Chapter 1: Fated Encounter

The rain dripped drearily from heaven unto earth. Grey skies extended to the horizon, but bands of dim morning light shone through here and there. Gaunt trees stood pale in the light, reaching desperately for more water and sun. Their small realm stretched from the southern hills to the northern plains.

A shadow staggered between the bleached trees. He sought a moment's rest and refuge, but knew better than to let up. If he stopped, he knew, he might simply just give up. Looking back at his pursuers, they appeared as apparitions in the dying mist.

"The bastard elf can run." A gravelly voice shouted in frustration. Other voices agreed in unison, but one that sounded like silk over soft water objected. The fugitive could not make out what she said. It mattered not.

For weeks he'd run through the forests and dark places in a vain effort to escape his pursuers. Miles were eaten in the cover of darkness and in the light, when the enemies came, he fought for his life, scratching and clawing for another breath of air. Torch lights appeared in front of him. He'd been cornered. Three of them in front of him were hideous, rotting mockeries. These lumbering corpses had once been vibrant people with their own worries, joys, and black secrets. Now they were but shades; they were the undead whom he'd come to revile so much.

Each of his would-be captors wore rotting and sour stinking clothes under leather jerkins. Two held crude maces which were little more than clubs with metal spikes affixed to their ends. The third hefted a circular buckler of banged and nicked wood strapped to what was left of his forearm and a short sword with tarnish staining its length. Each held a torch which they threw to the ground as they spied their target.

"You're gonna' come with us." The sword bearer spat, his revolting features twisting as he spoke. His teeth showed through a hole in his rotting cheek. The trio closed in as the voices from behind fast approached.

"You can try." The fugitive replied, scowling. His face was dirty and covered in cuts. A pink scar snaked its way from his forehead through his temple to where an absent earlobe should have resided.

The forsaken troop leader began advancing from the front toward his target. The two cronies moved off to the sides and flanked. Their target immediately broke into a dash, doubling back instantly to smash his body into one of the flankers. The two fell to the ground together, but as they did the elf grasped the undead flesh in his hands and with a satisfying crack the forsaken's neck was snapped in two.

The elf picked up the mace at his feet before the sword tip could pierce his chest. The slain body on the ground caught the blow, putrid blood and embalming fluid spraying. Parrying with the crude weapon, the elf fought off the sword until the other forsaken ran at him from the side once more. The elf lowered his body and delivered a vicious kick to his flanker's face. He could feel weakened, flimsy bones breaking under his steel tipped boot.

The swordsman tried to bash at him with the shield, but the elf deftly swung his body sideways, reducing the target space, and grabbed the sword bearing wrist of his attacker. The elf swung the mace, twisting his hips so that his entire body's weight was behind the blow. For a moment the two locked eyes, the forsaken swordsman stunned. He fell in a heap, skull caved in and brain stem severed.

"Alaric'Quel, toss the weapon aside." The silky voice spoke severely.

Alaric turned slowly, coming face to face with a leafblade, its shimmering metal surface exquisitely worked, rippling where its alloys had been folded over thousands of times. Behind the blade was a beautiful elven female. A cascade of blonde hair tumbled gently from her head, framing her oval face. Her eyes…her eyes held emotion in them. Not contempt, no. It was more a thin reluctance.

She wore the garb of a ranger and a blood elf: a dark green cloak with leaves sewn into the fringe, brown enameled greaves and boots with thick leather soles that hushed the sound of the wearer's weight, a wide girdle engraved with wildflowers that protected the waist and private areas, as well as boiled leathers under a coat of mail colored with various hues of dull reds like autumn trees.

"Traitor." Alaric hissed through his teeth. He began to feel the pain from his wound again, the adrenaline in his veins at last running dry.

"We are here!" The huntress cried out to her other forsaken allies. "I have him!"

"Do you?" Alaric goaded. The blade touched his throat, beading blood from it.

"Why did you do it?" The question was simple.

"I asked that question to Lor'themar Theron once. Do you know his answer?"

"What are you talking about?" The bewildered blood elf asked.

