The killer settled on his haunches beside his prey, one gloved hand snaking out to stroke the once beautiful now ruined face, the other sliding under his coat to silently unsheathe a thin-bladed knife. It was one of the first things he had learned under the Master; you can never have too many blades, and he was a keen adherent, his body decorated with a variety of knives and daggers, each different in purpose and design, all strapped tightly to his looming frame, so as to rest quietly as a leather glove as he moved.
He did not want to linger here too long. Too much delay and someone, maybe just some beggar or street urchin, but –someone- would spy him or the body and that could lead to complications that he could not well afford. But the boy was unique and the killer could not help but tarry and gaze upon his prize.
He had first spotted the young bravo strutting through the Trade District, shoulders flung back, a cocky grin on his handsome, monstrous face as he shoved past glowering townsfolk and the middling wealthy. The killer could instantly see he was a fighter, a roguish popinjay whose only way to make a name for himself was in futile duels over half-imagined insults – the nights of Stormwind were littered with poverty stricken, parentless youths like him, running in feral gangs, going no where with their purposeless lives (the killer could bring him purpose). The bravo's hand rested casually on the hilt of a poorly made yet well maintained dueling saber and his brightly coloured rags fluttered in the brisk breeze. Many eyes had followed him as he walked.
The killer stalked him for two days. He was adept at the art of becoming invisible in plain sight – his features and demenour encouraging disinterest, his large, muscular body made slight and unimposing by ill-fitting clothes and deferent posture. The shadows hid him and apathy masked him – and he watched.
He learned that the boy's name was Uther – whether a mocking tribute to the great man, or some matron's wishful hope that the boy would grow to emulate the Lightbringer, the killer did not know nor care, and Uther disdained his name, preferring to be hailed as Cutter (his stalker had allowed himself a wry grin upon hearing that for the first time). He learned as he had suspected (known) that Cutter was an orphan, brought up in the shadow of the holy Cathedral, and like so many of his kind, lost to the streets before even his voice had a chance to break. He learned that the boy was more than a canny brawler and duelist, winning more than he lost and only twice being beaten so badly that he had to be dragged to some drunken backstreet healer. He was also an experienced lover for his age, his looks making him an exciting rebellion for young debutants and a delicious treat for the wealthy of both genders.
All this and more the killer learned, but it was he had known as soon as he had looked at the boy that had lead him to choose Cutter; the boy's rare heritage.
Half-orcs and half-elves were strewn throughout the kingdom, squat and beastly or willowy and brittle, the former caused repulsion in most and the latter the vague distrust afforded elves. Much more uncommon was an elf-orc crossbreed, almost exclusively the result of a violent union, but in Cutter the two bloodlines had come together beautifully into a matchless physiology. The habitual hunch of the orc straightened into the tall posture of the elf, the broad, powerful shoulders, wrapped in muscle tapering into a narrow, sculpted waist. The thick, corded arms leading to large hands with long, graceful fingers. Certainly, the arms seemed a little too long, and the greenish cast of his skin was off-putting to some, but his face was a perfect marriage of the two races, the feral power of the orcs tempered by the ethereal refinement of the elves (and the killer's thoughts flashed inescapably to the features of the Master) – eyes with a hint of an inner, blue luminescence. Yes, Cutter was, for all his devastating poverty, one of the more fortunate of the half-breeds that muddied their way through the city's underbelly. The half-orcs and half-trolls (and worse), at best, if they were not too noticeably twisted by their parentage, were rudely ignored, and at worst, for those with jutting tusks and the wrong coloured skin, or too few fingers, were preyed upon.
Two nights and days the killer hunted his victim, taking his measure, before at last, in a secluded alley, he had stepped forth from the shadows and hailed Cutter, choosing those insults that he knew would anger the young man to violence;
'Motherless son of a orc'
'Yer muther took one look at yer and tossed yer inna canal din' she?'
'Greenskin, animal brain. S'all you are'
'Not even half a man'
The fight was quick and violent. Cutter had come at the killer with the oddly honourable code of the street bravo, wanting to lay on nothing more than a beating on the apparently unarmed man, and he had kept his saber sheathed, fists raised into a brawler's stance. He had fought well, utilizing his abnaturally long reach and twinning his prodigal orcish strength well with his inhuman elven grace, punches flashing in the dim light. But he was a fighting looking to fight, and he faced a killer, who was looking to kill. The bald-headed man stepped into the young bravo's reach, and, shrugging off the youngster's powerful hits, launched a series of devastating blows to his body, his bulging muscles belying his frightening speed. Cutter tried to defend himself valiantly, but his nose was crushed against a leather-clad knee, but when his assailant began to work his punches across his face, the realization dawned on Cutter that his night would not end with him drinking some dubious healing potion and hoping to find a priest with a pinch of faith. It would end with him dead.
That's when he began to keen mournfully.
He was silenced with an inevitably grip around his throat, the arms implacable rods of steel, and Cutter looked up into the face of his killer and saw, as his vision tunneled, a flicker of...compassion? Selfless joy?
Then the painless embrace of darkness.
The killer broke from his reverie, his bruises and bleeds paining him in the awkward position. He had waited almost too long. He swiftly brought the knife to the body and worked some careful, long practiced movements. In a short moment he was done, and he flicked the waste into the detritus stuffing the alley. He stood, admiring his handiwork, elation beginning to fill his body, spreading from his bloodied knuckles, the gloves wet with Cutter's blood.
He grinned, turned, and vanished into the night, his departure from the scene unseen by anyone but the vermin that plagued men everywhere.
He had done good work this night. Cutter, Uther, had been a worthy warrior, a brave young fighter, but now he had become something more –
He had become an offering.