Originally written for the Strifehart Kink Meme, back before Worgen became an official Alliance class in World of Warcraft.
Prompt: "Leon as a hunter (with his pet lion, obviously) and Cloud as whatever class seems appropriate. One's questing (killing enemies for a particular item maybe?) the other happens across them, helps them with their quest and with night falling, they make camp for the night."
A/N: I probably should have said this right away, but I don't play World of Warcraft; the closest experience I have is Warcraft III (that said, the fact that Orcs and Undead - Forsaken, sure, but still Undead - are on the same team just confuses me). All my information was taken from the WOW wiki along with the ongoing World of Warcraft graphic novel series (plus Ashbringer). Errors on my part would be a result of my obvious inexperience and writer's embellishment.
There was something distinctly morbid about skinning a worgen. The beast was very much like a wolf or its large cousin the worg, with a good pelt of colors just as variant. Their bodies were covered in coarse fur ranging from a light blue gray to a near-black hue, depending on the environment they blended into. They were tougher adversaries than some of their canine lookalikes, but merchants were always willing to pay for their pelts by the armful.
What bothered him, truthfully, was that the worgen were also very much like humans. As often as he witnessed the fearsome beasts tear his fellow warriors limb from limb, not once had he seen them eat the bodies afterward. There were times when they seemed conflicted over their kills, and at such times he was certain they were actually intelligent, maybe even sentient.
That line of thought followed him as he methodically separated a Nightbane Shadow Weaver's dark navy-gray hide from its body. Morbid, distasteful and really unnecessary for his quest, he asserted, but at least it kept his mind focused on his task, distracting him from less pleasant thoughts that lingered like shadow wraiths beneath the surface.
Ever unblinking, the worgen's yellow eyes remained open in death, as though watching him from beyond the grave, as though at any second the skinless corpse would reanimate and reclaim its pelt like something out of a necromancer's bad day. The theme of horror suited that idea very well; Brightwood Grove was so very immersed in dark shadow and infested with the undead. When another strange, warbled moan accompanied by the rattle of loosely hanging bones, his knife remained steady in his hand. With one final slice, the pelt came free, and he released the shaky breath he was holding.
"One down," he murmured aloud to himself and his spooky environment, "five more to go."
Cupped in his hands, the worgen's head with its beady yellows seemed to be judging him, taunting his worth, quite confident in his cowardice and ineptitude for the job. He met its stare for a moment, then quickly looked away before cramming the pelt into his backpack. He put his knife away, and in its place picked up his bow and quiver. Counting his arrows, he made a mental note to restock once he was done here. His usually lethal ammunition seemed flimsy and wasted on the tenacious beasts – he wasn't even sure if his current stock would last him through two more, never mind five, and he wasn't keen on switching to melee. While an axe was more intimidating than a bow, at least the bow gave him a better chance of survival.
Any time he had left to ponder on his options was cut short by a savage snarling that sounded a little too close for comfort. The hunter swallowed carefully and pulled an arrow. He concentrated on the anxious chill in his gut and used it to keep him sharp. It was almost the first lesson he had ever been taught: to use his fear. It was his alarm system. He had to heed it, and realize the adrenaline was getting him ready to run faster, fight harder, and notice only the things he needed to stay alive. And the first thing he noticed was a brief glimpse of white. Before he could follow it, the snarl got louder somewhere to the opposite side.
He turned in time to miss being tackled by his second Shadow Weaver. And in just that moment of recognizing the creature's presence, the fear that kept him going slammed into him with a fiercer fervor, intent on winding him, paralyzing him.
Never mind that he had a freshly skinned pelt in his pack, Leon realized numbly that he had already forgotten how big a worgen looked to him, especially within the dark gloomy, ironically named grove. It did not matter that he was a little shorter than average among his own people; an upright worgen towered over most sentient races – save the Tauren; no one was taller than a Tauren – and to see a worgen upright was the last thing to see before it struck with deadly accuracy.
Barely illuminated by the pale glow of fireflies, two orbs of sickly yellow were almost at his eye-level; still on all fours, the Shadow Weaver had not truly needed the higher ground for any advantage over him.
As the worgen snarled again in a ferocious display, Leon could see its fangs were off-white from its constant exposure to blood of near every species that came through the area. His nostrils flared at the rancid odor of its breath: an assortment of stenches like rotting meat, plague taint, and dark magic. If getting bit by a worgen wasn't bad enough, such bites more often than not got infected, got serious, and then got lethal. It was one of those experiences he definitely preferred hearing of over living through. As much as he hoped to keep it that way, luck was just not on his side.
The worgen was too close to him; it was close enough to attack him. He needed to get out of its range, and as quickly as possible; it made the realization of his exhausted state hurt a lot more than it should. He started to retreat, the beast closing the gap just as quickly, and started to nock the arrow in his hand.
