A bead of sweat trickled from Sarak's brow. It rolled down his green face and over the diagonal scar that ran across his face, before falling to the dry grass at his feet. The sun sat high overhead, its heat pressing down on the orc. Running a calloused hand across his shaved head, he wiped the perspiration onto his brown leather jerkin.
Crouching low, he gripped the hilt of his katana lightly, drawing it several inches from its scabbard. Got to keep it quiet, after all. Muscular legs propelled the warrior and with a swift lunge, he decapitated his target with the draw of his sword. Flicking the blood from his blade, the orc sheathed his weapon and turned to inspect his kill.
The headless body of the boar laid still, a puddle of blood pooling as the beast's heart pumped the last of its life out onto the dirt below it. A good cut.
Grinning to himself, Sarak pulled a small knife from his belt, knelt down and set to work skinning the beast and cutting portions of flesh. Setting the bloodied pelt aside, the Orc pulled several small pieces of kindling and his tinder box from his traveling bag and set to work building a small fire. Spearing a chunk of meat with his knife, Sarak held it over the dancing flames. Some orcs may like it raw, but nothing would beat charred flesh in his mind. He bit into it, letting the juices spill over his tusks and down his chin. His meal finished, Sarak sheathed his knife onto his belt, sat his sword onto the grass next to him and laid back to rest.
He reached a hand to his thick neck and fingered the crude necklace hanging from it. Nothing more than a piece of yarn, and several long bones threaded onto it. He could remember so clearly, the blood, the carnage. And several night elf fingers to show for it.
Sarak grinned to himself. That was when he'd gotten the name Elfbane. As they swarmed from the trees, Sarak cut them down, blades dancing in the moonlight. Every kill for the Warsong Clan, every kill for Grom.
The cutting of elf flesh, the razing of the forests. Each memory sent a shiver of pleasure down his spine. Demon fury raged through his veins as the demigod Cenarius was cut down. Archers, sentinels, druids, priestesses. Didn't matter who they were, each reacted the same to a sword in the belly.
The journey to Orgrimmar was already taking too long. Sarak hated being away from the lumber camp. Ashenvale always had fresh prey.
A black speck in the sky caught the Sarak's attention, silhouetted in the glare of the sun. Squinting into the blinding light, he saw a crow circling the area. He watched it curiously as it wheeled gracefully through the air. Suddenly the bird stopped circling. Beating its wings furiously, it hovered above Sarak. The Orc sat upright, his attention drawn to the crow. If he didn't know better, he would have thought the bird was watching him.
With a sudden snap of its wings, the crow began to swoop towards Sarak, like an arrow from a Sentinel's bow. Wings outstretched, the black missile plummeted from the sky.
A rising tension grew in Sarak's chest, a sense honed on the battlefield. The wind shifted direction, the smell of pine and blood filled the Orc's nose. A purple haze began to shroud the crow, enveloping it, obscuring it from sight. A roar cut through the air and, as Sarak reached for his sword, a giant weight of fur and muscle crashed down onto him, crushing the air from his lungs.
He grabbed the bear by its front legs, struggling to keep it from swiping him as he caught his breath. A stray claw slashed across the Orc's face. Crying out in rage, Sarak raised his knees and kicked at the beast, trying to escape from underneath it. Pushing himself away with his powerful legs he grasped his sword. Swinging it awkwardly from its sheath, he managed a deep cut onto the bear's left foreleg.
The beast let out a roar of pain and quickly leaped off of Sarak. Gingerly rising, he watched as a purple haze surrounded the bear. As the smoke began to lift, he saw a slender form, crouched down, hand held to its bicep. A faint green glow shone through the lingering haze, streaking from its wound. Clutching his sword tightly, Sarak charged, swinging his blade at the wretched creature's neck. Steel met with empty air as the figure rolled to safety, rising to a defensive crouch. The elf wielded a pure white staff, topped with a crescent moon.
Sarak gave a twisted grin. "Druid," he greeted the night elf, sneeringly. He raised his blade, prepared to attack again.
Cold silver eyes glared at him. Sarak smirked to himself as the druid muttered and raged in Darnassian. It had been no more than three days since he had left Ashenvale, since his blade had last tasted purple flesh. Letting his own rage wash over him, Sarak rushed forward. Several feet from his target, he felt something grab at his ankles, tripping him in to the grass. The grabbing became a crushing, and Sarak felt something cutting into his legs. Looking down, the orc saw thick vines entangling his ankles, sharp thorns biting into his claves.
