I have made many terrible decisions in my life. The ball incident. The fucked up helm. That one forbidden night with a certain human warrior whose name I refuse to scratch onto these pages again. But this one might take the prize and parade it around the bazaar.
I was standing at the PvP vendors in Silvermoon this afternoon, staring at the Quartermaster like he personally owed me money, overthinking whether I should blow more Conquest on those Heraldries or just cry about it. That’s when Sergeant Wilson (the big, burly orc recruiter with the ridiculous mohawk and the permanent scowl) started calling out in that gravelly voice of his.
“Alliance side’s short on fighters again!” he bellowed, loud enough for half the bazaar to hear. “Fast queues. Good pay. Warm bodies wanted. You in or what?”
I should have kept walking.
I should have pretended I didn’t hear him.
Instead my traitorous brain whispered, Faster queues, Sahsha. And maybe you could pick up some intel for the Horde while you’re at it. Light, I’m a priest. I should know better than to listen to desperate little voices.
So I did it.
I walked over. I accepted the contract.
I am now officially a temporary Alliance mercenary, and I feel disgusting. Filthy. Like I just rolled around in Lordaeron mud and then hugged a dwarf. I wanted to spit right there on the marble and then march to the nearest fountain and drown the shame off my skin. My Sin’dorei soul is filing a formal complaint with the Sunwell itself. Even my pet gave me that look. The one that says, ‘Really, boss? We’ve fallen this far?’
The second the battleground popped I was over there. With them. Surrounded by humans and night elves and who knows what else, all yammering away in that awful gibberish they call a language. I couldn’t understand a word and thank the Light for that small mercy. I just nodded like I belonged, kept my mouth shut, and tried not to visibly gag every time one of them clapped me on the shoulder like we were old comrades.
I spent the entire twenty-four minutes healing these Alliance idiots like my life depended on it (because it kind of did if I wanted the rewards) while internally screaming. Every bubble I wove felt like quiet treason. Every Atonement tick landed like a little silver dagger twisting in what’s left of my pride. I kept thinking about Ardan (yes, that Ardan) and wondering how he manages to be the one tolerable exception in a sea of people I otherwise want to set on fire.
We won. Of course we won.
I collected my little pouch of Honor and Conquest, sprinted back to Silvermoon, cancelled the contract so fast my fingers nearly cramped, and stood under the brightest lamp I could find just trying to feel like a real Blood Elf again.
I am never doing that again.
…Probably.
Unless the queues turn cruel again, or I’m one piece away from feeling competent. Or Abeke starts breathing fire about gold.
Light help me. I think I need a very long soak in the Sunwell’s glow until my skin stops remembering their touch. And maybe a priest.
Wait. I am a priest.
This is why I drink.
~Sahsha
(Exhausted Blood Elf Disc Priest, Overworked Sin’dorei Wrangler, Reluctant Alliance Mercenary for Exactly Twenty-Four Minutes, and Currently in Desperate Need of a Very Thorough Sunwell Scrubbing)