. Her hair shone like gold, waving lightly in the midnight breeze.
If only we had more time.. he thought. Blades proved the bane of these patients. Time was theirs. Their duties bound them to the treatment of an army that didn't seem to heal. With such little time to spare, Pierre clinged desperately to what little they could share: the touch of a hand as they walked, a smile as they spoke, the warmth of her voice, the glimmer in her eyes. The treatment of her wounds had turned into a brief pauze, a moment to themselves... the only moment their duties granted them a brief repose. Pierre treated her wounds with great care. She healed him with a kiss and a gentle stare.

A few night elves walked in, apparently to treat an injured leg on one of their scouts. Pierre sighed and looked pained at Irys.
"Shall we retire then?"
She gave him a gentle squeeze in his hand and an encouraging nod.
"I love you, Irys."
Her smile renewed his spirit more than any amount of time could.

Pierre threaded the grass carefully, wary of potentially slippery stones or puddles of mud hidden under the long grass. Zangermarsh had felt so alive in his mind when he woke up, that he set out to visit it. The camp was near enough to make it there and back in a single day. As he arrived, Pierre raised his eyebrows, staring at a sight quite different from the vivid image in his mind.

The merry and high pitched laughter of a little girl echoed in his ears, as if she dartly ran beside him. He turned to look at his right, but found only a small patch of grass amidst the watery landscape of the swamp. His eyes followed the movement of the invisible ghost, guided by his ears. A desire to see her and follow her overwhelmed him, and he closed his eyes, focusing on her voice.
Pierre opened his eyes to find the world appear blurred to him. A part he could see with his eyes, a part would only be visible to his mind. Mind and eyes revealed the same world and yet they were two.. and different. The same mushroom would look taller in one vision than the other. Some trees were would both stand tall and lie fallen. Water offered a mesmerizing image, with one layer of water washing over the other layer's shore. Pierre looked around, surprised by the surreal appearance of this double vision. Then he saw her.

The little girl ran about the landscape, partly hopping, partly running, always careful about her steps in the watery landscape.
"Oh dear! Wait for me!" Pierre darted after her. The advantage of his taller legs was lost to his clumsy robes. Trying to keep up, he waded through plants and ponds, or not... He struggled to tell whether they were real or not. He could only feel the weight of his soaked robe and the cloth sticking to his legs.

Slowly, he gained on her. All the stronger did her voice echo in his mind, till her merry tune caught him in the joy of the moment. He tried to sing along, blurting out her strange tones and words he didn't understand.
She hopped over a pond. He jumped along. She picked a few plants by the road. Pierre merrily helped her, and picked a few of his own, placing them in his backpack. Together they would cross the marsh, half dancing, half hopping, gathering herbs here and there.

She ran across a small path and over a bridge. Pierre's eyes helped him dodge a large puddle of mud, and followed her over the bridge. The bridge looked well tended and clean... it looked overgrown with moss. Puzzled by the double vision, Pierre crossed the bridge alongside of her, wondering if the bridge was renewed or had aged.

Then there was another collection of flowers! Pierre jumped at the opportunity to collect a few, and so did she.
"Some for me, some for you.. Some to leave here and grow anew!" he sang, and so did she... But her voice and words were in a tongue he couldn't quite comprehend.
Merrily they continued their path.

Suddenly she turned away from the path, running to the left. Pierre followed, wondering briefly if he was still steering his legs. The girl let out a joyful scream and leapt nimbly over a protruding branch. Pierre followed her lead, leaping over a branch he couldn't see. He heard the scraping and tearing of his robe on a bramble bush that wasn't there. It wasn't there, he reminded himself, and continued to follow the girl.
The girl stumbled over a stone and landed in the mud. Pierre tried to stop himself but followed her example, slipping over the stone and landing face down in the mud.

Pierre quickly lifted his head and wiped his face clean with a sleeve. He shot a pained glance at his muddied sleeve. Then he noticed the girl, wiping the mud from her face and staring before her in wonder at a bright glowing plant.
She pulled an odd device from a bag and started to dig out the plant. Pierre smiled warmly at the sight and lifted a few of the plant's leaves to ease her work.
Once the plant was safely secured within the device it closed with a click and she tucked it back in her bag. Pierre simply adjusted his own bag on his back. They jumped back on their feet and ran back to the road.

"Perhaps.. I should be returning." Pierre sighed, at the sight of a road junction. He waved the girl goodbye, but she continued her path with her merry voice, not heeding the farewell gesture.
Pierre stared in puzzlement as she continued her own path, realizing she had never spoken or looked at him. Yet there was an odd familiarity about her, rooted deeper than the walk about this land together. This walk felt real... to his panting lungs, the weight in his backpack and his mind. It was more profound than seeing, as if they had shared awareness. He had been caught up in her song, in the moment of joy and the delight of discovering new plants. It was as if they had shared the moment.. without speaking a word.