Fury pulsing through his veins, Sarak reached for the small knife on his belt and hurled it towards the druid. The elf barely had time to dodge the blade as it soared past her. Sarak felt the grip of the vines slacken. With a cry of bloodlust, he sliced at his binds, hacking them apart with ease. He swung at the druid but his strike was knocked aside by the elf's whirling staff. He struck again, hard, trying to overpower the elf, but the constant twirling of her staff meant that the force of Sarak's attacks were simply redirected, using their own momentum against him.
The druid was skilled, no point denying it. Chuckling to himself, Sarak reversed the grip on his sword. The echo of Mannoroth's blood lingered in his veins. Rushing forwards, Sarak saw the elf prepare her defense. Striking at the druid, he waited until he was only an arms length away from his target, then, in an instant, ducked under the staff and twisted, cutting one of the elf's legs. As he rose, Sarak spun furiously, slicing into the druid's back and shoulders. He felt a searing pain wash over him, a hasty spell from the elf, but his bloodlust flowed, fueling him on.
Swinging at the elf, he thrust his knee into her face as she tried to dodge. He heard the soft thud as her staff fell to the ground. Purple smoke filled the air and Sarak felt something tear into his thigh. The druid had turned into a Nightsaber, and was prowling, ready to strike.
The game was growing old. The red haze had taken over, and now Sarak wanted nothing but to gut this vile creature. He wanted to paint himself in her blood so he could storm into Orgrimmar, defiant in the face of Thrall's preaching of peace.
They charged at each other. Swinging with all his force, Sarak narrowly missed the beast. He whirled around and saw it limp around him, calculating. He raised his sword. Best to let her make the first move.
The druid pounced at him. Grinning, he saw where it would pass. He swung his sword, aiming at the cat's destination. Paws began to shrink, and the Nightsaber's body thinned and stretched out. The willowy night elf passed over the Sarak's blade, a blade aimed for a larger target, a Nightsaber. Sarak saw a slender purple arm reach into a boot. A glint of silver was all he saw before the dagger sliced through his throat.
His sword clattered to the ground as his hands flew to his wound, uselessly trying to staunch the blood pouring out of it. Dropping to his knees, Sarak looked at the ground. His necklace lay in front of him, cut from his neck. He saw the elf circle back around him, dagger clenched tightly. She looked younger than he first realized. He let out a painful, gurgling chuckle. Who would've thought it? Sarak Elfbane, run through by a whelp.
Darkness came, and the fire in his blood dwindled to nothing.
She stood over the filthy beast, watching it bleed to death. She hoped it hurt, hoped he was drowning in his own blood. She reached out and asked the blessing of the grass surrounding her, letting its energy heal and soothe her wounds.
She knelt in front of the dead orc, and rolled him onto his back. Placing the point of her dagger at the base of one of his tusks, she thrust the dagger and dislodged it. She placed it in the satchel at her waist. Slender fingers made their way to the silk thread that lay around her neck. Several large tusks were threaded onto it, some yellowing, others pristinely white.
Memories flooded her mind, of red skinned beasts ravaging the forest, slaying her sisters and Lord Cenarius. She remembered this one most of all, hacking and cutting and laughing as the blood drenched him.
When Malfurion Stormrage had awoken, she made a vow. All orcs would suffer the fury of nature, her fury. She had trained relentlessly, swearing to kill the one who called himself Elfbane. She had tracked him all the way from Warsong Gulch, had resisted the urge to attack him there. Vengeance required patience. So she had waited until he was vulnerable.
She spat on the corpse of the beast and put her knife to its head.
"Foul beast."
Drakthor wiped his brow as droplets of rain began to fall. The storm had approached suddenly. Not that he was complaining though. The heat was stifling. He stood on the parapet, looking down onto the red sands of Durotar. He watched members of the Horde disembark Zeppelins and enter the gates of Orgrimmar.
Looking up, he frowned at the dark clouds looming above as they swept over the city. Gazing in the distance Drakthor saw a crow, black as night in the distance, something grasped in its talons. He watched as it soared over the walls, hovering in the distance. He saw it drop what it was carrying in the centre of the Valley of Strength. It let out a shriek cry and flew off into the storm.
A shout came from the Valley. Racing down the ramparts, Drakthor made his way to the gathering crowd. Pushing and cursing his way through the throng, he made his was to the front. Lying on the ground was the bloodied head of the great Sarak Elfbane. Carved into his forehead was a message. Drakthor couldn't read it, but he recognized the script. Darnassian.
He looked up and saw a youngling being held by his mother, chewing his lip, trying to remain brave. Sighing deeply, Drakthor stepped forward and scooped up the head. The Warchief would want to hear about this.
As he made his way to Grommash Hold he heard the child's wail of grief. The weeping followed the guard as rain began to spill from the ominous clouds, drenching the city and all who resided within.