On Shadowpriests

A guide to the basics
Even with my recent conversion to holy in the name of keeping the game interesting, shadow has always been my chosen specialisation as a priest. Having been caught offline for a whole week and a bit (!!) I ended up yearning for my shadow tree again, and the result was a good old fashioned brain-splurge of information onto screen. As such, I give you a quick rundown of the shadowpriest and its skills, aimed largely towards people who are new to the class and want to get some familiarisation in before Wrath knocks us all back into touch.

Originally a PvP spec in vanilla WoW, the priest’s shadow tree was given a unique role in raids when TBC rolled around. Able to put out a healthy bit of damage and even top the meters in early raids where the pure shadow power given by the Frozen Shadoweave gave the spriest a hefty head start in gear, their main function lies in their support abilities, which come from talents.

Vampiric Embrace: This skill places a debuff on the target that causes a small percentage (changing depending on whether points are placed into Improved Vampiric Embrace) of the spriest’s shadow damage to come back as a heal for their group.

Vampiric Touch: This skill places a debuff on the target that deals damage over time and, more importantly, causes a percentage of the shadow damage dealt to that target to come back as mana for the spriest’s group.

Misery: This debuff is placed on the target after it is afflicted by one of the spriest’s shadow spells. It increases all spell damage from any party or raid member dealt to that target.

Shadow Weaving: This debuff has a chance (affected by the number of talent points placed into Shadoweaving) to be placed on the target whenever a shadow spell is cast on that target by the spriest and stacks up to five times. This increases all shadow damage the target takes from any party or raid member’s shadow spells, increasing with each stack present.

As can be seen, this means that the spriest’s role is to increase the overall magic-based damage output of the raid whilst aiding any mana user in endurance fights. Often referred to as a “mana battery”, the spriest is most commonly placed in a caster/hunter group or with the healers if they persistently find themselves out of mana during a particular fight. This means that while an spriest may drop positions in terms of damage output during the later stages of raiding they are nevertheless an extremely valuable asset to the raid. They are also able to cast the same buffs as Circle of Healing holy priests, although they lack the spirit buff of a discipline priest.

Power Word: Fortitude: This buff increases the stamina of the friendly target by up to 75 depending on the rank cast. Can also be cast as a prayer, which consumes a reagent but affects the party members of the target as well.

Shadow Protection: This buff increases the shadow resistance of the friendly target by up to 75 depending on the rank cast. Can also be cast as a prayer, which consumes a reagent but affects the party members of the target as well.

Fear Ward: This buff makes the target immune to one fear spell. It lasts three minutes or until a fear is cast, at which point it is consumed.

All priests are also able to cast Shackle, a crowd-control spell that affects the undead only. A shadowpriest is still best equipped to do this, however, due to their spell hit gear, which a healer will lack.

SPELL ROTATION

A shadowpriest doesn’t have a spell rotation so much as a spell priority system. Your main task is to micromanage your damage over time effects and the short cooldowns of Mind Blast and Shadow Word: Death. The order of importance is as follows:

Vampiric Touch
Shadow Word: Pain
Mind Blast
Shadow Word: Death
Mind Flay

This turns mind flay into a filler spell, used when both DoT effects are ticking away and both SW: Death and MB are on CD. Shadowpriest zen is achieved when MF ends just as a DoT needs reapplying or something comes off CD; note that the best time to cast VT is not after the last tick, however, but just before it due to the 1.5 second cast time. Your target should always have VT applied and even that split second during the casting time works against that goal.

Another unique spell in the shadowpriest’s arsenal is Vampiric Embrace, an effect applied to the target that causes the priest’s shadow damage dealt to that target to regenerate health across the group. This is limited to the specific party the priest is in as opposed to the entirety of a raid group, for which we are currently thankful. Why? Because one of the main factors limiting a well-geared shadowpriest’s damage output is being threat-capped.

MANAGING THREAT

To be threat-capped is to be riding on the tank’s back bumper threat-wise, meaning that to do any more damage would be to pull aggro. As a rather squishy beast even with Inner Fire and Shadowform’s armour buffs, pulling aggro will often result in bloody murder and possibly the subsequent bloody murder of any other ranged damage dealing classes around you who suddenly find themselves under the jurisdiction of melee range threat rules. For any damage dealing class, pulling aggro is right up there at the top of the sin list.

The shadowpriest must be especially mindful of threat because we have several major threat generators and no threat dump.

