Letter of an undead

Gharb glanced over his new and shiny badge, approving his new title "Conqueror" that he was given by the Horde commanders. Gharb made a wry face and spat on the ground as the badge reflected light. Then he stuffed the badge into a small pouch he rarely opens.

He approached Aldor bank and without paying any attention to the allies inspecting his hat made his way to the mailbox.

Fees... more fees, delays... auctions cancelled... - his cold voice muttered quietly as he was browsing through dozens of papers.

Last letter in the mailbox wasn't an Auction House paper and didn't belong to any of usual customers. Gharb shrugged slighty and sniffed the envelope. His calm steady breath wavered perceiving a faint odour of blinding powder. Gharb quickly folded the letter and went out of the bank with an angry growl shoving away an allie off his way.

In a minute his wyvern brought him to a floating island, right above Shattrath. Close enough the the community so he can watch it and secluded enough so nobody can spot him. There he sat on the ground and glanced at the package again.

With a quiet, slow rustle of leather lean hands unsealed the envelope and took out the most unexpected letter ever.

Gharb read the letter and winced as he felt his heart pound.

Why don't I just f*cking die... - dried hiss ripped into the silence. Gharb took a deep breath and took a blank paper to write a response.

Heresy,

I'll be honest - that was an unexpected letter. I am glad you haven't forgotten me and of course I would like to meet...

Gharb winced again pondering if he really would like such a meeting to happen. If a wound cannot be cured - at least it shouldn't be touched. Rogue took off his gloves and put them on the grass of the floating island. Rubbed his pale, dead hands and continued to write this sincere letter.

However, I don't believe in "old times". They are gone, we are different and so is the world. You... haven't talked to me... for a long time. I have no idea of what's happened to you. I even had no idea if you'd been alive or not - you haven't answered my letters.

Gharb was writing fast and his handwriting was neat and sharp. With gritted teeth he was writing as if he was running barefoot along the path of a broken glass - with each step wishing for this run to end.

If you want to talk... that means we have a lot of things to tell to each other. Each of us has his own tale... I can share mine and I want to hear yours. I am free at any evening or night, shall we meet in Shattrath?

Gharb signed the letter and put on his gloves. Then he looked into the distance, shifting his eyes as if he was looking for something at the horizon. Slowly he took out a dagger and with a fingertip checked out its sharpness. Wry smirk distorted his face when the blade lightly ripped his skin.

That's going to be a painful meeting...