Serafima Holloway... ?

The Serafima Holloway?

She could practically read his mind, the way the young priest was eyeing her, like the Light itself had come down from its supposed heavenly post and stood before him. Mouth agape, eyes wide and glassy. She shifted uncomfortably, trying to not even peek out of the corner of her eye, but the flaxen-haired man's gaze was impossible to ignore. Barnacles of discomfort crawled up the hull of her ship.

Serafima, in her turn, stared helplessly at Lildrieth, as if to say, why is this guy coming along with us? (She realizes quickly: the problem with having someone like her as our stalwart leader is that her inability to be fazed extends to social interactions.)

Winefride and Cerea are staring at him! Why won't he look over there? At the women who want his attention? She starts to bristle, hands flexing, and her feet tapping in a desperation to get moving. The rustling of the map in Lildrieth's hands is such an uncomfortable sound in the silence.

Mimi counts heads: one night elf. One bear. One high elf. Two high elf — well, sort of. One human. Two human. Three human. There's the problem. Too many humans. Always causing trouble like that.

She could see the man inhaling and getting ready to speak and she braces for the inevitable: "Really, it's you, Serafima Holloway?"

And all the heads turn. Even the bear perks up (author's note: he does know who she is). Like a nightflower in the morning light, Mimi shrinks into herself. A practiced nod, a humble little smile, an open display of trusting palms all give off the saintly image trained into her. She will be loved like this even as she hates herself. The pendant burns against her chest.

The man — Christien Harding, she would later be reminded — starts going on and on about the Stormwind sects and the chapel at Northshire, how he trained there and heard so much about her, how he hoped to see her on the battlefields someday and learn from her, and she withers and withers away until her spirit is about to fly off in the next breeze like a dried dandelion husk.

She's kept to the ground only by a soft voice and a cool breath that is so close to her as to be unheard: "I didn't know you were famous."

There he stands: Aleron, the walking corpse, wrapped in as many furs as Lildrieth could spare, with a cheeky glint in his hollowed eyes.

She stares at him, chewing on the thoughts that swirl around her. Christien, like Damien, like her old life. Aleron, like Damien, like the life she's marching towards. But he left it. He's not damned, is he?

She searches his body for signs of the promises that believers make. Nothing. Caught between worlds and still alone.