"My people…my own people turned their backs on those they'd fought beside for thousands of years to join our antithesis, the trolls. To join the orcs that burned our forests. To join the undead who raped our land and erased our civilization! You feel the discomfort in your heart, but you ignore it."

"You do not understand, Alaric. Garithos had been but a morsel. If we'd remained in their yoke, we would have perished. The humans would have finished the job the Scourge began."

Alaric could not help but laugh. He would have laughed longer had the wound in his gut not pierced his mirth.

"I had a feeling that your ears will be unreceptive." His laughter turned to seething hatred. She would not listen. None of them had. They'd all been indoctrinated with the foolishness of Lor'themar for years. The magical addiction hadn't helped.

"The Alliance deserves your scorn. Not us. You were not here to see what happened after the War." The elven huntress continued, attempting to dislodge Alaric's opinion.

The two other forsaken troops appeared from the abating mist, surrounding him. Their arrival brought the stench of decaying flesh back into his nostrils. One of them moved to his rear, disarming him of his mace. He looked around. Rhyme trees and evergreens surrounded the unhappy meeting, and the caverns where Alaric had hoped to find some refuge were still far off. Something caught his eye though; a conspicuous pile of leaves some ten feet from them; a glint of metal. He smirked.

"By Ranger General Brightwing's order unless you repent for your accounts of murder, and present yourself before the Regent for verdict, I am to execute you on the spot of capture. Will you not think about this, Lord Alaric?" The elven beauty said, nearly begging.

Alaric stood still, head raised high, ignoring the plea.

"Then I have no choice. Have you any final words?" His huntress said with resignation. Her blade hand was steady and the look in her eyes resolute. Regardless of her respect for him, her convictions were true. She would do it. The sun had begun to beat through the clouds, its lances of gold shining down from the heavens.

"So you are curious for words? Would you like to hear a story?" Alaric's grim smile remained.

"Very well." The elven huntress said, disappointed. The sword lifted slightly, preparing to cut through his neck. Alaric hung his head and closed his eyes, knowing what was about to happen.

Metal flashed twice, the sun's reflection making it look like rays of light cutting through flesh itself. The two forsaken toppled, headless. The elven hunter, surprised, turn to meet the attacker. Alaric opened his eyes and reached for the dagger in his grey cloak. Leaves fell around the trio slowly, the world moving in heartbeats.

His huntress caught a blow from a blade held by a lightly armored figure whose face was obscured behind a façade of dark hair. Her elvish leafblade chipped into the attacker's metal, sending a crack racing through the blade's body. She kicked the attacker who stumbled into a tree, mouth bloody. The ranger huntress clasped her blade with both hands, about to finish the surprise attacker.

Then, Alaric stepped forward, clasping the neck of the ranger between his bicep and forearm. He rammed the dagger home, driving it through the beauty's shoulder blade and into her heart. She gasped, her head falling back on his shoulder. For a moment he held her weight against him. Her green eyes, still alive, searched for his face. He slowly turned his head to look at her, but an inch from her face.

"You should have listened to my story." Alaric whispered. A thin stream of blood ran from her nose and mouth as the light in her eyes went out. He contracted his arm, twisting her neck, and stepped away, letting her body fall to the ground. He would at least give her the mercy of not allowing the undead to resurrect her.

Alaric's rescuer rolled forward onto knees and elbows, slowly rising with heaving cough attributed to the kick to the chest by the ranger. Alaric realized that his savior was a young woman. A muss of burnt umber colored hair dropped to just below her shoulders. Alaric noticed however, for a human, she had striking and full azure eyes. Those alone made her stand out.

"Your name?" Alaric asked brusquely. For an instant she studied him and he her, warily.

"Osra Leone." She replied flatly, combing leaves out of her hair with her fingers. Her cloak was black and dotted with mud. Simple brown plate pauldrons too large for a woman adorned her shoulders, but her hauberk was white, and polished, Alaric noticed. She took pride in it, obviously. In its center was carved a golden sunburst. He knew not the symbol. She also had a strip of cloth wrapped around her right arm, a feral and rampant dog still visible through the grime that had covered it. It might have once been part of a flag or tabard. Alaric deduced that from the fact that she hadn't maintained it, she wanted it to remain as it was. She was holding onto it as a piece of the past, a reminder. Her face was an oval, soft and gentle, but small creases were worn in her forehead from the hardness of the world.

