Barrow Fields a victim of love rather than hate

‘your head is weird,’ the young child claimed in a matter-of-fact tone. illidan could not help the ghostly smirk that creased his dark lips. as sullen as he was, there was something grounding about having a complete stranger tell you that you looked weird. it did not offend him in any way, but it certainly cast a warm sensation of amusement that seemed to butterfly in his stomach before being set free by the rest of what the pup had to say.
 
he was right; illidan was an oddity, just as his mother was. the ghost had never happened upon anyone else who carried the same coloration pattern as they did. while it was a unique thing, he wasn’t certain that it was worth celebrating or condemning. it was just how they were. there were plenty of other things that made him weird, after all.
 
“you’re right. you know, my mother looks the same way that i do. sometimes it’s okay to be different from others. sometimes, you can’t always help it,” illidan remarked to the shadow of a youth. then, the hawkish gaze of the wildling latched onto the youthful features of the boy across from him. “i have a friend who looks even stranger than i do. she’s red with a creamy shape on her forehead and a coat that looks nothing like i’ve ever seen before. are all the wolves in your pack like you?”