…a demon has been spotted close to Forest Song. Gather your blades, rendezvous with Scout Ayal'ashay at the broken pillar. The creature will not see the dawn…
You are the wrath of the Kaldorei in this…
She could see why the small folk feared them so.
Silanah allowed her lips to twitch into the semblance of a smile as she ran. She reveled in the rush of air past her ears, through her closely cropped hair, the pounding of her heart in her chest, the stretch and pull of her eons-hardened muscles. She was a Sentinel, had been for many lifetimes, but sometimes the armour of duty felt like a cage and the freedom of running, of muscles burning, was a brief escape.
Yes, she could see why the small folk were unsettled by them.
Despite wearing her full complement of delicately woven chain, and with her glaive strapped tightly across her back, Silanah made almost no noise as she flew through the trees, and in spite of the keenness of her ears, she could only just hear the footfalls of her sisters behind her.
The death they carried this night would be delivered on silent wings.
She padded to a halt as the clearing neared, Maivera passing her on her right, the swordswoman's piercing blue eyes ever watchful as she scanned the surrounds, hand on the grip of her mother's sword. Without order, Blossom had already unhitched her age-old wisp-shaped bow from over her arm, the glossy purple wood straining silently as she tested the pull. Apparently satisfied, the markswoman pulled an arrow from her quiver and sighted along the shaft.
Only Nevarial approached her, the white-haired ancient coming close enough to speak in a whisper.
'Something is wrong here Sir. Where is Ayal'ashay?'
Silanah looked back at the clearing, where the faintly-glowing pillar lay in the green embrace of the moss. She could sense nothing awry, but Nevarial was the oldest elf she knew personally, and she had supposedly fought in more battles than there were stars in the sky. In fact, the reason Silanah had requested such a small complement for this mission was that Nevarial would be coming with them, for she was lethal with any weapon in hand. If Nevarial said there was something wrong, then there was something wrong.
Silanah's hand trailed unconsciously behind her back, closing gently around the ridged grip of her double-bladed glaive as made to say something.
The wind changed.
They all smelled it at once and Silanah had already drawn her curved blades as she turned, her muscles tense. The polished silver edge sheared through the green, anger-twisted face of the orc, and its cleaver dropped from nerveless fingers. But more and more were pouring from in between the trees, the overpowering smell flooding her senses.
She blocked a low strike towards her thigh and was about to thrust through the beast's stomach when something immensely heavy cracked against the back of her skull. She was spun onto her back, armoured feet thundering around her.
Darkness crowded the edges of her vision, pulsing with the pounding of her heart, which was all she could hear.
What was going on? Why are all these people fighting…
She could only watch as Blossom loosed shaft after shaft at close range, her full lips streaming blood. It was only when Silanah noticed that she was no longer pulling on the strong of her bow, her arms merely jerking in a mockery of the motion, that the downed Sentinal saw the axe head lodged in the archer's back.
Maivera was engaged with a blue-skinned monstrosity, a single horn jutting out from its forehead – the demon they had been lured here to kill. As she watched, the felguard snatched the thin white blade in one gauntleted fist, and pulverized the swordswoman's severe features against the spikes and protuberances of his hell-forged armour.
Her vision clouding with tears, Silanah sought out the last of her small squad. Her cry choked in her throat as black bolts flitted towards Nevarial, but the ancient warrior was as leaves in the wind, twisting and spinning, the arrows sailing past her lithe body. At the apex of the spin, her arm shot out, fingers stiff, crushing cartilage and flesh of the throat of an onrushing orc, his spear jabbing uselessly under her arm. She ducked low, always moving, sweeping up a discarded sword and dragged it across the belly of another attacker. His steaming bowels flopped to the ground.
She was a whirlwind, blade flashing everywhere.
Out of the corner of her eye, Silanah could see an orc stalking closer to Nevarial. Unlike the others, he was naked from the waist up, a study in perfect orcish anatomy. He wielded a long, thin bladed two handed sword, its tip oddly squared off.
He attacked with a sweeping strike that Silanah could almost feel jarring through her own arms. Even with his blade's unwieldy size, he chopped with blistering speed, the other orcs backing away to give him room to swing his sword's length.
Stupid orcs.
Nevarial had more fighting experience that all of the enemies arrayed against her…put together. She parried every one of the orc's attacks and responded with her own, exploiting her blade's shorter length by getting in close. His blade clanged off hers, recoiling backwards.
There
Nevarial saw the opening, turning her wrist and thrusting outwards to impale the orc's chest.
The look of surprise on her face almost broke Silanah's heart.
Her oppponent's chest was no longer in front of her. His footwork was exemplary, stunning even. Such arrogance to think that someone so young could not be her equal in skill.
Hubris then…
That was the last thought to slide through Nevarial's mind as the orc's blade crashed through her back, ending thousands of years of life.
At that point, Silanah found it easier to succumb to the embrace of darkness, rather than being forced to witness.
Anduin tied back his sweat-heavy hair. He had been raised in the internment camps - hence his human name – and would much rather be spitting some pink scum over these purple elves, especially since pink scum didn't tend to kill three brothers for every one of them you poked.
Thank the ancestors for Scavenge, that's all he could say now. The purple death-dealer had been heading his way when the Chorusman had made his move. Anduin had been lucky not to piss himself in relief.
The Blademaster was looking at him now, grinning in that mad way of his after a fight. What kind of guy filed all his teeth into points anyway? Scavenge was the only orc he knew who did that. He was about to acknowledge his saviour when a tall shadow fell across him – a cold,wet chill settling on his shoulders.
Anduin did piss himself then, the Dreadlord's voice a hoarse, seductive whisper in his ear.
'This one. Her heart is strong, it will suit me perfectly.'
He didn't bother turning around. It seemed to him that Saemonvragas took some kind of sick pleasure out of tormenting him, especially when it meant shaming him in front of his brothers.
Thank the ancestors that he was wearing leather and chain leggings. Thanks the ancestors for the darkness of the night, that was all he could say now.
Damn that Dreadlord, he would be squelching all the way back to the Post now.
Commander Ravencall,
When the patrol failed to report back into Astranaar, a full complement of Sentinels was sent out to look for them, led by Captain Halfspear herself. They were soon found, as was the body of Scout Ayal'ashay, an arrow found piercing his lung. Only one survivor was recovered, Squal Leader Silanah Riversong, who was able to illuminate events. Apparently the squad was ambushed by orcs while out hunting for a demon roaming far from Felfire Hill.
Unfortunately, Sentinal Riversong passed from her wounds only a few nights later. Captain Halfspear was at her side at the time and wishes you to know that she seemed at peace at the end. May she find joy in Elune's embrace.
Captain Halfspear conveys her apologies that she is not writing this message herself, but she has suffered from an illness these past nights and is very weak yet.
By the grace of the Goddess,
Lieutenant Neverfall
Rutgar found the Warleader on a balcony overlooking the clearing grounds of the lumber camp, the stripped landscape stretching in front of him like a tapestry of his accomplishments. He did not turn as the orc spoke.
'It was always about the Dreadlord wasn't it Lord?' Rut asked, striding to stand at his warleader's shoulder, 'None of the other demons mattered, they were just baggage you had to find a place for.'
The lion-eyes did not waver from their apprehension of the landscape, the lips not even twitching.
'And now you have an agent inside Astranaar, a leader no less.' The broad shouldered orc bowed his head, 'I apologize for my lack of faith, my endless complaints at the demons' presence.'
'What are your orders Lord?'
The Warleader smiled, tusks jutting out.