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Fallen Son

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The moon had grown swollen over the canopy of trees that filled Duskwood so heavily. The air was crisp, sharp to draw in, and visible when expelled from the lungs. The cold did little to ease the young man’s nerves as it bit deep to the bone unrelentingly. In his haste to leave the sheltered life that surrounded him in Goldshire, he had forgotten to pack for cold weather. His destination had been the southern Vale, and who ever heard of it snowing there?

In the stead of a thick woolen jacket, he had a thin rag of a shirt that would have been quite lovely for the tropics. Duskwood, however, was another matter entirely. Aside from the ravenous flesh-eaters that dwelled in the fetid graveyards that lined the road, the grave robbers willing to slit an all too-loud throat, there were Worgen.

The young man had grown up hearing tales of the beasts that hailed from the silver pines, where his parents had once lived. Cursed beasts that walked like men, but truly were beast in appearance and thought; man-eaters, his parents would tell him at night. Until recently he took them as stories to grip him to his bed and not stray while the moon held dominion over the land.

With the introduction of the Gilneans into the Alliance, their “Particular” nature was noted on every information board from Darnassus to Stormwind.

And here he was. On a road that led him through the very maw of his inner most nightmares made real. Perfect. Of course, this was exactly what he had wanted, wasn’t it? An adventurous life; one filled with heroes and equal terrors. The sedentary life he had proclaimed before was simply too excruciating.

Every so often the young man would look over his shoulder, peering into the surroundings at his back; he had been taught this was a valuable skill in case one needed to turn back. Of course, it could just be paranoia, but was that truly a bad thing in this cursed wood?

“What was that?” he said aloud, turning around abruptly. His heart raced and his muscled tightened. He had only an old sword at his side that once belonged to his father. Relieving the metal of its scabbard, he held the weapon at the ready, as he had been taught to. But then…what was that there?

Sharply he swiveled on his feet to his right, his eyes peering out into the mist infected graveyard. Cautiously he moved forward, inch by inch, his heart threatening his chest with freedom.


His senses were keen; more so than that of even the best Gilnean hound. The moment the boy entered his wood he was aware. The boy’s scent wafted through the air, riding the wind to his nose as if begging, and pleading to be paid attention to. The scent was of Elwynn bread and Stormwind Stout; far too distinct to lose.

Lowering himself to all fours, he moved through the woods as silently as was possible for the lumbering Worgen. He pressed his body low to the ground, just until his bare chest could feel the tips of grass that carpeted Duskwood’s floor. Silently he crawled, his elongated claws providing perfect traction to the stalking creature.

The predator inside him ached and writhed within, like an addict absent his next joy. The closer he came to the boy, the stronger its need became; gods it was so painful. Within minutes he was just next to the boy, hidden near the base of a tree.

The boy’s eyes moved straight to the Worgen, forcing him to freeze. But the hoary color of the Worgen’s fur elegantly concealed his presence to the prey. In an instant, the boy’s attention was drawn to his side, towards the graves of Raven Hill. Now was his time, he’d not lose another!

The attack was so fast the young man from Goldshire had little time to defend himself, let alone the training. The beast was huge, the boy’s size plus half another; large claws as long as the boy’s fingers reached out for him with frightening speed. The pounding rhythm of the boy’s heart froze him in place, fear gripped his nerves, filling his stomach with ice.

Before those claws could tear their way to his face, the boy jutted his forearm forward as a shield. The claws sheared through his unprotected flesh faster than could be said; their tips scratching the surface of bone. The Worgen’s vice-like grip extended over the boy’s radial and ulna bones, and in his fury the beast snapped their oval shape parallel. The silent night was obliterated with the boy’s piercing cry; soon silenced with a palm the size of his face.

Still, however, the boy struggled against his attacker, trying desperately to recall some maneuver or throw that would free him of the Worgen’s strength, however, his mind was empty of all but fear.

All panic was ended when the Worgen’s maw was turned to the boy’s innards. Rows of teeth sheared flesh and rent muscles away, aiming for the boy’s stomach.

Rather than struggle and attempt to call for help, the young man simply lie, his fingers stroking the grass that also grazed his face lightly. The pain had pushed him to shock, and now was but a minor itch that didn’t even warrant a scratch.

“The moon looks so beautiful tonight…It truly does.” Said the young man as his red body liquor parted ways around his neck, staining his rag of a shirt.

Without warning the crack of a rifle cut through the sounds of the Worgen’s feast, followed by a sharp whimper. Two more cracks went off nigh simultaneously, followed by a loud curse. The sound of footsteps on the cobblestone road carried to the boy’s ears.

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