“Does Branwynne know about all this?”
The other shook her head. “No,” the hollow voice replied. “She does not. For her, our memories are yet… tangled. Much of what she recalls of my existence, she mistakes for her own deeds.”
“Then what right do you have to decide what is best for her?” Lyirdanna growled. “You admit this isn’t your body, or your place.”
The bound dwarf barked a laugh. “Think about it, elf! Use that bit of fluff between those big, floppy ears of yours. What’s the price of a hand – a mere hand! – compared to eternal damnation and torment? And believe me, the Burning Legion know well how to make even a minute seem an eternity of sorrow. A hand is a small price to pay.”
“Be that as it may, YOU don’t have the right. Branwynne should be the one to decide this matter.”
The deathknight’s bound spirit rolled her grey-green eyes disdainfully. “SHE would just make things more complicated. Drag her oh-so-high-and-mighty morals into the whole thing…”
“How do you know?”
“By the Nether, I know because I’ve been STUCK in here!” snapped the dwarf. “With HER! All this time! All the weak-willed compassion, all the righteous purpose, wrapped up in a sense of honor and topped off with a frilly bow! Bloody hells, who WOULDN’T want to get away from all of that sappiness?”
The dwarf’s words were harsh and filled with scorn, but sounded slightly rehearsed to the druid’s ears. Her eyes narrowed, sensing deception. “Why…?”
“Lyir,” the priest interrupted softly, voice strained. “I can’t hold the spell much longer.”
She grimaced, then nodded reluctantly at the priest. She shot one last glare at the deathknight. “We aren’t through here, dwarf. I’ll be watching you, so don’t try it again.”
_____
The dwarf was asleep in the other room, resting. The priest was also tired, but sat with Lyirdanna sipping tea.
“Well, that was interesting,” the priest noted wryly. “Is this something you get to do regularly?”
“No, it isn’t.” Lyir growled quietly.
Her attempt at levity rebuffed, the priest sighed. “So, what now?”
The druid considered a moment. “That spell… could you do it again?”
“I should be able to, yes. So long as I get a chance to recover first – wrestling an uncooperative spirit is a taxing thing.”
“Could another do the same, do you think? Another priest? Or a paladin, maybe?”
“Lyir, I just need a little time to rest…”
The night elf shook her head. “I know. But I don’t know how much time we have.”
Mollified, the priest considered. “Another priest probably could, yes – if they were strong enough. But I don’t think a paladin be much use in this matter. Unless you want to beat the spirit out of her.”
Lyir growled something wordless into her tea. A thoughtful silence followed. “It was lying,” she said finally.
“Hmm? With the compulsions I set upon it, I don’t think…”
“Lying,” she repeated firmly. “Or at least, not telling the whole truth.”
“Ah. Well, probably not. We are talking about a deathknight spirit, after all.”
“It was hiding something.” The night elf’s expression set. “We need to find out what.”
“Not tonight, I hope.”
“No, not tonight,” Lyirdanna agreed. “For now, we wait until Branwynne wakes.”
“And then?”
“Then, I drag her off to find Alishe and Prydion. And we can all argue with her about what to do next.”
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