Pines stretched above his head, dark branches a canopy and a shield against the harsh moonlight filtering in from above. The ground, soft with moss and leaves, kept the death knight’s steps quiet. His feet were dirty, he knew, his boots long discarded and left with his armor under a rose bush some ways back. Wind whispered past his ears, smelling of old pine and maple and the faint hint of snow.
The forest, the old forest, old Lordaeron, cradled Rey in its grip, the hillside rising sharply in a curve to stop his walk. This place, too, he knew, the soil whispered of old memories, the natural grotto singing of past sorrow. It would not turn him aside, never, even when his skin had frozen to blue and his eyes blackened then cleared to lichfire. It knew him and Reya and welcomed him back with open arms.
For there were only so many reasons why he came amongst these trees.
Till Sunrise 