In light of her run-in with that odious, terrible, frustrating the Death Knight and the Tauren, Nehaalista had chosen to retreat to the sensoriums. While it still baffled her a bit, it was there she could call up Tuurem, as she'd known it, before the Horde, before her own training had led her family to the city.

It was a little collection of small homes and buildings (small as compared to a Draenei, anyway), along the river. Villagers she remembered, now long, long dead, bustled here and there, attending to business that had never concerned Nehaalista. Huntsmen and bakers, blacksmiths and fishwives, all protected by the peacekeepers that patrolled the town in twos. The sound of hooves were everywhere. Somewhere in the distance, an elekk trumpeted as it came down the road. The light in Terrokar was blue as ever, thanks to the olemba trees filtration.

Nehaalista sat next to the riverbank and watched workers setting up tents for a festival of one kind or another. She smoothed a hand over the skirt of her robe and nibbled at some bread. She passed it over to the little Draenei boy next to her and signed, [Eat, Faram.] The words appeared over her head as she signed them. It was good to hear her mothertongue spoken in such volume again, coming over the buildings and rooftops in half-muttered curses and well-meaning joking.