Chronicle of theAssassins Brace, Prologue: Lady of Slaughter

[Darkweald]

[Four years before the Dark Portal re-opened, spawning the Burning Crusade.]

“Do not despair. Brace yourselves for the attack!”

Ranger Kalanore shivered, despite his commander’s shout. Looking across the Elrendar River at the mass of Scourge rushing toward him, he could not help but have his heart seize up with fear. They were monstrous, ruthless, and they were many—much more than the small number of Farstriders who were the only thing standing between the undead horde and the Runestone being set up by the great magisters of Silvermoon. Kalanore tried to steel himself with the thought that if they failed to hold off this onslaught then there would be no way to restore Silvermoon from the devastation Arthas had wreaked upon it. They must hold until a detachment of Silvermoon Guardians can be spared to reinforce this position…but how can they?

The mass of Scourge before the small troop poured into the river. As mangled flesh and skeletons emerged and climbed up the near bank, the Farstriders rained arrows down upon them. A few fell; most continued forward, unfazed by the shafts protruding from their undead bodies.

I am not ready for this, thought the ranger. It was his first real battle. I would feel safer if only we had the support of the Silvermoon Guardians. How can we few Farstriders hold off an army?

No more time for thought: the ghouls were upon them.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

[Duskvale]

The spring thunderstorms rolled across the plains of Nagrand. Lightning lit up the landscape, dancing across the clouds to the rumbling beat of thunder. A Mag'har orcess stood at the entrance of her hut, breathing in the aroma of wet soil that permeated the evening air. Behind her, leaning quietly against the wall of the hut, wedged in between shelves and a chest, sat a young Sin'Dorei girl on the verge of womanhood. She clutched a bowl that rested upon her knees, the warm aroma of that night's stew visibly wafting upward from the container, wrapping about the beautiful, dark tresses that ran down her shoulders. Her intense green eyes stared at the bowl.

The Mag'har female sighed. Attempts at conversation would be pointless; long ago she had realized that she simply could not understand this creature. But this did not anger the orc at all. Rather, she pitied this young blood elf that lived in a land so far from her kind's ancestral grounds. Not that the proud elf would accept this woman's pity.

She continued to stand at the doorway, staring out across the pouring rain and thinking of her charge's parents. An imposing duo, emanating power. They showed up in Garadar one day, their daughter in tow, looking for someone to watch her. She didn't exactly understand why they didn't leave her in the sanctuary that was Shattrath: something about their distrust of the Aldor; these two were very high-ranking Scryers. Now they were leaving to join the fight in Shadowmoon Valley and wished to leave their daughter with the honorable Mag'har. They offered to pay well, so the orcess volunteered.

Relations between the old orc and the young elf started off poorly and never recovered. The girl seemed to flinch every time the orc said her name, Coppice, as if she hated hearing it. Eventually the young Sin'Dorei started spending her days out and away from the hut, and the two hardly interacted at all. Just as well; the Stillwolds had not paid her to keep the girl entertained, simply safe and well fed.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

[Darkweald]

Ranger Kalanore swung his Farstrider sword in a wide arc, hewing a pair of ghouls into four pieces. Bones, spider legs, and the bodies of fallen defenders piled around him, and yet the Scourge continued to flow up from the Elrendar at the beleaguered defenders. Kalanore had begun to adapt to the rhythm of melee combat, his sword swinging across, down, up, down, and across again. Scourge after Scourge fell before his blade, and yet wave after wave came to take their place. We can’t take much more of this! he thought in despair.

