((This is a series of posts introducing Dashrien. The story takes place as Burning Crusade is drawing to a close and the forces of Azeroth are turning their eyes to Northrend.))
Voices, explosions in the darkness. “Xyln arka tuc?”
I couldn’t move, even to blink my eyes. A hand on my shoulder, a cacaphony of protests from my aching muscles. It shook me. “Xyln arka tuc?”
A groan of pain. Mine. It didn’t sound right- but it was my voice, it had to be right. Couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was just as dead as the rest of me felt.
More chatter. Fingers on my eyelid, prying it open. Light stabbed into my skull. I shoved the hand away and gradually tried again, finally getting a look at my surroundings. A ceiling hung high- hundreds of feet- overhead, and everything seemed strangely blue. Didn’t feel right, but couldn’t put my finger on it.
More questions in that strange language. I coughed, croaked through a throat as dry as Tanaris. “Water.”
My eyes resolved two blue-skinned draenei kneeling over me with expressions of concern, turning to confusion at my words. Finally one, snapped an order at the other, who ran off. In heavily accented common, she told me, “I sent her to fetch a drink. Lie still. You were badly wounded in the battle and nobody thought to look in these halls until now. We’ve sent for a healer.”
I lay back; it seemed an excellent idea, seeing how the world was spinning gently. Something was making an uncomfortable lump under my thigh. My tail, I thought absently, reaching down to dislodge it, and once again was struck by that faint sensation of wrongness, but I was too exhausted and hurt to pursue it.
“Keep talking,” she encouraged me, stroking my hand. “What is your name?”
“Dashrien Sunseeker.” That came to mind instantly, especially considering how sluggish my thoughts were otherwise. I wasn’t sure why I gave it in full; nobody ever called me Dashrien.
“How unusual,” she said. “Did you take it after we found Draenor? It seems very modern.”
“I…I don’t know.” I couldn’t remember and it suddenly seemed paramount. Where had I gotten my name? Did my mother give it to me? Did I choose it myself? How could I not know something so simple?
“Dashrien, stay with me,” she said, a note of warning in her tone. I must be badly beat up. “Can you tell me where you live?”
“I don’t know.” Why couldn’t I remember? I met her eyes, panic rising. “I don’t know!”
“Shhh.” She pressed me back gently. Her hand felt the back of my head, behind my ear, and came back crumbling dried blood. “One of those horrible blood children banged you on the head, that’s all. We’ll fix you right up, soon as the healer gets here.”
Though she tried her best to keep me awake, I slid back into the dark.
Elf-Delusion 
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