Eriolanna peers out the window of the inn. Her hands are still held tight, gripping her cape around herself. She needs no hands to push the curtain aside.

There is one phenomena the magical city of Dalaran has not managed–or desired– to remove; cold rain falling from the darkened clouds. It pelts the stone street leaving shattered raindrops to obscure the edges of stone.

She hums barely audibly and the curtain closes. Back at her tiny table is a mug full of mineral water. A tiny basket contains bilberries. Eri takes one and smashes it between her tongue and her hard palate. It spills sweet juice into her mouth.

She sits stiffly. Behind her heavy woolen cape, one might have almost mistaken her for an elf. The dark blue is a color with which many mages choose to adorn themselves. But she is no elf.

She reaches forward to twist another berry from its stem. Her hands have two fingers and a thumb, her skin is vibrant blue. But her nails are in pristine condition and perfectly clean. This is the hand of a troll. A bit emaciated, a little short of stature, but unmistakably a troll of the jungle tribes.

She takes a few gold coins from the inside of her cape and puts them on the counter. The high elven woman arranging a tray of food nods toward her. “Al diel shala” the elf bids her farewell.

Rain is falling in sheets dampening the daily chatter. She raises her left hand and brings her fingers together as a blade to the sky. In a moment, a tiny ember emerges as she draws her fingers apart. The ember breaks into many tiny pieces and rises as if by smoke to form a hyperboloid barrier above her person. The ward emits no light but it is warm; as if above a fire of coals, the rain simply evaporates. It is hissing slightly, but no one on the streets would notice it or even find it unusual.

When she arrives at the church, the doors are open and the service is in session. A cleric greets her by nodding his head and ushering her welcome. She hangs a cloak on a hook on the wall and turns to face in toward the front of the church. Feeling anxious and strange here, she takes a seat just in front of her, the back of the church.

She hadn’t been inside a Cathedral in such a long time. Not since before she’d lost her eye.

The voice of the priest, amplified by some pseudo-magical method, was clear – she could have listened if she’d wanted to – but it was erroneous.

The High Priest was in attendance at the sermon today, as he was every tenthday. He is easy to find in the crowd; there he is, clad in a cape of wolf’s fur. Most other church goers saw it fit to remove their overclothes in the fire-warmed shelter, so the pews were a mass of hairs and hats in every color. The man in the white cape was sitting with the aisle to his right.