The most commonly problematic spell for new shadowpriests threat-wise is VE. When soloing or PvPing this skill is invaluable and so we get into the habit of casting it, but to make use of it in a raid situation requires you to be aware of something called effective healing. Effective healing is when a spell or effect actually causes a player to regenerate health – the part of any heals that try to take the character over 100% health is referred to as overheal because it’s superfluous – and it is effective healing that earns you a nice bit of healing threat. Overheal generates none.

Most of the time damage will be focused on one player – the tank – so you don’t have that much to worry about with VE. Other times, however, damage may be spread out across a few if not all the members of a group, and suddenly the effective healing of VE will soar, dragging the shadowpriest’s threat along with it. In some situations this instigates refraining from casting VE so as to continue putting out the same sort of damage as normal and attaining the highest possible mana return and DPS; at others the player must take note of when the group takes damage, observe their threat meter especially closely and adjust their level of nuking appropriately.

Another spell to watch is Mind Blast, which has higher threat generation than Shadow Word: Death. Both, however, are able to crit, so if you’re right behind the tank on threat these are two to watch. Using MB as an opening move is rarely a good idea.

One of the most misleading spells, however, is actually Fade. It likes to pretend it’s a threat dump, but this isn’t the case. When activated, Fade reduces your threat until the end of its duration, at which point all that threat comes back. This makes it fundamentally different from abilities such as a rogue’s Feint. Feint lops off a portion of the rogue’s threat by the amount dictated on the tooltip and will remove more every time it is used – spamming Feint on CD will dramatically reduce the rogue’s threat level, whereas a priest spamming Fade whenever possible will simply be wasting mana. This makes Fade into a situational spell: that is, one you cast when you know your next few spells will cause a large amount of threat that the tank would not be able to hold but that they could deal with if the threat gain was delayed or when you are about to pull aggro as it will give the tank time to regain their position at the top of the threat list before the mob comes after you.

Like all aspects of shadowpriesting, threat management will become easier the more you play and pulling aggro frequently when you first get into group play shouldn’t be instantly taken as a sign that you’ll never make a good shadowpriest. Early on, after all, is when you’re most likely to be getting sudden huge improvements in spellpower from gear when you upgrade green items to blue or even tailored epics.

GEAR

A shadowpriest’s gear requirements are quite unique amongst casters in that intellect does not feature heavily in building up the priest’s effective mana pool. Pure spellpower takes up this role instead thanks to vampiric touch and is in fact the shadowpriest’s most important stat, outclassing spell critical strike rating due to mindflay, vampiric touch and shadow word: pain’s inability to crit. While mind blast and shadow word: death are affected by spell crit I would not advocate taking spell crit over spell damage.

Other noteworthy stats are spell hit, which you need to have capped to raid effectively, stamina, which will help you absorb the recoil from SW:Death and improve your general survivability, and mp5, which should never be aimed for but is a slightly useful bonus on some heavy spell damage gear. Note that the shadowpriest’s spell hit requirements depend on spec: full points in Shadow Focus will allow the priest to be hit capped with only 75 spell hit rating from gear. This is so important because when fighting a boss your spells have a 17% chance to be resisted – being hit capped will bring it right down to 1%.

As such, your stat priority order when choosing loot is as follows:

Spell hit until hit-capped
Spellpower
Spell crit

Stamina is of course useful in that a dead spriest is no use whatsoever; spirit is presently worthless save for an additional set to equip when grinding; intellect provides further spell crit but the extra mana it provides is of little use; and Mp5 (mana per second) is a handy bonus if present on gear strong in spellpower but should not be sought out.

GEMS

The most important gem for a shadowpriest is, of course, the pure spellpower gem: Runed Living Ruby. Runed Crimson Spinel is the epic upgrade to this, and there are other variations too, such as the honour reward Runed Ornate Ruby. It is generally an acceptable belief that very few socket bonuses are worth co-ordinating your gem colour for, so most shadowpriests will socket straight through all their gear with these red gems. Nevertheless, on the occasion where a socket bonus gives a sizeable bit of spellpower Glowing Nightseye is best for a blue socket and Potent Noble Topaz or Veiled Noble Topaz should go in a yellow socket, depending on whether or not your priest is hit-capped. As the shadowpriest’s preferred meta gem is the Mystical Skyfire Diamond one red gem swapped for a purple gem will usually activate it.

