The oracle picks her way over the stony sands of Durotar.  The baking sun glitters off the mica and glass grains of dirt blinding and dazzling at the same time. 

Her bones creek.

Too old, she is too old for this.

But they kept her going, the relentless taskmasters that the spirits herald.

She said a prayer to the dawn air, blessing the day, seeking wisdom, the same as any other day.

How many miles would she walk today, never resting, never home, like water.

Today the sun would set in Durotar for her.  Tomorrow would they send her someplace that she may rest?

Perhaps today would be her last sun set, for this she stopped again and prayed and pleaded with the fickle loa.