Scalp of the Bandit Prince
"Lord of fire, it hurts..."
When a mortal creature dies, you can see it in his eyes, in the stillness of his chest, and in the cold pallor that creeps into his body. When a creature of fire dies, it is more profound.
As Shannox collapsed, a fire inside him went out. In life, his anger, his pride, his devotion had blazed like the molten sky of the Firelands. All that remained was his body – the ashes after the wildfire. An empty husk.
A few ragged cheers went up. When they died, the only sound was the eternal crackle of flame.
The hunter remained silent. Other bodies were strewn about the blackened stone: brave warriors, who had ventured into Ragnaros's domain, never to return. In the Firelands, no victory came without a price.
A different sort of creature lay broken at his feet. Such a noble animal...
Sensing his sorrow, his own pet shifted anxiously beside him. His surviving companions spoke in hushed tones, and the hunter only half listened.
"...a decisive blow. We've bought the Guardians time, if nothing else..."
"...tend to our wounded, and bury our dead on the other side, lest their spirits be trapped here forever..."
"...cannot rest. Ragnaros will never again underestimate us; it will only be harder now..."
"...slain a terrible enemy..."
A terrible enemy. The hunter's eyes flicked from body to body – hell hound, flamewaker, hell hound. A worthy foe, who fought with honor and died for his lord. His eyes landed on his own pet. Who knew a bond with his companions you will never understand.
They were calling to him, but the hunter ignored them. Eventually they left, retreating to the portal in the Flamebreach. Returning home. The hunter longed to go with them, to escape the smoke and heat of this realm and breathe the sweet, clean air of Hyjal. Soon.
He approached Shannox's smoldering body. The flamewaker's scales were still hot to the touch. Hard and smooth, they glistened in the half-light. Like mail...
The hunter drew a knife from his belt and set to work.
The Firelands had no true sun, and the hunter had no way to measure the passing time – if time even existed in this place. Sharp as his knife was, it quickly dulled against the flamewaker's scales. The hunter paused, sharpened it, and started again. Beside him, his pet paced anxiously.
At times, the armies of the Firelands seemed endless. He, his companions, and the warriors of Hyjal would fight elementals, giants, and flamewakers – always flamewakers – for hours without respite. Other times, like now, the whole plane seemed deserted, as if the raging flames had already burned all life from this wasteland. The only sound was the rhythmic scrape of the knife against the scales of Shannox's neck, until at last the head came free.
The hunter held it high. Half blind, he thought, touching the patch that covered Shannox's left eye, and his aim was better than my own.
Cleaning the head was easy. The flamewaker's insides had literally burned to ash. With a satisfied nod, the hunter stood.
He donned the helm, gazed down at Shannox through one eye, and placed a fist against his chest.
Respect.