At that moment the Scourge advance suddenly slowed. For a split-second the Farstriders dared to believe that they had thwarted the charge, and then the waters of the Elrendar exploded outward as a massive form charged up from the river. The defenders unconsciously stepped backward as the abomination moved toward them, leaving Kalanore at the fore, his sword-point dragging along the ground as his grip loosened in awe. His jaw slack, he could only stare, and at the last moment thought to defend himself. As the massive concatenation of flesh lunged its scythe forward to rend the Ranger in twain, Kalanore took a step to the right and brought his sword upward through the monster’s limb, literally disarming it, and then arced it back down into the abomination’s heaving torso, where it became stuck. Kalanore frantically tried to pull his weapon back out from the lumbering carcass, but he had thrust it too far into the cavity so that the hilt was caught between bones and embalming fluid covered the handle preventing him from gaining a grip that could twist the sword free. He looked up in panic to see the abomination raising another of its arms, preparing to hew him apart with a giant cleaver.

A single arrow hissed through the air and ripped across the stitching in the monster’s shoulder. With nothing to hold it in socket, the arm fell from the body with a thud. The Ranger staggered backwards in surprise, and a lynx leaped over him straight into the abomination, which flailed in confusion at the big cat clawed it to shreds. Kalanore looked behind him to see his savior, and there She was. A lone figure standing upon a rise overlooking the battleground, a hood obscuring her visage, her cloak flowing in the fel wind. His heart filled with hope at the sight of her, and his comrades sent up a cheer. The Lady of Slaughter.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

[Duskvale]

The brown old crone started to turn away from the storm back into the hut when her ears caught the sound of hooves galloping into the camp. A rider on a talbuk raced straight to the central building of Garadar, where he held a conversation with the guards at the door. Though the rider was practically shouting, she couldn't make out any of the words over the sound of the pouring rain. Then one of the guards pointed at her. The rider turned his mount around and came galloping up to her doorstep. When he got close enough that she could discern his face in the dim light, she realized he was a blood elf.

"Are you the care-taker of Coppice Stillwold, of the Sin'Dorei?"

"I am. What business do you have with me?"

"A message from Shadowmoon Valley," the rider said, handing her a letter. "The Stillwolds have been slain in battle. She is the sole heir of their ranking. I have been ordered to take her back to Scryers Tier where she can be properly cared for. Where is the girl?"

The orcess pointed to the corner, only to turn and see a cold bowl of soup. She cried out in surprise, staggering backward, her hands unconsciously reaching for her belt, where they failed to find either her dagger or coinpurse.

----------------

[Darkweald]

No one knew where she came from or why she chose to hide her features, but in these desperate times no one cared, either, as long as she fought with the Sin’Dorei. The first time she fought with the Farstriders she introduced herself as Saturna Starsummit, but later took on the name of Sak’met, the Lady of Slaughter. Her bow had turned the tide of the Scourge on many occasions, so that her deeds were renown in all of Silvermoon. They honored her—or they would have, if she had ever stuck around long enough after the day’s fighting had ended.

Her companion Sekhmet jumped down from the slain abomination and looked up at her for his next command. With a wave of her hand it roared and pounced upon a skeletal warrior that had begun another charge against the Sin’Dorei. The Farstriders cheered again and let loose a volley with their bows. Though ghouls collapsed under the hissing fury of the arrows, even more Scourge than before streamed up from the bank of the Elrendar River.

Kalanore pulled a Beaten War Axe off a fallen skeleton and threw himself once again into the fray. Sekhmet growled and fought by his side, and more than once an arrow whizzed over his shoulder to knock the skull off a skeletal raider about to attack him. With the Lady here, we have a chance to both win this battle and come out of it alive.

And then he heard a shout from behind, and a cheer broke forth from the defenders. A detachment of Silvermoon Guardians had arrived to assist them in protecting the Runestone! The day was saved, indeed! Ranger Kalanore smiled to himself, gripping his axe and turning back to face the battle.

Sekhmet struggled in vain against the web that trapped her to the ground, roaring out in an attempt to warn the male blood elf whom she had been helping in battle, but the Nerubian was already upon the ranger, seizing him and pulling him forward to its poisonous mandibles.

Kalanore’s legs twitched, and then went limp.

[Darkweald]

(( end prologue ))

[Nasuj]

((Very nice! Welcome to TNG!))