Sancha

Why had she asked him for a drink?

Why had she done it twice?

“He’s an elf!” She thought, but a second thought chimed in.
“He’s a very handsome elf” It smirked.
“…And it has been awhile” A third added.

Sancha frowned, sitting in the worlds end tavern, a mug of mead cradled in her hands, she brought it to her lips and took a sip before leaning back and staring at the ceiling.

“I wonder what he looks like out of that armour…” the traitorous train of thought continued and she couldn’t help but grin as her imagination did its work.
“But he’s an elf!” That’s right he was, she dropped the mental image and took another sip of mead. But why did that matter? There was a time that she’d never have called a Forsaken ‘friend’.

They used to be allies of the humans, used to be. They were haughty and full of themselves, at least all those she’d met were. They were irresponsible with their magic, which was quite serious wasn’t it? She was not sure what now sated their infamous addiction to the arcane, though she heard that they could ‘tap’ the energies from others. There was also that rumour regarding a Naaru they kept imprisoned and whose energies they used to fuel their blood knights, it sounded preposterous. She could never stand to stay in their city for long; the environment was too saturated by the arcane and made her feel ill so she had never been able to find out.

He himself was whiney, a blood thistle addict, full of himself, decadent, witty, chiselled…her mind drifted to wondering what those lips would feel like until she caught herself and growled under her breath. She swallowed down the rest of her mead angrily and got up.

“I’ll go to Netherstorm and kill a couple dozen of Kael’s followers” she thought “That’ll sort out all these daft thoughts” Sancha nodded to herself and collected her things, strolling purposefully from the inn.
“…Or maybe sleeping with him would…” her traitorous thoughts cried out gleefully in chorus.