((Just popped into my head and needed to get out quickly-ish))
It didn’t occur to her immediately, but as she fled out into the scourge infested Stratholme, it hit her. She had committed a terrible act, one that she would have to live with for the rest of her life.
Her Warhorse was tied up outside, and she rode it as fast as she could north, into Quel’thalas, back to Silvermoon.
Her horse slowed, as it wound through the trees of the Ghostlands, and stopped outside a remote little building.
“No, I don’t need to see this. Not today.” She said, tugging on the reigns, but the horse stood firm.
She looked downwards, before sighing and dismounting. “Fine, just don’t wander off.”
The small stones of the path crunched under her boots, as she made her way onto the landing and pushed the door, which was half off it’s hinges already, open.
The house was not particularly fancifully furnished, even before the scourge hit, but it was rather large.
She made her way up a small flight of stairs, and clambered up the rubble to the next floor.
The room here had a small bed on one side, and a desk at the other. She sat at the desk, looking at the picture frame that was placed face down here, and the thick layer of dust covering it.
“You’d know what to do, wouldn’t you?” She said, as she began to tear up. “You’d swear to get to the bottom of this, to get revenge, or something, right?”
She pounded the desk, and cried into her arms.
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