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Shirah looked in the mirror. Her face bore the scars of the past. There was nothing handsome about her anymore. The one very deep scar across her eye could have a chance to heal if only Shirah gave it a chance. But she didn’t. Every evening she would use her dagger to keep the scar the same as if she wanted to be reminded of that dreadful night in the Plaguelands. She would remove her eye patch and scrape her scar with the dagger. Letting the blood flow from her face. Her face in agony, tears mixed with blood. Why? I don’t think even Shirah knows. Maybe in her feeble mind she wanted to remain that person she was just after the attack. That monster that was created that horrible night. She felt strong. Stronger than any other missionary. Sometimes she would look towards her brethren with contempt. This was no time of politics. No time of studying, fishing or whatever they did in their spare time. This was a time of choosing which side you were on. If you weren’t on her side, the scarlet side, then you would be an enemy. And for Shirah the time was right to do what she did best in the Plaguelands: Kill. For the good of the community. But deep in her heart she respected her brethren more than ever before. They had apparently found a way to become true missionaries. They held on to their beliefs but were very much capable to do that without causing to much chaos. But Shirah was aware this was not her way. Not the way she had been taught in the Plaguelands or so she thought. Her fear was holding her back. Her fear for her attackers. Einor, Shadowfall, Birgit and Kulgar. They left their mark in the perfect place. Shirah was afraid more than ever. It’s what Einor said after she escaped that night: “We will find you and when we will we will finish the job more painfully than you can imagine. There are many like us Shirah, more than you can imagine. We will find you.”. His voice resounded in her head constantly, tormenting her dreams if sleep would come. They were still out there, looking for her. Waiting for her to be of her guard. And who were these others he spoke of? It could be anyone. It could be that Elf in the corner or that dwarf standing near the Auction House. It could even be that helpful Human near the cathedral square or even one of her brethren. Shirah didn’t want to believe all this but couldn’t stop herself thinking about it. Shirah was changing. More than ever. Her fear was eating her away, making her more aware. More angry. More hateful. This was not the Shirah she once knew. That old Shirah was gone. What was left was nothing. A hollow carcass which forgot to die that night she was attacked. Only one had been capable to confront her with her own actions. One that didn’t fear her. Sister Elizabetha tried very hard and one day almost succeeded. But the hate would return to Shirah and in her twisted mind she began to blame Elizabetha for everything that happened that night for it was Elizabetha that encouraged her to take the step in trusting others more. Shirah felt that Elizabetha’s council was the reason she was attacked. There was no hope left for Shirah. Shirah invented her version of what happened loosing more humanity by the minute. Her mind was filled with darkness. Darkness that changed every good word into a pool of hate. And Shirah lavished herself with that hate. There were rules. Shirah knew that. Rules set up by the High Emissary brother Habeus. Rules she had to follow out of respect for her superiors. But it was hard for her. In every shadow on every corner of the street she saw an enemy. People she didn’t trust and in her feeble mind she was beginning to see things. Things that weren’t true. People talking in the street would seem to Shirah like they were looking at her. Grinning at her. Knowing her. They would become for Shirah her attackers or people knowing them. One day she felt certain she saw Einor. She chased him, sword drawn. Shirah managed to catch him and threw him on the street thrusting her sword towards him, her body full of adrenaline. Just in time she saw her mistake. Seeing the fear in the eyes of her victim, a simple man who was visiting Stormwind for the first time. She pushed him away and ran towards the cathedral throwing herself on the stairs near the altar. After being certain no one could see her she tried to cry, but tears changed into hate again. No one was innocent. They are all guilty. So what if you killed him. Darkness engulfed her again. Shirah stood up, took her knife, removed her eye patch and started cutting her scar again. This time cutting deeper than ever spilling blood on the cathedral floor. Shirah felt dead. Her brethren were unaware of her condition. There was no hope left for Shirah. No one that could help her and why would they? They only saw that hateful, uncaring, hard person. A loose cannon. But deep inside Shirah hoped someone would see her pain, feel her agony. But all hope died every time she took out her knife and started cutting her face again. All what was left was insanity.

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