Narmë Reddawn

Drums of War: Reminiscence of a Moonless Night

D-1 before Ashenvale Invasion

« That’s not good. »

The huntress muttered a curse in Thalassian, as she hid next to her goblin colleague. Above the rain kept falling, drop after drop ticking on their head as they spied their prey.

The small clutter of elves huddled on the road, the Sentinels and the man circling the priestess; glowing eyes on the shadows. A worgen too, beast-creature that shouldn’t be able to be so discreet. There was no moonlight, nor stars this time. They were clouded by the rain but she had no doubt that in stories, it would be their actions this night that got the credit.

The evening hadn’t started so badly; they did their job, simply, professionally. Not a civilian’s hair touched, not one unnecessary cruelty. Perhaps the kid would have nightmares for a long time, dark memories of forms leaping from the shadows, of women he knew being downed by daggers and arrows, but you had to be alive to have nightmares, after all. The druid had escaped -curse those shapeshifters- and if it was a problem it wasn’t one they couldn’t deal with. They were, after all, professionals. They could handle a timer, before reinforcement came.

The slumbering druids inside died without a sound. Not one woke to the soft sound step of the Horde’s operatives, not one cried as they died drowning in their own blood.

The huntress kept looking above her shoulder, as if the Barrow Den was to fall on her head, or a corrupted spider emerge from the shadows. She couldn’t understand what elf would want to sleep underground. Which of the stars’ children could want to stay away from the sky they all loved?

How could the ones who claimed kinship with the moons themselves do so?

Dark and deep in the tunnels was the Priestess. Her song was a lament, sorrowful like elven songs often were. None of them ever really stopped mourning.

Perhaps she knew they were coming. Perhaps she had felt the druids die, the same way the huntress had felt the life in them extinct when the daggers pierced their brains.

The blessed of Elune are warrior through and through; the priestess was ready for them. It had been a dire fight, shadows of the tunnels cut through by the silver light she called, the white swirls of her dress and the sword she held. They fought in front of her lover, sounds of pain and clatter of metal braiding in with his calm breathing. Even as she died, blood pouring on the earth and her last gaze on him, he did not wake. Even as the assassins came to him, he did not wake. He never would.

That’s when they arrived, of course, for fate loves to be contrary. They were grouping up again, examining the relic they had come to take when their handler rushed in; time was up, the escaping druid had found reinforcement.

The tunnels of the Barrow Den were now a trap, for the two groups at once. The Horde rogues couldn’t escape without being seen, not while passing at a few feet away from Night Elves; but those same Night Elves didn’t know what was lurking in the shadows inside.

They had hidden, jumping from the dark rooks and corners in ambush when the elves were all the main room. The rest was a confusing following of fights, jumping back, hiding again.

They were a good team, professionals all of them. In the dark tunnels, away from the night sky, they lured the elves and picked prey easily. Not freely, of course. There were wounds, it was night elves after all. But it was going well, and reasonable expectations of succeeding in their missions were held.

 

That was, until more reinforcements came.

Knowing that someone else had botched the job wasn’t much of a consolation when their failure put their own mission and lives in jeopardy. If the other squad wasn’t dead already, the Blightcaller would have their heads. Perhaps it would occupy him long enough that he would forget her own. Because right now, it looked like the second objective was getting away and they were very badly outnumbered.

She glanced at the other shadowy forms hiding around her; another blood elf, her colleague and comrade; the boat-builder -she remembered that one from before-; two Deathstalkers -good shot that one-; the goblin -she too regretted to not have taken more time to know them better. If they survived that assault, perhaps-; two orcs, at least one Shattered Path -damn she missed Gorefang-.

They had made such a team, the two of them; Gorefang had renounced that life - or at least the part that involved crawling in the dark and cutting throats- but she missed being able to trust her back to him.

Still, it was a good team she was with. It had been long since she could work with other good scoundrels and rogues -not since Gorefang and Sun help her, was it that long ago?- and in a way, she was flattered to have been picked to work with them.

A soft touch on the goblin’s arm, and a glance to the other archer, before scouting among some of the giant roots on the side of the road.

Perhaps they couldn’t take back the Relic, too far, too numerous, but maybe they would be able to at least down some of them; finish the mission, and one elf less to fight tomorrow.

Emerging from the shadows of the wood, the Horde operatives attack.

The rain had finally stopped as the two elves stumbled back to the frontier of the Barrens, adrenaline holding them in one piece for at least one more step. One more bloody step until security and rest, for they left blood in their wake both purple and red.

It was a very sudden fall when they came to the rempart and just let go, sitting down or rather letting themselves crumble to the ground.

The panther turned around them, yellow eyes vigilant when her mistress could no longer be so.

“That… feth, that was something, wasn’t it?” Yasmyr was the first to talk, grey smoke clouding above her head. Narmë isn’t sure how many wounds she got but she can see her wince at her own laughter. ”I think you and I just started a war”

She’s wounded herself. Not as much, she was shooting when her comrade was in the melee, but that giant bear of an elf got her arm with one of his spears -and really who fight with two spears at once?-. “Not sure if it’s an honour or not.” she mumbles tiredly.

“Won’t know that until the end. If enough of the other teams feth up....”

“They'd better not”

“Blightcaller'll have their heads. And the rest of them, back on the front line before their corpses get cold.”

She didn’t answer, her gaze lost on the so traitorously calm forest.

The drums of war beats their rhythm in the south, and she can almost feel the steps of the Horde marching to Ashenvale.

Well, she never had started a war before.