Ever since that rainy night in Dun Morogh he had felt a warm sting whenever he saw the young rogue. After careful consideration of both his mental and physical wellbeing he eventually decided that the pain came, not from his heart skipping a beat at the sight of her lovely face, but rather his skin remembering her pointy daggers and the way they rendered him incapacitated. Initially he had been inclined to be amused by her skittishness and the way she still jumped whenever they chanced to meet in the halls of Ironforge, but as his healing took longer than first anticipated due to her love of coating her weapons in unknown poisons, he started to regret ever meeting her. If it hadn’t been for the raggedy troupe of soldiers she travelled with he would have been a dead elf that night. Her abilities as a healer were verging on the savage and though it was clear that she could have benefitted from some proper training at an early stage, she was now too old now to learn more.