A Quiet Return (OPEN)

The city was as Emberlaine had left it.

The cathedral square still buzzed with activity. Even under the blazing sun of the Elwynn summer, furious and unrelenting in the season of its prime, heavily armored and thickly robed alike converged near the vibrant, rapid churn of the pristine central fountain. When the mage had left, the square was frigid and ice-covered, a hurried point of passing between the hearth of one door to the torches of the cathedral - now, it was once more a thriving hub, defiant against the oppressive heat of a city at midday. The fountain bubbled with the same water; the same merchants argued with the same patrons about the same things, and the priests chanted the same prayers from the same old book. If there was any change at all, it was in the air. No longer did the wives whisper small, strained assurances to each other that soldier husbands would return home, no longer did mailboxes bulge with letter ferried in from mages from the frontier. The air was light and airy, as it always became after Azeroth's troubles seemed resolved. There was always a new threat, a promised new world or a sworn vengeful return awaiting on the horizon. But for now, at least, the streets remained lively and the sky stayed bright.

Emberlaine sat on a cool bench beside the fountain, eyes flitting from one person to the next. A former co-worker hurrying back to the Tower sprinted by her at a breathless spellcaster's pace, even as a Pandaren crossed his legs in serene meditation beneath a tree. The monk's newest disciple, a young boy clearly still getting used to his monk's robes, struggled to focus beside him, eyes tearing themselves open at every outside distraction. She laughed to herself, knowing full well the challenge of deep and absolute focus, laughing more as the exasperated trainee cried in frustration and earned a cuff from his master.

It felt good to people-watch again. The trials of her months away from the city had been arduous, and even still, she had trials ahead of her - apologies to make, explanations to tell, reunions to excitedly plan and anxiously await. For now at least, she would simply sit, and watch, and let the world pass by around her in the perfect grace of an afternoon alive.

Kankor watched the cathedral with glazed, uninterested eyes, mostly checking to make sure there was a lack of any carriages of any sort rolling across the grounds. When it had appeared to be devoid of anything of the sort, he'd step onto the street, keeping close to the side of the street favoring the fountain. For a short moment, he'd glance up from where he was walking to giving a passing glance in admiration to the fountain. In that short moment, though, he'd catch a short glimpse of a familiar looking figure, which he did a double take at.

A name was just on the tip of his tongue, but, infuriatingly so, he couldn't put a name on the face. The doctor would glance around, then step off of the street and would cross to the nearest bench where the familiar mage sat. He'd try to be subtle, but he was definitely starting at Emberlaine, trying to remember her name.

The average Stormwind resident displayed a dangerous, wild disregard for carriages. To them, the stones of the city streets had no room for anything more than the hurried rush of pedestrian traffic, accented by a few coarse reminders that someone was indeed walking there. Engrossed in people-watching as she was, Emberlaine was quick to pick out the Cathedral Square's careful new arrival, crossing the street with a rare and distinguished regard for his own life. There was something more about this person; even as Kankor looked at her, she looked back at him, forcing ancient gears and dilapidated cogs to spin in her head. Memories came back like worn old photographs, sentences half-remembered scrawled in faded black ink beneath the picture. Blurry, mid-motion pictures of trays filled with pungent alcohol on the way to a table; the buzz of a tavern, the tilt of a ship; the wooden door in a dark room, and the knocks from outside she was too weak to answer. And finally, at the end of a surge of memories thought locked away, a name.

"Kankor," she stated plainly, sole word disjointed, strange on her lips, as if anyone but Emberlaine had said it.

Time had changed her. The sickly pallor of her skin had grown warm once again, ice-like complexion replaced by a glow to match the summer air. Her hair fell from her head in long waves of its natural red, no traces of its age-old blonde dye left. Even her robes were new - a shade of red to match her hair, accented by golden runes carefully stitched into the palms of her gloves, the trim of her cloak, the edge of her collar. Most of all, the mage stood up straight and proud, confident within the world around her.

"Kankor," she said again, louder this time, sure in her own sound.

"Is it you?"