Grim Views

Skumm slumps his shoulders and fixes his gaze at his feet as the wolf approaches. The young Blood Elf, Drinn, stands hidden not far behind.

The wolf is tall and fast, but starved to madness by the cruel Badlands where it lives. The scent of fresh blood sets its nostril’s flaring and its legs moving. Running, as fast as it can, to the source of the scent – the short, unassuming figure of the Forsaken.

The blood is not his own, but the offering of a vulture stricken down by a bolt from Skumm’s crossbow.

And now, as Drinn watches the wolf close the gap between it and the Forsaken, Skumm flexes his fingers.

His posture does not change, but his blood-smeared hand forms a fist. He has no pulse to quicken, no sweat to shed, no stomach to twist or nerves to recoil. He stands with his swords sheathed and years of experience behind him.

The wolf makes the last closing bound and then leaps with his jaw wide, his fangs reaching for the Undead’s throat. Drinn opens her mouth to shout a warning, but before she can make a sound, Skumm twists.

He raises his fist high.

He slips his arm down inside the wolf’s gaping throat.

The wolf chokes and gags, thrashing in the air as his body is held aloft by Skumm’s arm.

Then, his fist deep inside the wolf’s neck, Skumm spreads his fingers wide.
The wolf’s eyes bulge. Strange wet noises rise up from its throat. Sprays of blood spatter against Skumm’s face. He jerks his arm once, hard, and the sounds of bones breaking reach out from inside the wolf.

It stops struggling and slides off of Skumm’s arm and onto the ground.

Skumm begins skinning the beast as Drinn steps from her hiding place. The corner of her mouth turns up in a slight smile as she says, “Alright Wormbag. It’s a good trick but it’s not very practical. If I did that he’d have chewed half my arm off.”
“Nay, girl,” Skumm says, “He be doing nothing but trying to get yer hand out his neck once it goes in. The teeth don’t come down once, if ye be fast enough.”

Drinn lifts an eyebrow at him. Skumm says, “Just ye try sellin a pelt that be full of holes and bullets, eh? Then ye not be lookin so doubtful.”

Drinn says, “Not my trade, Skumm. Is this why you dragged me out here? To show me some little trick of yours?”

“Nay, but I’d like to see ye try it.”

“Not gonna happen.”

Skumm looks from the carcass to the elf. Rises to his feet. He lifts a finger to draw a bloody line down both of her cheeks. Something inside of Drinn, whether it be respect for the older rogue or fascination with his manner, causes her to allow him to do this. Then, as she imagines a smile forming beneath his mask, Skumm snaps his fingers and her whole field of vision turns white.

Blank.

She shouts his name as the muted sound of his boots on the ground shuffles away from her in every direction.

The white fades back into normal sight with the usual sting of a rogue’s blinding powder. Skumm is gone, but swiftly approaching the young elf is another wolf. She reaches for her daggers, but they’ve been stolen from their sheaths.

So Drinn flexes her fingers.

She forms a fist.

The forsaken rogue known as Skumm sits on the cool stone floor of a tomb, hidden in the hills of the Badlands. The young blood elf, Drinn, sits across from him. A small campfire pitches a weak battle against the total darkness. The crackle of the fire echoes in the sparse chamber. If he listened carefully, Skumm could hear the walls resonating with the sound of the girl’s heartbeat.

There are recesses in the walls, each one containing the scattered remains of someone whose name has long since been forgotten. A throne rests against the northern wall, upon which sits the skeleton of some unknown champion. Despite the blazing heat outside, the chamber itself is cool. The air is heavy with age. It raises small goosebumps along the girl’s slender arms.

Skumm wears the mask that she found for him - A brightly colored thing of Sin'dorei origin. He almost refused the gift when she brought it to him. For one, he preferred not to adorn himself with things that would remain in someone’s memory as unique. Secondly, such masks were known as marks of vanity. Though when he looked into the expectant eyes of the blood elf as she proudly offered him this gift, he couldn’t bring himself to disappoint her.

Soon after she gave this thing to him, Skumm had contacted the only tailor he knew, Acherontia, to craft something that he could give to Drinn in return. As she settled into her position in the tomb, Drinn pulled the spotless white mask away from her face. Skumm, however, kept his on.

By then, Drinn had come to understand why the rogue never unmasked himself. Though she could see no hideousness when she looked upon his face, she could sense how it had become a focal point for his insecurities. The animated corpse that sat before her had once been a man. While the curse of undeath granted many blessings, it often took much more than the life of its host. As she learned of Skumm’s vulnerabilities, she had had to re-examine the shallow knowledge that Silvermoon had fed her regarding Forsaken.

Tonight would prove to be another lesson.

Skumm sat with her in that quiet darkness for quite some time. The location seemed to hold some significance for him. As the weeks and months progressed since they first met, they had slowly taken small steps. Opening up to each other. Trusting each other. It seemed that he was preparing himself to make a leap – and so it came.

“My name,” he says, his voice sounding far different from what she was used to, “is Atticus Grace.”

He goes on, “In life, I was an assassin employed by Stormwind’s SI:7. I was part of the first finger, under the direct guidance of Matthias Shaw…”