ENCHANTS

As per usual, spellpower is the focus.

Head: Glyph of Power
Shoulder: Greater Inscription of the Orb or Greater Inscription of Discipline depending on your alignment in Shattrath. Note that the Zandalar Signet of Mojo is a stronger alternative to the Scryer inscription and should be used if you are a Scryer and have access to it.
Cloak: Subtlety
Chest: Restore Mana Prime or Exceptional Stats
Bracers: Spellpower
Gloves: Spellpower
Leggings: Runic Spellthread
Feet: Vitality or Boar’s Speed
Rings: Spellpower (only available to enchanters)
Weapon: Spellpower or Soulfrost

DISINCLINED TO BITE THE DUST

El'Ubris in Overdrive

One long, mournful toll sent a waking tremor through the small, scaled body of the whelpling, its pitifully tiny wings stretching their orange membranes as it raised its delicate head and peered about through green eyes dopey with sleep. Its batlike ears quivering as it took in the surrounding sounds of Redridge at night, the miniature dragonkin raised itself on its stubby legs and crawled to the edge of its niche in an outcropping of dun rock, gazing down at the waterline where black wavelets lapped lazily up the sloping beach.

A second peal rang out and the tiny creature hunkered down until only its snub nose, bright eyes and large ears were visible. Its rounded belly pressed against the rock almost uncomfortably; it was not used to hiding. Its tiny brain usually urged it to attack, attack regardless of the enemy, but this time something about the scene below pricked insistently at what little survival instinct it possessed and it lay low, curious, as the third toll boomed.

Down there stood a robed woman, her shoulders swathed in a dark cape. Although she was small, even fragile in frame, her head was raised, luminescent gaze aimed straight ahead, and her left hand hung easily at her side: casually, confidently. She looked like one of the humans that came out and hunted sometimes. She smelled like them too, when their throats had been torn and the blood had ceased to run. The whelpling wasn’t used to those ones moving.

The clock struck again and drowned out the first words of the man, the definitely human man who stood with fire in his hand and a dozen others at his back, even though he shouted.

“-away from our town, or we’ll kill you, wretch!”

Though the rest of the words reached the hidden observer they meant nothing to it. The expressions on the faces of the gaggle of humans were much like those of hunters though, of hunters who had accidentally cornered one of the bigger dragonkin and were now suffering those pangs of fear. Yes, the whelpling could smell that emotion too, in sweat and adrenaline, even over the rotten stench of the woman down below that only intensified when she replied in guttural notes, “A fine threat, master sentry, though I regret to inform you of my extreme doubt regarding your capacity to carry it out.”

As the fifth strike reverberated through the night the very darkness began to change, to thicken. It swirled around the woman, undulating and writhing like smoke in the air. It hurt to look at – no, it hurt to be near, pressure building up agonisingly around the whelpling’s miniscule brain. Pain lanced through its fragile temples, searing the backs of its eyes even as convulsions tore though its body, jerking it mercilessly like the callous hands of a bored puppeteer. It was too much, the pain was too much, and with a shriek the creature launched itself from its hiding place, soaring for a split second even as its scaly skin undulated from the muscle spasms beneath.

The woman looked up, eyes narrowed, and as the sixth chime echoed across the beach the tiny wyrm’s head exploded.

The mutilated body hit the lake with a splash and sank beneath the black water. Only a few bubbles rising to the surface marked its passing, yet the five humans who had come out here in defence of their town seemed unable to pull their gazes from the spot. Miriah Felicity Trias, mind mage of the Forsaken, allowed a malicious smirk to contort her thin, pale face. She had known all along that they were terrified of her, of course, but such damning evidence pleased her all the more. Now no frantic denial could veil the fact from their own weak little minds.

“Are you quite finished gawping?” she drawled as the last reverberations of the seventh clock strike faded, her white bone fingertips toying idly with the hilt of her dagger, “I haven’t all night to spare.”

Slowly five sets of eyes forced themselves back to her, the less resilient dropping to the ground as soon as they registered the tendrils of shadow wreathing their foe. Maintaining that idly wicked smile, Miriah brought the pinpoint of silver fire that marked the remains of her left eye to bear on them all while the right shifted to the silhouette of the clock tower, stark against the silvery moonlight. It struck again.