The worgen rose to stand upright on its feet, gaining twice its height and a little more with that one move – and as he started to pull, he knew he was not going to make it. He felt something beyond fear – an odd sense of calm – as he became fully aware that he was about to fail, but his hands continued to move steadily. Even so, the bow was not even halfway up and already those powerful jaws were closing in on his throat.
And that was when he saw white again, and his ears shivered at the rumble of a second angry snarl. In a bright silver blur, a second force of equal speed flew at the Shadow Weaver from its right side. As it connected with a furry neck, Leon saw fangs that were digging in, puncturing arteries as surely as they ground at bone. He heard a strange yelp – a sound that was both animal and human – as the Shadow Weaver was thrown by this second force and sent crashing into a nearby tree. The hunter was almost surprised that the tree did not fall, but his attention remained on the two figures that were now hunched at its base.
It was another worgen that had, with such close timing, saved his life. It seemed smaller than the adversary it was keeping locked in its jaws, but there was a faint aura of strength radiating from its form as it held on tightly to the stunned Shadow Weaver. Two clawed hands that were a little too big for its slight frame pressed down, one over the dark blue-gray head and the other between the shoulder blades.
He could see a faint shiver running down its back – the smaller worgen actually trembling with effort – as it continued to tighten its hold, biting down harder and harder. He heard choking, rasping, a pitifully terrified squealing as the predator-turned-prey realized what was about to happen. Again Leon found himself wondering about the worgen's sentience, about the possibility that such a terrifying beast could beg for mercy.
And then, with a sickening "crack", the squealing was abruptly silenced. The stranglehold broke apart with a struggled exhalation of breath, and the huge form flopped limply to the earth. Both hunter and beast watched, waiting. It seemed that at any moment the monster would simply pick itself up, shake itself off, and renew its assault.
It never happened, and the thick smell of blood from freshly torn arteries reached Leon's nose. As hard as it was to believe, the creature that so nearly killed him was indeed very much dead at the foot of a tree. Standing over it, the new worgen was shivering more obviously now, each pant heavy as it regained its breath.
In that moment, with death so narrowly averted, Leon took a closer look as his unlikely savior sat awkwardly on its haunches.
The worgen wasn't actually smaller, he realized, but it was a great deal scrawnier. While, at least, it wasn't a bag of skin and bones, it was still painfully thin, as though it had been fighting for every meal against the rest of its brethren, and losing more often than winning. While the two Shadow Weavers he saw prior had been simply covered with loincloth and sported gauntlets, this worgen's arms were bare, its body instead clothed with a threadbare shirt and torn slacks streaked with mud.
There was no question that it wasn't part of the resident pack – if coloring was any form of judgment, it wasn't even one of the Nightbane. Every inch of fur was snowy white, causing it to stand out like a sore thumb in the darkness. It made this worgen appear more doglike than the others, and in consequence less evil, less like a monster.
He was fully aware that he was relating a reasonably dangerous creature to something far less dangerous, even tamable. He couldn't help it – he was not alone in this dark place. He had company. Such a notion was too comforting to dismiss.
The worgen turned its head to look at him, and he noticed that its eyes were pale blue. Even so, the weight of its gaze was heavy, intimidating. He remembered something said about never looking a dog or a wolf in the eye – that such an act was perceived as a challenge, but he could not look away. It was a good thing he didn't. He could see the spark of intelligence within glowing blue orbs – something that he could relate to, could have an affinity for.
But beneath the surface, quivering and writhing as it grew, was the shadow of madness. Whatever had kept this worgen from attacking him, it was not going to hang around for much longer. Swallowing again, Leon flexed his fingers, feeling again the familiar curve of his bow, only just noticing the ache of his fingers where his partially taut string was starting to cut into his fingers.
The worgen had lost interest in him and turned away again for a moment, but at the sudden creak of bending wood it turned back to him sharply, its lip curled in a warning snarl. Impulsively, not really aware of the consequences for what he was doing, Leon promptly lowered the bow, the arrow pointed at the ground. At once the worgen quieted again, this time with a slight cock of his head to the side. Despite such a docile act, the hunter could see the spark was dimming, the worgen starting to return to its original feral state.
The worgen growled again, and this time it was focused on him, watching all that he did, waiting for something – anything – to set it off. Then, slowly, it retreated backwards on all fours, slipping back into the darkness.
The wind shifted, and the hunter was alone again. He was wiser this time to not leave go of his weapon, but he returned the arrow to rest amongst the others. He looked around, hoping for one final glimpse of the strange worgen. At first, he was certain he had lost sight of it – that it was far away.
Then he caught another glimpse of white amidst the shadows, disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared. This time, he knew better; the knowledge that he had an unexpected ally – unpredictable as it was – amidst the darkness was reassuring. He reached into his pack, and dug around it until he found the haunch of meat he had packed for the trip. He set it on the ground and stepped back.
