I do not own Warcraft. It is completely Blizzard's property. But Emala is mine.
Emala had never considered herself normal. She'd always been told that she was morbid, sardonic, sharp tongued, and she suspected it was the truth.
It had never bothered the tauren hunter. It didn't bother here any more than it bothered her to plant a heavy black arrow in the forehead of a target, to see the liefeblood flow down, across the contours of the face-whether it was animal or humanoid. Or to see the body seizure, to fall limp to the ground. She had no problem with crushing the skull under her hoof, removing their hide with her skinning knife as trophy.
Because war wasn't fair. It never was, and it was a general rule in Emala's mind that no world, whether it was her own, or another planet close by or far away, was completely at peace. There would always be a struggle of some kind, a need for good to rise in the face of evil. Or, the conflict would simply happen through the desires of the inhabitants, for the sake of their greed, ambition, their war thirst.
That seemed the basis of everything on Azeroth. There had been conflicts against evil, the Lich King and the Burning Legion, the ongoing battle with the Hammer of Twilight and Deathwing. But that didn't stop the factions of the world from tearing at each other, bashing skulls, wasting resources and feuding, fighting their own separate battle despite the larger threats, the ones that truly mattered.
It had been truly infuriating when the hunter found out that Thrall was leaving ownership of the horde with Garrosh. Emala was disgusted by him. She couldn't help it, because she knew he wouldn't make the right decisions. He would make things worse. Where Thrall had sought peace, he would seek war like a frenzied animal would seek to bite and mutilate anything it could come across.
She stood on a hill, overlooking Orgimmar. The steel ramparts were red in the setting sun, like blades freshly doused in blood. The sun glared from between two of the large hills surrounding the city, shrunk by their narrow confines to the point which it resembled a star in a dusk hued sky. She sharpened her arrows against the red rock. Her red raptor Pierceclaw, her oldest and most trusted pet, had dozed off already, as had Skydive. The azure netherwing drake slept peacefully to her right. Both her companions on the battlefield, and beyond it.
Emala paused, angling her arrow. The sunset light danced of the metal tip and sparkled along the shiny black shaft. She held a dead animal in her other hand-a rat, neatly strangled to death. Not a speck of blood. But she felt the urge not to let it stay that way.
With one neat slash, she cleaved the belly open with the arrow tip. With unsettling interest, she wiggled the arrow about in the rat's guts, watching the organs shred and spout specks of red. She supposed this was why people called her morbid. The thought drew a rough but quiet laugh form her throat.
She placed the rat at her feet, pulling her knees up. She watched it bleed out. She lifted her gaze to the sky.
Emala would fight for the Horde. But she would welcome the day when Deathwing fell, and Thrall could reclaim the Horde.
Ok, so that's my first ever fanfiction entry in the Warcraft category. This is mainly just a look into the mind of my in game character, and unlikely to have any more chapters.
Members of the site or not, all can review. Tell me how I did, but no hurtful comments, please.
~dharak