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| - Tharion took one last long glance at the building that was once the halls of the Netherbane. He watched as people from all races and all castes ran into and out of it, speaking to the auctioneers and trading their hard earned coin for goods. He sighed heavily. Perhaps it was better this way, however. His last time there he was visited by a ghost from his deep past, and the ensuing battle left a woman dead and both the building and his mind shattered. Yes, perhaps it was truly better. Too many memories there. Too much history that needed to be purged. Perhaps everything needed to be purged. Everything. The Greyseer turned and walked up the ornate stone ramp towards the Warrior's Terrace of Darnassus. His heavy mail boots landing loudly on the solid material, sending echoes piercing through the nearby trees. Tharion did not need to expand his spectral sight to notice a large crimson bird soaring over the buildings. Blood, the dire condor from the Redridge Mountains that had saved Tharion's life so long ago, circled above, keeping watch where his master could not. Tharion Greyseer, demon hunter of the kaldorei people, continued his walk deep into the Craftsmen's Terrace of the new city. He kept his head forward, allowing his eyeless gaze to casually caress the landscape around him as he passed. He sensed nothing out of the ordinary. No danger, no demons, not even the tainted sensation of the arcane could be detected. "Greyzeer," came an unfamiliar voice from behind. Tharion stopped and spun, his hand moving swiftly to the blade once known as Felborne and drawing it with practiced ease. He focused his gaze upon the speaker . . . and he froze. The kaldorei was a little shorter than he, deep purple skin seemingly hardened by ages against the bare elements. He was swathed in greens, looking almost like a druid of the Order. But this was no druid. beneath his long disheveled green hair Tharion could make out a tattered cloth wrapped around where his eyes should have been. A faint yellow glow seemed to burn through the thin article, marking a spectral sight similar to Tharion's own. Another demon hunter. "Who addresses me?" Tharion said simply, not lowering his blade. His recent experiences had taught him that trust was not something given easily, even to "family." "I am but a zingle blade ov grazz, zvaying in the ztorm," the figure burst into a cold laughter as he spoke his riddle. His voice had a heavy accent to it, his words tinted with an unknown color. "I will ask you again . . . Who addresses me?" The newcomer's grin faded slightly, but did not disappear. "I am Azhaan Thelriz Mordaveh, ov the clan Mordaveh. I am a hunter zuch az yourzelf." His grin widened as he spoke. "Zuch az the great Greyzeer . . ." Tharion growled deeply. "I take no titles, especially none from strangers . . ." Azhaan's grin did not waver. "No, you do not. Thiz I know. But Greyzeer, you muzt know that I am not a ztranger. At leazt . . . not to you. Or haz it truly been thiz long?" Tharion tilted his head in curiosity, but did not break his stance. He did not speak, letting his expression ask the question for him. "Greyzeer, or perhapz I zhould uze your given name: Tharion Draghei Mordaveh . . . my brother."
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