Morfang
Despair met its mark and rendered the troll's azure flesh asunder. Sticky red gore erupted onto Morfang's face. Undaunted, he shouted, "three!"
When his long sword kissed the head of his foe's battle axe his mind was clear. When he deflected a reckless strike from the same foe, he was one with the sword he had affectionately named Despair. Euphoria coursed through his veins when his counterstroke tore through boiled leather, flesh, and bone alike.
"Four," he bellowed.
"Three," answered the pale corpse of a man to his left, whom was known as Wolfkrone. Wolfkrone was one of the Ebon Blade's infamous Death Knights. He did not stray far from the path when he became the Warden of the Hand; the man charged with keeping the peace and issuing punishment to those who threatened it.
As Morfang announced his fifth kill he noticed a sharp drop in the enemy's numbers. Mere minutes ago they were surrounded, with enemies to kill on all sides; a prospect which excited the worgen. Morfang thought it had been minute anyway; he had entered a state of mind where abstract concepts such as time did not matter, and only the physical act of steel on steel mattered; it could have been hours for all he knew.
Morfang stepped behind a preoccupied tauren and drove the careless fool to his knees with a violent bash to its skull with Despair's hilt. Morfang gave the tauren's prior opponent-an archmage whose name he did not care to remember-a toothy grin and plunged the entirety of the long sword in between his foe's shoulder blade. That grin betrayed a great deal about the nature of Morfang; that any creature could find amusement in bloodshed would baffle an ordinary man, but to Morfang it felt perfectly normally to enjoy taking life. "Six," he announced smugly.
The archmage returned his smile, but this wasn't the smile of a decadent creature; it was a thin, labored smile that was an insincere as any Morfang had seen on a tavern wench. Morfang found himself loathing this woman, because of that smile. Her smile faded and was replaced by an honest expression of agony. Blood flowed from her mouth as if it were a fountain and her body jerked forward to flop helplessly onto the ground; the spark of life faded from her eyes.
In the woman's place stood another opponent, which delighted Morfang more than a false smile from a pretty woman ever could. He paid no attention to the corpse and stepped over it unceremoniously; the girl should've paid more mind to the dance, and to pay her any mind would only distract him from the task at hand. Within a heartbeat of his brazen act of defiance Morfang included his own note into the melody of steel.
Soon the tide overtook their adversaries; adversaries whom had harried them at all sides and from desirable terrain when the melee had begun. That terrible tide of steel sent the Horde into a desperate retreat, the wretched "warriors" breaking in all directions and taking whichever route would deliver them to a reprieve from the Hand's steel kisses. In that moment the shame of the Kor'Kron Legion was absolute. "If they are true warriors they'll envy the fallen," Morfang mused, as he coupled Despair with its sheathe, "for shame is a fate worse than death."
Men at arms began to give chase to the fleeing host, the circle of swords and shields began to dissolve into a bloodthirsty mob. Thunderous words halted them. "Hold the line, we've achieved glorious victory, but I beseech you to stay your blades or we might have no one to fight on the 'morrow," boomed the Lord Commander in his cold and calculated voice.
Laughter ran down the line and the battle lust faded, replaced by jubilation. Morfang remained quiet. The end of a quarrel was nothing to be joyed over, not to him. The opposite was true, battle was his joy. It was the reason why he had sworn his sword to a man he did not particularly care for.
Lord Commander Baulvet was a man which Morfang had difficulty in trusting. When the lordling bestowed the honorific title of Knight-Captain upon him, Morfang asserted that he would not change his attitude and that he would continue his streak of violent acts and drunkenness. The Lord Commander took him by surprise when he stated mildly, "I make you my Knight-Captain not despite your unruly behavior, but because of it. Serve me well and I will sate all of your primal desires."
"Any man that would freely set me upon his enemies knowing full well of what I intend to do, is a man with little regard for ethics," Morfang pondered as a grin danced across his face.
Although he could not trust the Lord's motives, he knew he could at least trust his promise. Morfang saw many battles with the Hand, and he seldom suffered defeat. The very memory of that bitter smell of saltpeter sent chills down his spine; it was a throwback to the Siege of Stonard, which still provoked a depraved and primal feeling from beneath the very essence of his being. He had never seen so much carnage in one day.
Morfang's thoughts were interrupted by another command from the Lord Commander. "Now is not the time to rest, we must not relent in our march to Surwich."
Surwich was their destination. The seaside Gilnean hamlet had suffered occupation at the hands of the Shattered Oath Mercenary Company. They were not alone on the road to Surwich however; the Kor'kron Legion had sallied forth from their fortress at Stonard to reinforce their sellsword allies to the south. This battle was the result of that; the Kor'Kron Legion successfully baited the Hand into the hills with a clever ruse.
Of course it backfired and the bastards thrusted themselves onto the Hand's naked steel. While the wretches retreated in disorderly fashion the Hand broke their battle lines and began their march down the slope. As they emerged from the goat path Morfang heard the Lord Commander call for him, "Knight-Captain, we have much to discuss."
Morfang glanced over his shoulder and gave the lordling a hard look. Not surprisingly Gervian-whom Lord Baulvet had taken to calling Oathbreaker-was following close behind his new commander. The squirrly man had committed a crime which the punishment required the removal of a tongue, but he had received a reprieve from that when the Lord Commander received intricate sketches of Stonard's defenses from the Oathbreaker. He was planning a second strike on Stonard when knowledge reached him that the orcs had rebuilt the settlement with better defenses. It was because of the Oathbreaker that when the raven bearing the news of Surwich's fall arrived, the Lord Commander elected to bypass Stonard's high walls, rather than delay himself any longer with a costly siege.
Still Morfang resented the Oathbreaker. They may share common blood in Gilneas, but the Oathbreaker shunned the curse and those who embraced it. Morfang more than embraced the curse and he spent the majority of his time as a worgen. "What fool would not want to be stronger, faster and more quick-witted," Morfang asked himself.
"I'd rather not," Morfang answered contemptuously.
The Lord Commander shook his head and sighed. "Oh Morfang, if you were anyone else I would have you flogged for such insolence," Lord Baulvet said, as if he were commenting on the weather.
"You're welcome to try, or better yet you could have your stooge give it a go. I'd love to flay him alive."
The Lord Commander looked to Gervian with sinister half-smile on his face. Mildly he said, "perhaps you may get that opportunity one day."