“It must be in here somewhere,” she thought, desperately, rummaging in her bags for her tear-stained handkerchief that an Orc gave her, chivalrously unexpected. Must be buried deep somewhere. She threw off her armor and slopped on the bed, grabbing the satin pillow, not caring if acidic draenei tears stained the fabric. That would be someone else’s problem, not hers. It just seemed futile: no matter what she did, it wasn’t enough: if she killed a mean snake, it had been previously weakened. If she bested a spider, someone else spun the tale. At least she was a pretty crier.