14. mornings
Daimd loved the morning.
Sometimes, it was walking in the early sun, before the earth grew too hot. Wending his way across the barren desert plains of Durotar, he cast his gaze freely and smiled to himself. He wasn't in any hurry. He'd been all but kicked out, after all. But that was the way, wasn't it? It didn't bother him.
He watched the lizards scuttling back to their shady spots, and the hares springing lightly across the path, and stumped along. He was at ease, here.
Sometimes, it was little more than wandering in his own thoughts. He'd been known, to the observant, as a thinker, though he would never flatter himself with such a name. Even wandering found itself victim to the weight of his consideration-sometimes, it was a flat rock in the sunrise and nothing but his memories.
They were good memories, to a one. He had trouble recalling the terrible. It wasn't his job, anyway.
Sometimes, it was chasing down the unsuspecting prey, an old hunter's instinct he'd never done away with. Magic burned at his fingertips now, and he rarely if ever resorted to steel, but boars all died the same way regardless. From time to time he missed the weight of a sword on his hip, though, and he knew he watched Quinn's sway in front of him as he trailed dutifully behind the blood elf.
And now, smiling, turning his steps back to Orgrimmar and that same temperamental blood elf, who might still be sleeping if he was lucky. If he was luckier, perhaps the elf would be awake.
(Oftentimes, it was stroking the hair that fell next to Daliquinn's cheek and listening to his breathing before nudging him awake for the morning curses. He loved the morning and, as a rule, Quinn hated it.)
Sometimes, it was walking in the early sun, before the earth grew too hot. Wending his way across the barren desert plains of Durotar, he cast his gaze freely and smiled to himself. He wasn't in any hurry. He'd been all but kicked out, after all. But that was the way, wasn't it? It didn't bother him.
He watched the lizards scuttling back to their shady spots, and the hares springing lightly across the path, and stumped along. He was at ease, here.
Sometimes, it was little more than wandering in his own thoughts. He'd been known, to the observant, as a thinker, though he would never flatter himself with such a name. Even wandering found itself victim to the weight of his consideration-sometimes, it was a flat rock in the sunrise and nothing but his memories.
They were good memories, to a one. He had trouble recalling the terrible. It wasn't his job, anyway.
Sometimes, it was chasing down the unsuspecting prey, an old hunter's instinct he'd never done away with. Magic burned at his fingertips now, and he rarely if ever resorted to steel, but boars all died the same way regardless. From time to time he missed the weight of a sword on his hip, though, and he knew he watched Quinn's sway in front of him as he trailed dutifully behind the blood elf.
And now, smiling, turning his steps back to Orgrimmar and that same temperamental blood elf, who might still be sleeping if he was lucky. If he was luckier, perhaps the elf would be awake.
(Oftentimes, it was stroking the hair that fell next to Daliquinn's cheek and listening to his breathing before nudging him awake for the morning curses. He loved the morning and, as a rule, Quinn hated it.)