The new Stormwind Cemetery was a surprisingly pleasing place to relax: fewer mounts traipsed through the cobbled streets, vendors ceased hawking their wares at the gates, and if you didn’t mind the occasional bouts of sobbing (she didn’t), it was quiet. Wonderfully quiet. Shackleton doffed her spired helmet and rested her head against a marble tombstone, listening to the gentle lap of lake water against the far bank. It was the kind of place, she thought, where death could be peaceful.
Glacierthief obviously approved. The ghoul's blackened mouth gnawed on the corner of the headstone, slobbering over the carved figure of a spirit healer. Despite this, the ghoul was at ease amidst the expanse of tidy graves, comfortable in the presence of his sleeping brethren. Shackleton handed him her helmet to hold and kicked her long legs out in front of her, admiring the grass tickling her hooves.
“I am surprised about this Grael,” she offered to the ghoul. “Frost described her as a formidable warrior, but she is a small woman. A priest. Given his general aversion to those who blindly follow the Light—”
Glacierthief made a non-committal grunt as he shook the helmet, tapping it lightly on the marble headstone.
“He is also a priest now. I know this,” she snapped, snatching the plate helm from her minion. “But she does not treat him so. She asks me about his—” A pause. “His second life, with eyes like scared child. Why bother? Why worry? She must embrace this opportunity without doubt or regret. Have many children.”
Shackleton closed her eyes, blotting out the dappled shade of the apple tree overhead. “I am missing something.” She tapped her fingers on her knee, plate clinking. With a sigh, she considered this last thought at length before drifting into a state of half-sleep, ghoul at her side.
It was difficult to shake the feeling that the fear in Grael’s eyes hadn’t been for Raiek, but for her.