"I thank you for dispatching those two." He looked at the headless bodies of the forsaken who'd chased him so far. "That one was Darius, and he Garril. I've somewhat gotten to know them. They chased me for quite a time."

"And who was she?" Osra asked, pointing to the dead elf.

"A traitor and hypocrite like all my people." Alaric remarked, picking up the leafblade and testing its balance.

"How did you know I was in the leaves?"

"Piles of leaves do not commonly gather with polished metal in them." Alaric remarked, turning west.

"Ah." A brief pause as Osra sheathed her bastard sword. "The rain has stopped. We should move before the sun rises any further. More forsaken will be after us soon enough."

"We?"

Looking up from the dead elf's body, Osra replied with a sly smile "I for one want to hear this story of yours, elf."

"Very well." Alaric consented. "Come now, I know of a wonderful castle with all the amenities we will need." He kept a hand on his blood stained dagger, just in case. The sun rising, the clouds clearing, the two set off, crossing under the trees of Lordaeron toward refuge.

Cold weather had emerged from the east with the rain from the previous day. Howling, freezing winds soaked Alaric and Osra to the bone. Neither spoke as they made their way west into the unknown. The elf's long ears twitched any time he heard a suspicious noise. The hard years had taught him to be on guard, even against those who might present themselves friends. The wind also flew from the tops of the mountains against them, making it easier for trackers to pick up their scent. Hence, he urged Osra to keep up to his breakneck pace and jog beside or before him.

Alaric refused to slow the pace, but surprisingly the girl did not complain, even if she was not as conditioned as he. In the Plaguelands, anything was dangerous. The two pressed on, and the distant peaks grew closer and more detailed. Snow capped their tall crowns. The vegetation grew more mundane as well, the plague not spreading in full force at the higher, rockier altitudes.

It was only after the first moon had climbed well into the sky did they arrive. Thankfully nothing had emerged from the dark and corrupted wood to slow their arrival. The Shinecap Mountains lurched in front of them, a bit further still. Great limestone cliffs hung on the sides of the river Averass which descended from Shinecap itself, the greatest mountain for which the range was named.

"We are here." Alaric said plainly, selecting a cave at random. As they entered, Osra seemed disappointed.

"A beautiful castle." She muttered, collapsing and slumping against the wall of the cave. Alaric remained at the entrance for a few moments, surveying the area. His elf-eyes took in more light than a human's, and with the moonlight shining off the river; he had no trouble scanning the surrounding area. Satisfied, he returned to find that the woman had started a small fire with the twigs and scrabble on the cave floor. She held her small hands over the fire to give them warmth. The elf noticed several scars crisscrossing on her arms. She had been fighting for some time. He sat opposite of her, staring suspiciously.

He spoke to break the silence. "Why are you here?"

"My mission was to report the Scourge's movements in the area. Since the invasion of Northrend many of the undead legions have pulled back and fortified their positions." She explained. Alaric knew not of this Argent Dawn, but kept his mouth shut.

"It was to my surprise though that I found a party of forsaken with a blood elf in their midst trailing someone. I tracked them for some time." Osra continued. "I decided to try and overtake them, and when I did, I was lucky enough to encounter both you and them."

"I overheard them speak your name. What happened? You disappeared after the invasion of Northrend. Are you truly Alaric Faltron'Quel, the hero? People tell stories of you in the south. The last true elf they call you." She asked softly, the light and shadows from the fire licking at her face.

"I am he, but I am no hero. There is no such thing, little girl." Alaric said bitterly.

"I knew a hero once; a real one." Osra retorted angrily.

"I am sure this person is dead then."

Osra said nothing, her head falling between her arms, chin at breast. Alaric snorted. He knew not whether she was angered or saddened by the comment, her dark hair hiding her soft face. He felt no twang of guilt, only the remorse of sad reality. Even though she had obviously suffered, lost loved ones, and fought through the pain of wounds, she had still not fully grown up. He felt an old feeling nagging at him though. He remembered not what it was, but it compelled him to speak.

