We leave Stormwind under the cover of night, trundling along streets of cobbled stone, the harsh ring of ironshod hooves our only fanfare. I gaze at the cold shafts of starlight filtering through the moth-eaten linen above our heads and am grateful for the warm night air. And they all turn to me, their eyes a mute appeal. Gobkol, help her. Help us. I look away, ashamed, and crawl up to sit beside him. The one responsible for our Mistress' pain, that which ravaged her now and that which was to come. 'Where are we going?' I ask. 'I don't know if she can endure this for much longer.' * * * * * * * *