“W-we give you one last chance to run!” declared the foremost of the sentries, his face pale and sweat-streaked beneath his iron helm. She could see the perspiration glittering in the flickering light from his torch, which wavered unimpressively in his shaky grasp.

“Otherwise we’ll… we’ll have no choice but to kill you!” called another man, who winced as his voice broke and squeaked over the last two syllables.

Another booming toll made the more nervous humans start.

“I believe,” Miriah replied, the shadows darkening and intensifying over her body until her very flesh melted to translucent black, “I have already voiced my scepticism regarding your ability to murder me. As for retreat… it fails to meet the requirements of an acceptable course of action. For any of us, actually.”

A tenth ring.

“You agree with that, surely?”

“I’ll never agree with a monster!”

The hoarse cry came from the youngest of the group and heralded his lurch forwards from the ranks, a rusty spear clutched in his grip. Miriah leapt back as the dull grey blade swiped at her flank, so close she felt the breeze against her penumbral cheek. Undeterred, the youth bellowed senselessly, the spear slicing at his foe again and again only to be ducked and dodged and scoffed at. He was inexperienced, more used to raking the fields, Miriah perceived from the clumsy, awkward manoeuvring of his weapon. Each attack was easy to anticipate without even tapping into his thoughts.

There: the eleventh mournful cry.

Of course, he was not alone. This wasn’t quite going to plan. She’d wanted the leader to attack first, not some stupid little boy whose rash actions of course triggered the harried support of the others. His wild, sweeping strikes were all that kept the others from attacking her in force; as it was, only a blacksmith’s hammer and someone’s sword presented an immediate threat, lashing out at her whenever a gap in the boy’s stupid spear path presented itself. Darting back out of the way of the sword, she yelped despite herself as the heel of her boot caught on something hard protruding from the sand and flailed for balance, righting herself only to find the spear already on a path to her defenceless flank. With an angry snarl she lashed out with one bandage-bound hand and instantly a shell of protective magic surrounded her, deflecting the blade with a crash and a curse from its wielder.

“Fools!” she cried wildly, shaking from the near miss, and raised her right arm, fingers outstretched and wisps of shadow writhing around it.

The spearman momentarily halted, his fellows struck in vain at her shield. The clock struck twelve.

“Fools, the lot of you, for attempting to stop me on the witching hour!”

They didn’t even have time to cringe at the surge of horror the mention of their superstitions caused. With a cry, their leader tore into their backs with his blade, striking low at the bellies of those who flanked him. Shrieks of pain, horror and confusion did nothing to slow his assault as, shadow spewing from his eye sockets, the combat veteran reduced his motley little unit to moaning, gurgling casualties strewn out on the beach, bloodied and crippled and, in a few cases, dead.

“Glorious,” murmured Miriah huskily, releasing her grip over the man’s mind.

He jerked, eyes clearing, and looked about, first in confusion, then disbelief, then horror.

“Monster!” he cried, raising his sword and stabbing it accusingly in the Forsaken’s direction, “Depraved, disgusting, despicable-“

The allegations withered and died on his tongue as he saw the gore coating his blade, gleaming wetly in the moonlight. Miriah grinned widely as the colour drained from his face.

“Sir,” she hissed silkily, her shadow aura darkening as she reached out with her power and sank ethereal claws into his brain, “Your insults are directed in entirely the wrong direction…”

She dipped into his memories and he jerked, stiffening fleetingly as her essence dealt its corrupting blow.

“...After all,” she continued, smirking as the shadow withdrew, leaving self loathing in its wake, “Was it not your blade that struck your allies down? Was it not you who, in fear of the repercussions should they strike me, took violent measures to stop their silly, suicidal assault?”

The man stumbled back, his face even paler than that of his undead adversary. With a dull clang his sword dropped from his trembling fingers. Words failed him, catching in his throat and issuing as stuttering clicks finally muffled by the bile building in his throat at the building stench of gore and split bowels.

Eyes twinkling, Miriah raised a hand and waved a lazy dismissal in his direction, her tone mocking as she said, “Hurry off now, master human. I dare say you’ll need all the time you can get to clean yourself up for the gallows…”

That was all it took: tears of horror and desperate disbelief coursing over his cheeks, the man turned and ran, stumbling over his allies, so caught up in the nightmare she had spun that he was entirely oblivious to their grunts and groans. Crossing her arms, the Forsaken watched his fleeing form until he reached the bridge and the last remaining sentry, then murmured a single word under her breath, the desire to bring about one fate filling her mind, amplified by the shadow. Death.

