Savina

Savina could feel things, yet she knew she could not. The grip of cold steel. The warmth of fresh blood. The silence of a quiet death. She had felt these before, but no longer. They had left her life, along with life itself. Kaesinis had tried to explain it once, the phantom memories of feeling that lingered long after the ability to feel is gone. Of course, years of rigorous training has cleansed her of such things, even before…

Savina put the thought out of her mind; there was a mission to do. She pushed the corpse off of her dagger and let it fall to the ground with a soft thud. She crept away silently, slipping into the shadows to await the next patrol.

The next guard approached from the west. A Night Elf female armed with two glaives. Even though the Night Elf was covered in steel plated body armor, she didn't make a sound as she moved through the underbrush on her patrol. She passed right in front of Savina, alert for danger yet unaware of the hidden rogue or fallen comrade only a few feet away.

Only when the guard's back was turned did an opening reveal itself to the lurking assassin: a small gap on the back of her neck between her helm and breastplate. Savina took it.

The ambush was over before it began. Savina struck faster than lightning, driving a long, straight dagger into the gap between the armor. It cut through leather padding, skin, flesh, bone, and vertebrae, coming out through the guard's windpipe and jugular. The body went limp, and Savina lowered it gently to the ground, careful not to rattle the steel armor as she withdrew her weapon. A clean kill.

She waited a little while longer to make sure there were no more perimeter guards, then cautiously picked her way through the trees and into the Darnassian camp.

Kaesinis had mentioned why the Night Elves were here, in southern Quel'thalas, the region known as the Ghostlands. Something to do with leylines, spying on Silvermoon and a lot of other arcane gibberish she didn't understand. But she could care less about that; all she cared was that she had been ordered to take them out and retrieve whatever plans or information she could. And, most importantly of all, she was told to do "whatever you see fit." Those were her favorite orders.

Savina reached the camp and crouched down behind a bush, parting the leaves only enough so that she could see out. There were seven Night Elves sitting around a fire; six, all female, were in metal armor with glaives attached to their belts, the same as the dead patrollers. The other one, a male, was dressed in a simple leather jerkin and carried a worn wooden stave.

Six Sentinels and a druid. Savina checked her dagger and swords, then stealthily moved towards her targets. She would have to take down as many Sentinels as possible before she set off the alarm; she was confident in her abilities, but sustained combat with heavily armed and trained warriors did not appeal to her.

She was behind one of the guards, undetected in the shadow of one of the camp's tents. She waited until the perfect moment, still as the night, silent as lurking death.

Quickly, silently, effortlessly, she slid her dagger into the back of the Night Elf's neck. Perfect execution. She withdrew the dagger and slipped back into the shadows before the group knew that anything had happened. She had her dagger in a second body before the first touched the ground. A second sentinel was dead before the rest took notice, and by then Savina's short sword was out and gouging through steel body armor. By the time the fight truly started, the Darnassians had lost nearly half of their numbers.

The three remaining Sentinels charged her, glaives drawn and slashing through the air. They were graceful in their technique, perfect in their form, disciplined soldiers. They had no doubt fought in many battles, ending the life of skilled warriors in intense combat.

They had not a chance against her.

Savina sidestepped their blades almost effortlessly, then cut off one of their heads, sending it flying with a flick of her sword. The others hesitated for just a moment, shocked at the ease with which one of their comrades had been dispatched. Their brief pause was all that Savina needed to press the advantage.

She was faster, stronger, and better trained. The last came from years of hard work and rigorous drills in the Silvermoon Ranger corps. The first two…those were from Arthas…

* * *

An elf crept through the ruins of a once tranquil village, carefully on the look out for patrols. She hadn't met any resistance so far, and expected few; there was no need for them to post many guards. The forces she was tracking had been marching through Quel'thalas almost unopposed, leaving the land sick and blackened in their wake, like a dead scar, and thick, green mist hugged the ground, giving everything a sickening tint.

Savina pulled her black bandana tighter around her face, thankful for the filter from the plague ridden air. The invaders had desecrated her homeland with their unholy campaign, but hopefully her mission would end it.

Black shapes moved in the distance, hazy shadows against the green night air. Her objective was in sight, but she stifled the urge to quicken her pace; there was no need to rush, not now, not so close to her goal.

Everyone thought that that this village had been safe behind the runestone's protective magic, and no move had been made to evacuate it or any of the other settlements along the Elrendar river. But somehow, Arthas had found a way through the ancient magical barrier that had protected Quel'thalas for centuries, and the villagers had paid the price for their leader's overconfidence. Over a thousand had died in this village alone, easily slaughtered by Arthas's army.

But the worse thing about the ruined village was not the destruction that the invading forces had wrought, but the lack of Elvin bodies. Or, at least, dead Elvin bodies.

One of the figures emerged from the mist and into full view, and, for one of the few times in her life, Savina felt a cold chill run down her spine. She used to be a High Elf; that was for sure. Her long, pointed ears were unmistakable, but her skin was too pale, even for her kind. And half of the flesh on her chest had been torn away. Flies buzzed in and around her exposed organs, feasting on the rotting flesh.