Pierre shook his head and continued his own path. He focused on his feet and the damage his robe sustained from the trip.
"Hm. That bush wasn't there. Perhaps the cloth got stuck elsewhere. Ahh.. well.. At least.. I have some herbs. Perhaps, I could make valuable inks from their saps."
When he arrived at the camp, he placed his herb bag on a table and greedily lifted the lid. He groped in the bag, frowning, finding only dirt.

With all the might left in his tired arms, Pierre dropped the heavy belt and bags on the table. Sliding into a chair, he took a moment to gather his breath.
Next time we have to ask a prisoner to hand in their gear, ehm.. I shall ask a Squire to help out.
Why someone would bother carrying around such weight was beyond him. Unless they had a purpose for this material in mind, which is the thought that drove Pierre to inspect the gear. Especially with this prisoner... one had to be careful. A prisoner he had every reason to distrust, but somehow demanded respect, as reluctant as that may have come. She defied the teachings of his faith in so many ways and yet... He remembered her stark, disciplined methodology to save lives in the war in Kalimdor. And how she had accepted the judgement of the Magistrate, well knowing the dangers it could hold for her own persona.
Illegal magic.. Undead.. Yet dedicated to the life of others and carrying herself with respect under the judgement of his Lordship.
Reluctant respect. Pierre didn't know how else to express it. The memory of having to pat her ran a shiver down his spine. Reluctant indeed.

"Onto inspection then.."
Pierre checked a small case attached to the belt. Carefully he opened it and blinked. He managed to surpress a gasp and took a deep breath.
"Marvellous parchment.."
It didn't need a trained eye to notice the exquisite quality of the parchment but this parchment was of a quality that could even steal the breath of a fanatical writer like Pierre. He could also guess the use for such parchment.
With meticulous care, he tried to scan a few of the magical scrolls but try as he may, he wasn't familiar with the signs and writings.
"Well.. at least.. she can't use them from a distance."
He closed the case and grabbed the next pouch.

"Ahh! Herbs! At least this doesn't require language to understand."
Pierre smiled and checked the carefully packed herbs, nodding at the impressive collection.
"Marvellous wor-"
Pierre blinked and lifted a small vial. He didn't need to understand the Draenei language to know this powder, having seen and hunted it all too often before.
Black Lotus. A cloud of painful memories started to haunt his mind. The loss of Adabella. The deaths at Eastvale. Though the herb may have proved their salvation on a few occasions, no bright memory was ever associated with the herb. Like Shadow, it would always hold a tale of suffering.
With a sigh Pierre stowed the herb samples back.

He grabbed another, rather large bag. It weighed a ton. It contained the wildest collection of flasks, bottles and items. Pierre could recognize a few, having used them in his limited alchemy skills. But a few he recognized from the living being they once must have belonged to. With a shudder he closed the bag.
"Reagents.."

Reluctantly he opened the next case. Wands. At least, that much he knew. A wand was a particular weapon, according to his book knowledge, that was wielded by hand. Some wands, so powerful, could cast powerful spells. But while their power was largelly decided by the wand and its quality... There was connection between wand and wielder. Pierre didn't risk touching them, settling for a brief, curious glance. Having not seen many wands, Pierre was astonished to see more than one. Together. For the same wielder.
A metallic wand with a red gemstone impressed him as dangerous. It radiated a power he couldn't identify, but he sensed no dark aura. One by one, he checked the wands, pauzing briefly, puzzled at a lilac wand. It drawed the attention of his eyes and he felt a warmth crawling over his spine.
Pierre quickly closed the case.
"That didn't feel right."

It seemed every bag or case held a surprise for him he rather wish to be spared of. The bag with crystals, luckily, didn't seem as frightning. But the bag with blood samples simply made him shiver. The blood sample of a virgin had appalled him, but there were far more sinister samples he wished he hadn't seen.
It was a shocking reminder of the nature of the person he was dealing with.
"Reluctant...Very reluctant.."

But then he checked her traveler's bag. He tried to demonize her in his mind so he could wave away his mixed emotions about this situation with ease... But picking up the hair brush, the makeup, perfume tied a knot in his heart.
They expressed such simple desires he would have associated with the kind heart of a woman. He closed the bag, fearing he had invaded the privacy of a lady.
Reluctant respect. It didn't do her justice but he had no other way to express it.