She saw the distinctive arch of his spine, the throwing back of his head and the surprised gape of his mouth before he crumpled satisfactorily. As the other man leapt back she closed her eyes, reaching out until his thoughts rippled across her, so easy to read. Shock. Dread. Confusion. Most importantly, superstition. Perfect.

Drawing her dagger and slitting the throats of the fallen men, Miriah kept her consciousness pressed closely to that of the sentry, watching through his eyes as he raced home, terrified of midnight, and hid. She maintained that second sight in her mind’s eye as she proceeded boldly down the beach toward the bridge spanning the narrow neck of the lake, strong white stone set against the wooden slats of a cowering little man’s bed, until, certain that he was suitably immobilised with fear, she let herself make the step away from the relative safety of dirt and onto the manmade structure, a black phantom against that uncompromising white. With a slight sigh, she slipped out of the sentry’s consciousness, safe in the knowledge that he was out of commission. The town posed no threat now, and though the neutralising had taken a fair while to plan…

She thought back to the prejudiced, superstitious humans all piled in the mud.

…the act had been bloody well worth it.

Itching over imperfections

Having realised that there really is very little (if anything) I can do to improve Miriah's shadow set at the moment and am in a similar position in terms of skill, I respecced her holy. Handily it actually ties in with the RP plot I'm slowly working through at the moment, which is an unusual coincidence.

My holy set was always a mishmash of whatever drops I'd picked up on offspec rolls in dungeons and raid instances, quite heavy on mp5 because to me it was little more than a regeneration set for when I was grinding primals. I did heal occasionally and everything was gemmed with rares and enchanted with the best around, but I had fallen out of practise and picking up the slack there seemed like a grand idea.

Minor issues occurred.

Firstly, Mp5 isn't that great anymore, and with low spirit I was horribly gimped. I was also utterly broke, so replacing all my Royal Nightseye with Purified Shadow Pearl was not an option. Nevertheless, I had a good big amount of +heal and was decked out in enough epics and hallowed gear to apparently look vaguely convincing, so I leapt straight into heroic Sethekk Halls.

It was easy. I was nervous and obviously lacking experience so a lot of my pre-empted heals caused massive overheal and sometimes I panicked and spammed flash heal, but as the run went on I got used to my tank's mitigation effects and felt I was really getting into the groove. It sold me, and I decided that instead of continuing to save for the Scryer's Blade of Focus I needed for my shadow set, I would snag the Gown of Spiritual Wonder.

Hot damn, is that thing ugly. Thankfully the huge upgrade it provided has earned it my love, otherwise I'd still be keening every time I looked at it... Nevertheless, wearing it made me feel more confident simply because everyone knows it's a good robe so I continued to plow through heroics, tackling Steam Vaults, Magister's Terrace, Slave Pens, Mechanar, Botanica and Blood Furnace. It was a bloody instance spree that granted me Rod of the Blazing Light, an amazing boost to my spirit, but earned me very little in the way of cash... And that's where the problem really started.

I love my new upgrades. I really do. But running around with ungemmed and unenchanted gear makes my inner perfectionist not only cry but beat her head repeatedly against the nearest solid and preferably spiney objects. Yes, my stats are better. But what gear I have isn't as perfect as it should be. I look at my own gear and scoff because hell, that person hasn't made the effort, have they? No gems? No enchants on chest and weaponry? Pfft. That's just plain slacking.

To be honest, I dare say other people who see the empty gem slots think the same. It's harder to respect someone who's a great player but hasn't maxed out what gear they've thus far managed to grab, just like it's harder to respect that damage dealer who just came along in full PvP wellfare epix. Yeah, they must have put in effort to gather that gear together, but they haven't worked to fine-tune their items. It seems sloppy. It doesn't give a good impression like glancing at your halfway-to-Kara-ready tank and noticing they're socketed out with Solid Stars of Elune, sporting Nethercleft Leg Armour and come complete with a mark macro. And hence it's really, really irking me.

As such, if anyone on Scarshield Legion happens to catch sight of a Forsaken priestess in her mouldy healing robes frantically casting smite on elves on the Isle of Dailycraft, a supportive cheer would be very much appreciated. I will have those gems!

