The messenger...

The snow swirled gently in the grey morning light of Dun Murogh. The lone figure sat silently at her table in the inn, waiting. What she was waiting for, none could guess, but she had been waiting at that same table, day after day, for almost a year. She hadn’t moved from that spot except when necessary, and to retire to her room at the end of the day, only to return to the same spot the following morning. She was of the Kaldorei race, as was evidenced by her tall, graceful stature and her lilting accent whenever she spoke, but her features, as was her name, were a mystery to everyone, as she wore a heavy cowl that kept her face hidden from view. Her hair, however, was of a silver hue, with trace hints of violet, which suggested that she was either no longer young, or had seen enough to change her hair from violet to silver.
It was on this day, roughly a full year from the day that the figure first appeared in Kharanos that a messenger arrived from the north. “I seek Sergeant-Major Rhowynne of the King’s Army.” He said. “I was told that I could find her here.”
At that, the figure rose and, revealing her face, moved gracefully toward the door. “She whom you seek is indeed here, good sir. I am she.”
The messenger, obviously enthralled by the silver knot of hair that fell softly over her shoulder, stammered, and then bowed. “The priestess Prophetess sends word from Icecrown, M’lady. Lord Tirion Fordring and Highlord Darion Mograine are amassing troops for the final assault on Icecrown Citadel. They are planning launch the attack to take down the traitor Arthas within the fortknight. King Wrynn has called for all able-bodied soldiers to contribute what they can, and your former commander, Sir Therigwin and his people are answering the call.” Pausing, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a purse bulging with coin. “Prophetess has sent this to cover your passage to Valgarde Keep, and a gryphon waits for you in Ironforge to carry you to Menethil Harbor to catch the boat.”
Rhowynne looked the messenger over carefully, as if looking for some hint of deceit, and then graciously accepted the proffered purse, in exchange for a small tip of 10 gold coins for the messenger’s trouble. “Thank you for the information.” She said to him, and then to no one in particular, “It is time.”
She then gathered up her belongings, and paid her bill to the innkeeper before stepping out into the chill winter air. Thinking to herself as she made her way up the mountain to the gates of Ironforge, she recalled the battle just over a year ago to push the Lich King back into his fortress in the northern reaches of Northrend. It was then, while fighting legions of the undead scourge that Arthas had sent to take over Azeroth that she came face to face with that which had silvered her once violet hair. It was while fighting side-by-side along the Argent Dawn at the battle for Light’s Hope that she encountered the death knight whose face she knew more than any other. That face, now empty and devoid of all life, love and emotion, was that of her brother, Stelam. If it weren’t for the death knights regaining their own will as Arthas was defeated, he would have killed her there. The experience had shaken her so badly, that she had hung up her daggers and sworn never to fight again. However, she had maintained contact with her former comrades enough to know that, after the battle, her brother had fought alongside them for a while before vanishing, seemingly into oblivion. She knew that she was in no shape to join the fight herself at this point, having been out of practice for so long, but she would do what she could to help bring the traitor, Arthas, down. Upon arriving in Ironforge, she quickly penned a letter to the one who had been her mentor before her retirement.
“Commander Daraia,” it read. “I have received word from Prophetess of your involvement in the Icecrown offensive, and am willing to offer what assistance I can. I am en route to Howling Fjord, and will sign up with the offensive there. Give Therigwin my best, as well as my long-time friend, Firager. God speed, and god Bless.
-Sergeant-Major Rhowynne”
Satisfied that she had said all she needed, she sent the message on ahead via carrier, and, hoping that her old friends and comrades were well, climbed aboard her gryphon and began her journey to Northrend.