Silverwing Hold was obviously of elven creation. The floor was composed of one great, pale marble slab, run through with numerous cracks and crevices that were the homes of moss, grassy tufts and small, curling vines that clung to whatever was nearest to them. Upon each wall was a beautiful, rich purple tapestry of silk with a golden tree embroidered in the centre. Golden, metal "leaves" so thin they fluttered with the silk were sewn to the bottom of the tapestries. At every corner within the hold there was a pinkish-tinged wooded beam so powerful, it was free of rot or decay despite years of rain and mist. As was elven tradition, there was no roof to the structure, and rain flowed freely in sheets that crashed upon the stone, rendering it treacherously slippery. Wispy veins of red blood crisscr0ssed along the sheet of water coating the floor as the warriors of Warsong Gulch battled ferociously for Ashenvale.
Crouched down in a corner, Kynnyin the elf stood, her white fur plastered to her skin and her hackles raised, causing her body to look disproportioned and slightly comical due to the slimness the water brought on and the enlargement of the hairs that stood on end. Her paws were bathed in blood, as was a long stripe down her flank and half of her face from biting at one of her many foes. The warm, salty liquid lingered slightly in her mouth, tasting slightly less revolting and actually a bit pleasant in smaller amounts. Her glowing eyes flickered from ally to enemy and back again, before finally she chose her target and darted out at them, lashing forwards with her claws outstretched and fangs bared.
The muscles in her haunches rippled as she dodged and swerved, dashed and attacked. Her lips curled as feral instinct took over, and she moved like a ghost, darting about with inhuman speed and prowess, her mind fleeing to the primal, savage, cunning part of her that drove every move, every thought, every action.
A sharp pain suddenly pierced her side as she was battling a ferocious orc, and she screamed with pain through her long, sharp fangs. Wheeling around with a rear-end kick, she launched forwards, thigh muscles writhing under their coat of skin, fur and blood. She flew five feet away from her previous opponent (Who was swarmed suddenly by her allies, who began to far outnumber the Horde) before landing upon the chest of a spell-caster so heavily cloaked, she could not tell what race he was from, only that the Horde's symbol was etched into his jewelry and the thick, white-gold clasps that adorned his robes.
Digging her claws into the chest of the mage (Whom, by his height and stature, she guessed might have been a troll) and ignoring his cries of pain, she drew her hind legs up and dragged her rear paws down his front, raking his belly with her claws. He gasped and gurgled, blood bubbling in his mouth, yet was unable to cast a spell in the intensity of his emotions. Finally, with an anguished expression that told the druidic elf he was ready to end the pain, he stopped defending his vitals and lay still so that she could bite his throat, tearing out his windpipe and feeling the slippery, bloody flesh slide along her muzzle.
And suddenly, the world was silent but for the high keening of a priest who'd lost a dear friend in the frenzied, aggressive battle. Gore befouled the pristine beauty of the marble floors, and the blood was so great in amount that the sheets of rain had yet to wash it away. Suddenly sickened by the number of atrocious deaths she'd caused, Kynnyin shifted back into her birth form before retching several times, her arms crossed and pressed into her stomach with such force she could barely breathe.
Comfortingly, a hand was placed upon her shoulder. "Heal your wounds, druid. We need you fit to defend Ashenvale, else all will be lost."
With a silent nod, the pale-faced elf did as she was told, passing her hands over her sores. She'd only suffered four injures, one of which was hardly sufficient enough to be called a bruise. Normally, she would've been proud of her skill. But today, nothing seemed cheerful, not with her leather garb soaked through with rain and her skin covered in cold-induced chill bumps.
Not with her family dead.
Ever since Kynnyin's father, Amerior, had hit her youngest sister across the face about a month before the battle in Northrend, the druid had regretted her unfriendliness towards her siblings and how she hardly knew who they were. When Mother died after giving birth to Kynnolia, Amerior had turned his unconditional love to his druidic daughter, as well as complete ignorance towards his other two children, and Kynnyin had reveled in his affection and pride, becoming arrogant and aloof. Now, three years after Amerior, Kynnsaythe and Kynnolia had died, the powerful elven woman was still greif-stricken, and she blamed herself with the horrible way she'd treated her only family.
"Kynnyin," a harsh voice commanded, "Make use of your skill. Take a steed from the stables outside and ride to the Horde's base, then slip into the shadows and attack from behind. We hear the captain of the Horde warriors brought to Warsong Gulch is alone save for one or two guards, and you are the most able-bodied of us in our current state."
The grieving woman raised her pale face to the human's who lead her and her allies, then, after a long moment, gave him a quick, curt nod.
Without waiting for his reply, Kynnyin leapt to her feet and ran out of Silverwing Hold's belly, through the long, worn tunnel and out the gates. There, tethered to a post of the same pink-tinged wood of every tree in Ashenvale, was a huge, lightly-armored and heavily muscled cat, about the size of two horses and with fangs two feet long. The beast's shaggy paws were the width of dinner plates, and its eyes burned like golden orbs under a furry, silvery-gray brow that was topped with two massive, tufted ears. The elf smiled, regretting the loss of speed a good war horse might've given yet grateful for the additional defense the Nightsaber provided.
With a grunt, the druid heaved herself into the warm leather saddle and gently touched the gargantuan panther upon his thickly muscled shoulder with the tips of her fingers. Trained expertly to respond at even the lightest of touches, the beast moved forwards and fell into a steady run, causing Kynnyin to crouch down and rock back and forth in the stirrups to avoid being jostled by the bunching motion of the Nightsaber's lean body, as cats, dogs and such move not with just legs, but with the whole of their bodies.
As she rain, the cries of war and pain, death and victory, glory and defeat rang across the valley, mixing and merging in sickeningly fascinating ways, producing a melancholy melody that thrummed in weight and passion, whispering through every inch of the Gulch to form a horrible, misery-inducing song of war. Thus the name, Warsong Gulch.