"Thank you," he spoke, giving his offering a little more significance. It seemed like the right thing to do. There was no answer for Leon to take notice of, so he turned and walked away. A few steps into it, he heard the rustling of leaves from a nearby bush, and then a soft gnawing of flesh and gristle.
He did not see white again, but as he continued on his way through Brightwood Grove, Leon could not shake the feeling that he was being followed.
The white worgen was still behind him when he finally settled down to rest. The creature curled up to lick at its claws, and Leon continued to hold onto his bow. Every time he reached for his pack, his fingers brushing close to his quiver and his arrows, the worgen would snarl at him until his hand moved away again. Breathing uneasily, he called to his pet. It took a little too long for his comfort before it answered him.
Black fur against the dark night, Humar was hard to spot right away. But the big lion was a comforting presence beside him, promising security to let him lower his guard for just a little while, just enough to replenish his strength. The cat saw the white worgen as well, and the wise beast did not growl or attack. It only watched, its tail moving back and forth in lazy sweeps against the grass. The worgen eyed the lion, motionless where it had curled up.
Humar lay down by Leon's leg, placing itself between its master and the currently dormant danger. Assured, Leon closed his eyes and relaxed fully against a tree. Before he drifted off, he thought he could hear Humar purring. And, just within his earshot, he could hear the soft breathing of something else.
Leon slept uneasily and awoke some two hours later. It was still too dark to tell, but he guessed it was past sunrise – at least, somewhere else besides Duskwood where there was still sunlight. He turned to his side, his hand reaching out to stroke Humar's warm back.
When his fingers landed instead on cold earth, he sat upright and grabbed the bow by his side. He turned sharply, looking in every direction, searching for a patch of moving black … or even white.
Humar lay about twenty feet away from him. When he got to his feet, the big cat opened its eyes and flicked its tail, assuring him that not only was it alright, they were both safe. There was no danger here. Leon calmed, then closed the gap between them. As he got closer, he realized he could see something curled up next to his lion. Even in the darkness, he could make out a hand – fingers – that were fully formed, not decayed or atrophied. Not a corpse. Not one of the Undead. He finally stood over the cat, and Humar flicked its tail again in greeting; apart from that, it remained still.
And clinging to its fur was a boy, probably no older than fifteen. He could not see his face, what with unkempt blond hair blocking his view. Peeking from behind long strands, he could still see ears that ended in tapered points – neither low and long like a Night elf's, nor high and thin like a Blood elf's. Just somewhere in between. On one of his scrawny arms – hanging from his wrist – was a worn leather strap, the only thing on his body of ill-fitting clothes that did not look like it would fall apart. As Leon appraised the condition of his torn, muddy clothes, he realized he recognized those clothes.
The white worgen was human. It did not seem possible. He had heard tales that they were monsters that came from another place, much like how the orcs once had. They were feral beasts, monsters. He had fought them, killed them. He had skinned them. Men were encouraging him – paying him – to wipe them out.
And one of them was a human youth nuzzled against the side of a lion as big as him, trying to stay out of the cold. Something was not adding up …
Suddenly Humar raised its head, growling low and deep in its throat. Leon looked up, following its direction, and there he saw them: creatures that rattled and groaned, their bones barely held together by threads of rotting flesh. They were still out of immediate attack range, but they were slowly, steadily closing in.
Immediately Leon's hand went for his quiver. Two arrows let fly, grazing the ground by the foot of one, nicking atrophied skin off the back of another. The creatures gurgled, turned and skulked away, out of his range. But as he watched, they boldly turned back and tried again. Two more arrows flew, sending them retreating again only to come back once more.
"Go on, get out of here!" he snapped, loosing arrow after arrow at the stalking undead, "leave him!"
Leon was down to his last three before the predators finally gave up and left without turning back. Only then did the hunter realize the spot he had put himself in; he no longer had enough ammo to defend himself, in case anything else decided to come after him.
"Serves me right," he grumbled. "I come here wolf hunting, then I waste everything because of one …"
He looked down again, then carefully knelt by the boy. The youth had not stirred throughout what had happened, though Leon was certain those fistfuls of Humar's fur were tighter now than before. Humar did not seem to mind, and lowered its massive head to gently nuzzle at the top of the boy's in reassurance. Leon could hear it purring again. Then, carefully, he set his bow down and reached forward. Humar did not stop purring, but the cat watched him, its gaze like a trusting parent making sure nothing would go wrong.
Leon's large hand rested on top of the boy's head, and his long fingers slowly moved down the length of his blond hair, reaching his neck before lifting and repeating. He continued to stroke through hair, listening and watching. The boy was trembling under his touch, but he did not pull away or wake up. Slowly, ever so slowly, his grip on Humar started to relax. Leon looked again at the bracelet on his wrist, and reached for it. Humar rumbled at him.
