The large, beautifully crafted shield lay heavily across Swill’s muscled forearm. His sword, gripped tightly in his right hand, reflecting the red glinting light from the unusual sun in Shadowmoon Valley. His body screamed and rared to charge the scene before him, conflicting with his soliders’ instinct, which compelled him to wait for the opportune moment for the initial strike. His breath was heavy, his skin rippled with “warrior fire”, he looked to his right, where Wanda, his battlemate, had stood only a moment before.

She had shifted into Bear form, and no matter how many times he’d witnessed it, Swill marveled as if the first time, at this ability of the Druid. The beast, fierce and snarling, was massive and hulking-a silvery-gray thick fur covering a bulk of terrifying muscle and sinew. Her long jaws containing large, sharp teeth and huge canines that promised certain death.

Wanda had turned Feral Blood. The only way she could release the transformation was to kill an enemy in battle, or to be killed herself, there was no other option for those Druids who chose the Feral Blood Path.

The ways of the druid had always been a mystery to Swill, he expressed no desire to give any deeper understanding of them either. He wasn’t uncomfortable around shapeshifters, he simply didn’t care to expand his knowledge of their practices. All he concerned himself with was that Wanda was in command and control of the Feral Blood Path because if she lost her discpline, things would be ugly, in a hurry, for all of them.

He was sure of this one fact- Wanda was deadly, discplined and second to none in her battlefield, front- line skill.

And as for Wanda- well, for her there had been no other choice.

Wanda stood outside the orphanage with her small, finely shaped nose pressed lightly against the frost ringed glass, peeking in at the six small people inside. Her presence was unnoticed by those within the Centreroom where the cheery fire flamed and a hotpot of cider and warm mugs appeared upon the low table in front of the settee. It was cold where she stood, but she ignored the shivers that ran trails of gooseflesh up and down her arms.

She had just done the hardest thing she’d ever had to do, in her short 20 years of life. The beautiful, skilled healer brought and gave the four elflings to the matrons, of the Stormwind Orphanage. Wanda held her gaze upon them for a full three minutes, standing in the cold at that window, as to engrain the lasting picture of the six inside the building, to her memory.

She was done.

As Wanda turned, sadly and slowly from the window, for her unknown destination, she felt it happen. It was physical and began as a small hunger in her gut, the hunger became a twist, the twist a knot, the knot a rolling, cramping hard rock. The pain was immense and searing to the core of her being. She doubled over but didn’t fall, her hands gripping her midsection, kneading the pained flesh beneath her cloak. Her breath caught in her chest and she let out a cry, but to her surprise and confusion, the sound of a growling, low roar of a wild animal in pain, and not the squeek of an elf- maid, came from her throat.