"You wished to hear my story."

Osra lifted her head slightly, resting it on her arms as they in turn rested upon her knees. Her blue eyes shone from between her strands hair. They were desirous for the truth. He struggled to find a starting point. It had been a long time since he'd conversed amicably with someone, and even longer since he'd shared his past. The world had changed so much in so little time, and with it, he had as well.

"I was always called brash. Looking to the past I can see that is true on most accounts. I served in the Second and Third Wars. I fought my share of battles but decided it wasn't enough. A man of appetites, I made my own war. The War of the Ruins they call it. I fought that to take back our home of Quel'thalas and finish Arthas to make sure the Scourge could never threaten my people again."

"We almost succeeded. We took back Quel'thalas and I stood toe to toe with the Lich King himself, but he was too much. I was defeated and decided to reunite our people. Many thousands of blood elves traveled to Outland with our rightful king, so I would bring them back. When I got there I was rudely surprised to find that not only did they not want to come back, but that they weren't the same brothers and sisters that had left us. They'd—changed—for the worse. When I returned to Azeroth, I found that my people here too had thrown away their pride and honor, betraying their traditions and heritage. They decided to throw it all away to join the Horde. In the end I fought for nothing." The elf explained passively.

The cave grew quiet for a long minute. At last Osra looked up.

"You sound as if you feel nothing." She said sadly.

"Sometimes I feel nothing. Sometimes I feel it all at once." The reply came monotonously.

"I am to return to Light's Hope Chapel on the morrow. It is the Argent Dawn's base of operations in the Eastern Plaguelands and not a day's march from the base of the mountains. If you wish a meal and a night not spent in a cave then you ought to accompany me. The Argent Dawn always welcomes heroes." Osra emphasized the word. Despite what the elf thought, she knew a hero when she saw one.

"I won't fight for your paltry group. I have my own goals and promises to honor, but a roof would be decidedly welcome." Alaric said after a few moments of consideration. He knew not what this Argent Dawn was, but a safe haven, a place to rest up, would a wonderful thing. "I'll take first watch." The elf stood, wrapping his cloak around him at the entrance of the cave.

"I get the idea that you are not telling me the whole tale, Alaric'Quel." Osra's blue eyes and voice were still peppered with curiosity.

"If you live long enough, perhaps you'll hear it all." He called back, his body silhouetted by the moon's shine.

"That I intend to do." Osra said quietly.

Character Bio: Osra Leone

She has always been a strong willed woman, both pretty and deadly. Dark hair falls to her shoulders with bright blue eyes punctuating long bangs. She stands at a height of 5'6.

Born near the Alterac-Lordaeron border, Osra grew up in a small farming community centered on the town of Renne. As a child, Osra had two older brothers, both of whom served time in the Alliance's Provisional Alterac Guard. The tomboyish Osra learned the basics of swordsmanship from them at a young age, and continued her hobby by seeking out various veterans on her spare time when she was not working the fields.

When the Third War began, both her brothers were called up to duty once more and went missing after the fall of the capital of Lordegarde. The Scourge ravaged Renne and her parents were both killed. She safeguarded the survivors of her town until they were rescued by the Dogs of War, a semi-autonomous force formed during the Third War by remnants of Alliance armies by Valdar Justax.

Osra fell in love with Justax, but things would not turn out well for their relationship. After the retaking of Dalaran, she ventured north into the Plaguelands to continue fighting.

Factoid: The Light's Calendar

The calendar used in this tale is the Light's Calendar which was used in the Warcraft strategy games, not the official World of Warcraft timelines. All dates are correctly calculated between the timelines however.

The current function replaced that of the Arathi Calendar which was used from the formation of the Arathi Empire some 2,500 years ago. The dating begins at the Year 0, in which the Church of the Light had officially spread to all corners of the Eastern Kingdoms. At this point, all seven human nations, the dwarves of Ironforge, and the high elves of Quel'thalas had all converted to the teachings of the Church.

The year consists of twelve 30 day months, with a five day time period in between years known as the 'Interregnum'.

The current year is 625.