"I'm not hurting him," he complained. "I just want to confirm something."
When he took the boy's hand in his, fingers curled reflexively before stilling again. Finding the broad surface, Leon ran his thumb over it, searching … Sure enough, he found what he was looking for: someone had etched marks into the leather; letters. None that he recognized.
"… Elven," Leon guessed. "Well, that's great." Slipping the band free and returning the hand to Humar's back, Leon petted the boy's hair a final time and got to his feet. "Stay with him, kitten," he ordered Humar. "I'm coming right back."
It was moments later when he tromped back up the pathway toward Darkshire. The small village was still seeing visitors, still seeing adventurers from the Alliance coming and going, seeking out quests or simply just checking things out. By the side of the road, the soldier that assigned him his task was waiting, and greeted him as he approached.
"Ah, Leonhart. How fares the hunt?" And when Leon handed over his proof, the man beamed. "Impressive work, young man. It would seem that you are capable enough to handle yourself. Perhaps a more suitable challenge could be found for one of your abilities."
"Yeah?" Leon asked, already pocketing his reward, "maybe later, Calor. Listen, there is something I'd like you to do for me."
The soldier hummed in question, but his face lit up with interest when Leon handed over the leather band. "I'm no good with Elven writing," Leon explained. "Any idea what this says?"
Taking the band, Calor held it up to the light, then scratched his chin thoughtfully. "It's not the Night elf's tongue, that's certain," he finally said. "My grasp on the High elf's is relatively weak, though."
"Don't you mean Blood elf?"
"No, I mean High elf. First generation Blood elves were originally High elven survivors of the Scourge," Calor explained. Then, studying the etching again, he concluded, "don't take my word for it, but I think this might say something close to 'sky'. Or maybe it's 'cloud'."
"Cloud, huh?" And Leon held up his hand to take the band back. "I can live with that, thanks."
"You want a better translation, you should take this back where it came from and ask there," the soldier went on, returning the article. "Leather of this quality comes from Pyrewood Village. Can't miss it – it's within the Silverpine Forest, just north of King's road."
Taking in the information, Leon suddenly had a thought he needed confirmation on: "What are the chances of a half elf coming from there?"
This time, Calor shrugged. "The Blood elves used to defend that village back while fighting the Scourge, so who knows, really? It could happen, might happen, maybe not happen at all. Elves were pretty prejudiced back then, just so you know."
But there is still that chance, Leon realized. Muttering a last word of thanks, he pocketed the leather band and headed back down the road, back toward Duskwood. He did not know how much longer it would take before the boy woke up, and he was not comfortable with the idea of leaving him and Humar alone anymore than necessary.
Neither was he prepared to find Humar sitting at the edge of the woods, waiting for him. Cursing, the hunter closed the distance between them and glared reproachfully down at the cat. "Didn't I tell you to stay with the kid?" he accused. "Where is he?"
Something growled at his right ear, sending a puff of warm air into it and raising the hairs at his neck. Turning, he found himself nose to nose with the white worgen. Startled, he fell on his rump upon the pavement, all the while never taking his eyes off the tall beast that had been a scrawny kid the last time he was seen. Before him, the worgen crouched onto all fours, sniffing at him like an inquisitive dog. This up close, Leon could see into his glowing blue eyes all the more clearly.
The madness had diminished. It was still there, certainly, but it was kept at bay by something else. That intelligent youngster trapped in a wolf monster's body seemed to understand, seemed to know that Leon was not a threat. He wondered, even, if the boy had known about the ghouls, had known what Leon had done for him.
Just as Leon was wondering how he was going to get a white worgen out of worgen hunting grounds, two fellow members of the Alliance strolled by. The worgen glared at them and snarled. Neither so much as flinched.
"Dude!" the rogue called to Leon. "Nice Garwal!"
"Shut up, man," the paladin rebutted. "He's gonna lose that thing before Cataclysm comes out of beta."
Vaguely confused, Leon waved after the departing pair and watched them stroll into the depths of Duskwood. Beside him, the worgen growled to regain his attention. Swallowing carefully, Leon turned back to him.
"… Steady, boy …" the hunter murmured, raising a closed fist for the worgen's inspection. The worgen flattened his ears and groaned, but eventually tipped his head in submission. He did not protest when Leon opened the hand and placed it over his snout.
"Okay, Cloud …" Leon spoke quietly, testing the probable name on his tongue. The worgen did not object. "Okay …"
Whining softly, Cloud pushed into the hunter's palm. Leon felt something warm and scaly against his skin; it was not the cool, moist nose of a dog or wolf, but then again, a worgen was neither, not really. Leon knew that now. There was a boy somewhere in there. That boy needed help.
"Come on," he whispered, his hand releasing and lowering back to his side. "Let's get you home."