Savina fought back the bile rising up her throat and changed her course to avoid the zombie. There were thousands, if not a million more like her, and killing one was not worth setting off an alarm for the rest of the undead horde. She had a target to find, and the fate of her people may well rest on the success of her mission.

Sneaking into the camp was surprisingly easy. None of the wandering ghouls seemed very alert, and the ones that wandered around the wreckage did so in no understandable patrolling pattern. In fact, there were long stretches of time when a whole stretch of open ground was devoid of undead, allowing her to make her way quickly and steadily towards the army's center, which, dragonhawk aerial reconnaissance had informer her of, was the location where her target usually was.

A building rose out of the ruins, much taller than the rubble around it, though mainly because it was one of the few still standing. Savina recognized it even in its recently desecrated state; the village's town hall, no doubt now serving as the Undead's headquarters. She made her way towards it, thanking the Light that most of the undead in the area were on the other sides of the building and away from her path.

There were two guards stationed at the door, not former citizens like the ghouls that roamed the village streets, but hulking abominations sewn together from the corpses of various animals and wielding various butcher's instruments. Each one was a full head taller than her and probably five times her size. If she was forced to fight either of them, then her mission would most likely end with her joining the ranks of the undead on their continued march towards Silvermoon, and that was not an option.

Then she saw a large crack in the building's edifice, just large enough for her to squeeze through, and she let a small whisper of thanks pass through her lips. Truly the light was with her in her righteous task of ending this foul scourge. She slipped into the crack, bypassing the monstrosities guarding the main entrance and emerging in an ante chamber outside what used to be the village administrator's office. The room's door was shattered, some still attacked to the wall by hinges while most lay strewn across the floor.

There was no doubt in Savina's mind where Arthas was. He was a vain and egotistical bastard who had slain his own father to take the throne of Lordaeron and sold his soul for command of the undead Scourge. Even in the ruins of a small village, a man like him would be in the most prestigious place possible to help accommodate his megalomania. She checked to make sure her dagger and swords were ready, then quietly entered the room through the broken doorway.

Arthas was sitting in a high backed wooden chair, one hand resting on a massive blade with glowing blue runes. A cold mist permeated the air, draining all the warmth from her body. The leader of the undead smiled.

It was a trap. She had been lured here, a lamb to the slaughter. It all seemed so obvious to her now. She cursed herself for her stupidity, cursed the light for abandoning her, and cursed the Death Knight sitting in front of her, smiling. She was dead now, her cover had been blown; in fact, it had never been there at all. There was no way for her to get out alive. The best she could do was complete her mission and take Arthas down with her.

Savina flung herself at Arthas, blades drawn and ready to kill. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and pinned her to the ground; the bony hands of two ghouls that she been lurking in the dark corners. She struggled against their grips, kicking their rotting bodies with all her might, but their hold was too strong and they felt no pain from her blows. Arthas rose, still smiling, and pointed his sinister blade at her throat.

"You will serve me well, elf." Unholy energy ripped through her body. Her life faded.

She should have ended there, but her twisted soul remained, trapped in agony inside her cold, dead corpse.

* * *

Six Night Elf Sentinel corpses were scattered across the camp. Two bodies remained standing, one living with the torment of having his arms cut to stumps, the other undead, rid of feeling long ago. The druid fell against a tree and slumped to the ground, howling in pitiful pain, mourning the loss of his arms. Blood poured from the amputated limbs, gradually draining him dry. That was not good; he was no use to her dead.

Savina reached for her belt and grabbed the handle of one of her dagger. As she withdrew the blade, flames flickered into life, magical fire clinging to the steel. Pitilessly, she pressed the flat edge of the fiery dagger against the druid's wounds, cauterizing it shut. The Night Elf's screams of pain cut through the still night air, but Savina had already dispatched anyone who might care. The first wound sealed, she moved on to the second one. Again the druid wailed in pure, unadulterated anguish.

She sheathed her burning dagger, then yanked on the sobbing Night Elf's shirt and pulled him forward, close enough so that he could see the maggot squirming in her eye.

"Where are the plans?" Savina asked, her voice harsh and rusty from decay and weeks of going unused. He quivered for a moment, then weakly pointed one of his bloody stumps towards a tent. She released her grip, letting him fall back against the tree to whimper and whine over the loss of his arms.

She found the plans easily in a box stamped with the official mark of Darnassus. She slid them into her pack, and then searched the tents for anything else that might be useful. She found a few herbs, rare specimens from Kalimdor that the Apothecaries might enjoy brewing new poisons out of, but otherwise nothing else was of interest.

She walked back to the Night Elf and stared down at him. He looked into her eyes, his watering in pain. His face was soft and frightened, begging for mercy.

In one fluid motion, she drew he blade, severed his head, and sheathed her sword. The butchered body fell to the ground, soaking in a pool of its own blood.

She felt nothing.