Carebears

So Sevielle is still stuck on a normal server, which means my ever present PvP flag tends to earn me a lot of blue attacks. It's certainly teaching me how to play a rogue caught out of stealth fairly well, but I have to admit it's pretty annoying when I see that level seventy undead that ganked me earlier running near a cliff and find I cannot distract him off the edge because his flag timed out.

Anyway, though mechanics thwart me at every turn, my RP character is a religiously war-seeking, xenophobic night elf who will attack any and every Horde character on sight. So when I find a trail of lowbie bodies leading into Goldshire as I'm heading out to the lake to meet a friend and a level 52 blood elf paladin comes racing out of the inn with guards in hot pursuit I immediately intercept and murder him. I would have done this, in fact, with every character except my total pacifists or perhaps Isolde, who might run along with him trying to start a conversation, before eventually tiring and lopping his head off. He was in Alliance territory. That makes him fair game on all accounts.

So I get a bit confused when a level seventy mage runs out after him and berates me for it through whisper.

"...Killing a level 52..."

"He was in Alliance lands. That makes him fair prey."

"He was level 52. That's a lot weaker than you. There's no honour in that."

"So there was in butchering our lowbies?"

"He was just sitting in the inn..."

"The trail of bodies says otherwise."

"You're just a bully..."

And this goes on until she finally comes up with "You should let level 65 guards deal with level 52 players." Because it is very benevolent to grant someone durability damage. >.>

She seemed to be under the impression that because this guy spent some time sitting in the inn emoting with her it was wrong of me to kill him, which is frankly a load of bollocks. I was just arriving as he was fleeing the scene, there were bodies everywhere, I hadn't seen the RP and frankly... just because your character has no faction pride and tolerates one of the enemy entering your town doesn't mean mine will. In fact, she'd probably kill him and then tell you what a worthless loser you are.

So please. Quit the lecturing and accept that RP does not necessarily equate to senseless pacifism.

~Irritable RPPvPer

RESTRAINT

El'Ubris in Overdrive

The last tormented wails echoed against the dank, dark walls of the Apothecarion of Undercity, replaced by a plaintive, pained hissing and the occasional clink of metal upon metal as pallid flesh strained against inhumane restraints. Deep within the stone bastion of the Banshee Queen, a lone golden eye rolled in the sunken hollow of its socket, and the husk of Miriah El’Ubris slumped against the harsh grey wall of her prison, her breath rattling in her thin chest. The black robes that had identified her for months, once swamping her slight form but recently replaced with a tailored duplicate, hung in ragged, torn disarray around her, the pale blue embroidery plucked at by bony fingers until, filthy, it barely stood out at all from the sullied skirts. Thick, semi-coagulated blood seeped from a deep wound in her back; already her black and gold tabard was sodden with it, and the slimy granite bore streaks of the rusty red as far as the manacles clamping her thin wrists would allow.

Pain wracked her sickly body, pain and hunger that ravaged her innards. Her last meal, semi-digested, congealed on the cold floor nearby, leaving her empty and ravenous. Desperately, mindlessly, she tugged again at her chains, blood oozing over the crude manacles and trickling down the links. She could hear them as they stirred beyond the charmed door that contained her. Apothecaries, tinkering with their oils, plagues and potions, the slosh and bubble of liquid occasionally pausing from one of the four – as she was certain there were four now: their shapes shifted and squabbled in her mind’s eye as precious sources of nutrition – as he stopped to listen to her own anguished struggles. The fact that they were Forsaken, the same race as she, was lost on the priestess. Names, races and identities trickled together and blended into muddy colours and indefinite forms within her mind, each and every one observed through the eyes of blind instinct alone.

Right now, the prevailing instinct was hunger, and she wrestled with her bonds until the fire of torn flesh and bared bone reduced her to tossing on the ground, splattering herself with dirt and blood. Lying on her back, she shifted in a futile attempt at reducing the weight on her raw wrists, and scowled in blank, bestial irritation at being denied the taste of her prey. Spread out and vulnerable, colour and loud, wordless sound flowed over her in the form of memory. She winced at its presence, curling up and releasing a guttural growl from the back of her throat as the nagging feeling of missing something began to unfurl around her once again.

She cried, briefly. While she was too stunted and dumb to understand what she had lost, the sheer magnitude of having it wrenched from her submerged all else, drowning her in ailing sobs that shook her fragile ribcage until, lacking words to record the feeling, she felt it slowly drain away.

Sitting on her haunches, she lapped up her tears. She was hungry again.