Home is an odd concept. It could be as simple as a building you own, or as complex as feeling safe and secure. Where does your character feel most at home? Are they city folk who enjoy large cities with too many people to count? Are they nomads and travelers who simply live by "home is where the head rests"?
Perhaps the home has been destroyed. If so what happened? Was it a physical loss or emotional?
So maybe it's true that she thrives on conflict these days. That is why when everyone else left she didn't bother to stick around. Her rangers and scouts had more or less been dismissed when the Conclave shifted gears, so short of leaving attendants in charge of day to day operations at the garrison there wasn't much left to do. Once the fighting is done everyone expects her to disappear, anyway.
Danei Dawnrunner has witnessed the fall of Archimonde twice now.
Used to be that she's look at an opposing army and wonder how many careless pawns she could take down with her. These days she grasps at straws just to stay alive. Funny how things change. And Sunblade, Light help him, he doesn't make it easy. If everyone she knew weren't dying by inches there might have been something between them. “Practicalities,” she remembers telling him the one time the subject was almost breached. “Last of a dying breed and all.”
But they've gone to war before, together and apart, and both of them somehow manage to come out alive. Sometimes she will look up at the clear skies and remember Icecrown, remember Hellfire, and she will remember how no one ever bothered to come back for her. She will remember that Durazael left.
Danei Dawnrunner decides that home does not exist.
Azrexil sighs and closes his tome, the chain clattering as it falls to his side. He looks around the camp fire at the other warlocks with him. The main force of the army usually avoided the six robed figures at all cost.
"What are we waiting for?" the orc says impatiently. "The cover of darkness gives us the advantage." The orc wears brown robes similar to Azrexil, but has more bone and less chain woven throughout.
"You really think that darkness will slow them down? I'm not even sure those things can see." A small female blood elf chides the orc. "Please try and show some tact, I for one would like to see home again."
Azrexil stares into the fire, trying desperately to remember what home is supposed to feel like. He recalls some vague images, along with the bitter-sweet taste in the back of his mouth. A long dead, and stark white tree surrounded by roses. He has no idea where this image comes from, but it, and the horrible feeling of permanent loss is all that his mind conjures.
"What about you Felshadow?" The orc rumbles. "Have anyone waiting for your ugly mug?" Several of the other warlocks laugh.
Azrexil smiles and stands up, moving away from the fire, towards his tent, "Of course not, it's the edge I need to out cast the lot of you rookies." More laughs, more friendly banter. he looks down at his shadow, and shares in its emptiness.
A cupped hand wasn't enough to keep the snow from turning purple.
Mythrenathen Woodpaw pulls his fingers away from his right shoulder enough to look at the four huge parallel gashes that stretched from his shoulderblade down to the inside of his bicep. He hisses through his teeth, fangs bared, and replaces his palm across the wound to keep the pressure applied. Behind him in the snowdrift was a set of footprints, a steady stream of violet blood drops accompanying them every few yards. He needed to keep moving, or he wouldn't make it at all. Pushing himself off the tree he had been leaning against to catch his balance, he trudges once more through the snow.
Over the next rise he catches sight of his goal; between the trees and the wind-swept snowflakes he sees the top of a fallen log. Spaced evenly along the side of the log were small circular cut-outs, the hollow inside evident from the glass panes protecting the space inside from the elements.
Myth trods through the snow painfully, breathing heavily as he finally makes it to the cleared area in front of the doorway in the end of the hollowed log. He pushes against the wooden door until he bursts inside, collapsing into a blood-smeared heap in the middle of the floor. The rug beneath him is thick, coarse fur, but at that moment he would have been content to close his eyes and sleep in the mess of purple blood and cold sweat that soaked and stained the skin.
A primal howl echoes through the otherwise silent glade, startling the Kaldorei from his pain-ridden stupor. Of course they knew where he went; how many countless times had they visited his tiny hut after they helped him fashion it from an ancient pine tree? And if they were too distracted by their rage to remember the way - what had angered them so, anyways? - the blood trail would certainly lead them straight to where he was. Tugging a blood-soaked glove off his fingers by his teeth, he stretches his arm to rest the palm of his hand against the carved inside of the log. It was rough in the way unfinished wood is, but not jagged enough to cause splinters. Another guttural yell pierces the quiet, and he forces himself to his knees.
His gaze drops immediately to the puddle of blood on the rug, and he tilts his head when he notices seeds mixed in with the purple. Jars of all shapes and sizes were strewn across one side of the hut, knocked to the floor when he slammed through the door. Their contents mixed with broken pieces of clay, grains and dried bits of herbs and wooden beads littered across the rugs. It would be a waste to try to salvage any of the mess now; the log home wasn't that far from the village and they'd be here soon. He pries his eyes away from the small stockpile of wasted goods, searching for anything that would be of use.
A rag blanket tied with his teeth would have to do for a makeshift tourniquet as he shuffles through his meager home. At least the constant pressure on his arm and shoulder would help him focus. He scoops up a leather knapsack and begins shoveling items one-handed into it - a small sewing kit, a block of wood the size of his fist, a carving knife, a wooden bowl, two small white fox furs, a half-filled water skin, and leather laces are among the conglomeration of knick-knacks thrown into the sack.
His mind tells him that he just needs to get far enough away that they wouldn't follow, at least until he figures out what had happened. But the throbbing ache deep in his chest says otherwise. With a last sorrowful glance through the small hut the Kaldorei snatches a spare cloak off a hook by the door and braces himself for the cold chill of the snowy outside.
I like this blue but can we consider purple :^)