The Forsaken mount was merely bone held together by bits of sinew laced with tendrils of dark energy. She favored these beasts to others. They never tired, nor did they fright. Drinn looked into the empty sockets only to be met with a stoic, taciturn interest. She wondered if it looked back. Her finger drew another line over the aged patina of its muzzle while she replayed the campaign that had just been won.
The anticipation was palpable in the great room of the stone keep. Ten had come together to demonstrate their prowess and claim their victory for the Horde and for themselves. A Troll’s voice carried from behind his tusks, explaining the two prong attack plan. Claim the Alliance’s fortress and kill everything along the way. The tactical delivery was hardly needed. The group was made up of experienced soldiers who had the strategy bred into them but respectfully no one cut his words short.
A Warrior sharpened his axe while Druid’s groomed their fur. A hunter strung his bow and whispered to its pet. A Warlock spoke in tongues paying no mind to the Shamans that gave blessings or the Priests that prayed. Drinn simply stood and stared at the wooden gate as if she could will it to open and let the fray begin.
The Gulch. This is where I first started.
Drinn’s lips quirked into a lopsided smile at the thought.
How appropriate.
The elven Rogue was not one for fame, or title but she carried a competitive streak that pushed her. She had spent the last two days disconnected from her usual routine and even sleep as she focused on her ambition. She choked on eagerness, certain this would be the campaign to sate the personal goal she had given herself.
The Troll’s speech finished and the battle cry rang letting her out of the cage. When she was less seasoned she had been a runner, then a defender. As she stepped out onto the rampart and mounted with the others she was a fighter. She drew her hood up and smiled before the ten drew down the hill as one impetuous, head on assault.
The air smelled of rain when the clash began but soon mingled with sweat, blood, and desperation. The sound of metal against metal resonated as swords were arched or parried. Axes lifted and cleaved while incantations were screamed at the sky.
Drinn dismounted and took up her place low to the ground. The world around her slowed in her mind as she focused and picked her first mark. Time stilled, the voice of thought silenced. It was this mindset that kept her coming back for more.
Green eyes narrowed on a tall blue skinned Elf who kept far from the others while calling on the powers of nature and night. Slowly Drinn crept in a half circle before closing the distance. Her form pressed against the Kal’dorei's back, a hand clasped over her mouth and nose. Thin steel parted flesh, the metallic smell of blood flooded her senses. When her dagger found baring she artlessly pulled through muscle and cartilage. As the trachea separated she felt it in her teeth.
Drinn released the Druid and left her to feed the soil with what she had left to bleed. She sunk back down into a crouch and rounded the clash with careful distance. Her gaze focused on another.
