As evening progresses in the waterlogged town of Menethil, a lone gnomish lady sits off by herself in a dark corner booth. Her silvery ponytails seem brighter than they are from the faint glow of the fireplace across the room. The only movement from her is her hand as she lifts her teacup to her lips once in a while. Her mind, however, races over the events of the past few days.
Her love and chosen master, Rohlan, has shown that he does, in fact, still love and care for her. He has shown fear, fear of losing her. He has actually made attempts to calm his erratic and unpredictable nature for her. Yet he still fears that he is not strong enough to protect her from the troubles that naturally seem to follow her.
Her eyes close for a moment. It is because of that reason and her desire to be of use to him that she has chosen her current path. She has chosen to take up the mantle of the warlock once more. Her reasearch has directed her towards a suitable teacher. Serill had expected what she found but not to that severity. Yet her mind was made up. She will do whatever it takes for her love - even if it means returning to the life he does not want for her.
Serill's eyes open, observing the remaining tea in her cup in silence. She reminds herself, 'It is not permanent. He has agreed that when I have learned all I can or he is no longer satisfied with my payments that it will end. I do this for him..."
Her thoughts are interrupted by the sudden arrival of a rather drunk human dropping himself rather abruptly next to her, blocking her from leaving the bench. Serill calmly blinks once, looking up to him, asking, "May I help you, Sir?"
The man takes a long swig from the bottle in his hand, "Y'looked lonely, little lady. I'm lonely, so now we can be lonely together." He gives a drunken belch. "Chat 'n stuff, right?"
Her gaze remains calm, hands folding together in her lap. "And of what, do you wish to discuss, pray tell?" The next hour is taken up by his lamentations of everything from the loss of his home to Deathwing's cataclysm to his wife leaving him for some dwarven soldier from Ironforge to his miserable life and how only the bottle in his hand is his friend. Throughout all of this, Serill remains calm and listens. She waits patiently for one of two outcomes to happen - either he will finally make advances towards her to aleiviate his 'lonlieness' or he will pass out from intoxication.
The warlock's patience is eventually rewarded and as the man's words slur worse and worse, the bottle quickly finds itself empty upon the tabletop in his hand. His upper body has slumped itself forward across the table, unconcious. Serill looks at him, then to the bench they both sit on and how he blocks the way out. She sighs, finishing the last of her now cold tea in peace.
Once finished, Miss Serill reached for the man, gently placing her hand upon his side. She whispered to him the words, "Then I shall free you from your life so that you may serve a new purpose." Her hand glowed a soft purple under the table, pulling his very soul from his body. His loud snoring catches in his breath, ending with a soft sigh as his lifeforce leaves him. With a new purple crystal in hand, Serill slips forward from the human sized bench underneath the table. For one of her stature, she has only to duck to walk free from the impromptu prison. Once out from under the table, she moves to the far side to retrieve her black hat.
Before leaving, Miss Serill walks to the barkeep. "My apologoes, Sir. But my...drinking companion seems to have fallen asleep. Will he be alright if left there for the evening or shall we try to wake him?" She gestures to the man who seems to have passed out asleep at the table.
The gruff man glances over, waving his cleaning rag dismissively. "Leave him be. Not like this joint's all busy like. I'll drag him up in the mornin'."
Miss Serill bows her head to him, placing her hat on top of her ponytails, obscuring her face to the taller folk. "Very well, then. It is late and if my time is correct, the midnight ship to northrend should be departing soon. My thanks for the tea, good sir." His noncommital grunt follows her as she heads out carefully across the waterlogged path of the town to the last remaining dock. After obtaining passage, the small figure boards the ship and makes her way down below out of sight of others.
A gesture and quick incantation and her form is instantly swallowed up by fel green flames. Only a tiny patch of greenish-black ash remains.
In seconds, a tiny, dark figure slips out from a far building of the town, making it's way back out into the Wetlands.
