Lost - A Rogue's Tale by Syreena

[Keeper Of Lore]

Lost. Syreena’s confidence had been growing over the last few weeks, and she had embraced it to the point of becoming too confident in herself. Now she found herself lost in the Swamp of Sorrows with a dwarven arrow sticking out of her thigh. She managed to lose the hunter and his pet by disappearing into the murky, crocolisk infested waters, and she didn’t emerge again until she reached the beach. The pain of the arrow was a reminder that she must always keep her guard up, regardless of how quickly her skills in stealth and assassination were growing.

Wet and shivering, Syreena collapsed onto the sand, and gingerly poked at the rotted flesh where the arrow protruded. The arrow didn’t wiggle much. It was lodged into her bone. She ground her teeth together, and locked her throat against any cry of pain that might give away her location. With her eyes squeezed tightly shut, she yanked hard at the arrow until it came out with a spray of tissue and bone fragments. With a whimper of agony, she laid back and looked up at the sky, doing her best to ignore the throbbing pain in her leg.

Pain was no stranger to the young rogue. She’d overheard conversations between other Forsaken. Many of them seemed to miss their former lives. For Syreena, however, her life began when Lady Sylvanas freed her. Everything that happened before that was not a life; it was a nightmare. Nevertheless, the training she received during that nightmare certainly came in handy now. She still remembered in great detail her very first kill.

[Keeper Of Lore]

Dried cornstalks rustled in the night breeze outside a lone farmhouse. At the edge of the field, staring at the house from the shadow of a bare tree, stood a slender figure, cloaked in dirty rags. The figure was young, barely a woman, and although she had features that suggested she might be attractive, her face had the pale, gaunt look of malnutrition, and her dark red hair was dirty and limp. Silently, she slunk through the moon cast shadows to the dark house, and slipped inside.

This routine had become more and more frequent with the passing weeks. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Syreena suspected that the old man’s luck was finally running thin at the card table. When she had first become old enough to accompany him on these trips to learn the trade, they were only once or twice a week. Lately, he was sending her out nearly every other night.

Syreena’s entrance into the house led her into the kitchen area. With a practiced eye and sure movements, she snooped around the room, placing anything that might be of value into an open sack.

“Momma?” inquired a sleepy voice behind her. Syreena turned to face the girl who was about her age in years, but much, much younger in life’s experience. The girl’s eyes widened in surprise, and the rogue had to move quickly to cover the girl’s mouth before she could scream.

Syreena stood behind the girl, one arm around her chest to hold her still, with her other hand securely muffling her mouth. She breathed deeply the sweet scent of the girl’s clean hair. She could feel the softness of the nightgown the girl wore, and was sure there were no stains or rips in this girl’s clothes. In the dim moonlight, Syreena could see tears rolling from the girl’s large eyes, over smooth flawless skin. Suddenly, Syreena was very conscious of her own ragged appearance—her dirty hair and clothes, her skin marred by bruises and scars.

Syreena listened for a moment to see if anyone else in the house was stirring, such as the girl’s parents or siblings. Family. Syreena had a family once, a long time ago, before her father lost everything he had, including his eldest daughter, in a card game. Vague memories still resided within her of a mother’s gentle touch, a father’s loving embrace, and playing and giggling with her sisters. This girl had all of that. Why did she deserve it, when Syreena was ripped away from everything she had known and loved at such a young age?

The girl whimpered, and Syreena realized there were tears welling up in her own eyes at the memories. Jealousy raged through her like a roaring river, blinding her to any thought other than this girl had everything, and Syreena had nothing but a dirty, smelly old alchemist by day and an abusive drunk old gambler by night, who sent her to collect his card money for him by selling his potions and robbing the innocent when sales weren’t enough.

Without even realizing it, her scrawny fingers had wrapped themselves around the handle of a carving knife from the counter. Seemingly on its own accord, her hand moved the blade around in front of the girl. The girl’s nails bit into Syreena’s forearm as she struggled to loose the grip over her mouth, but the rogue didn’t seem to notice. This girl had everything that Syreena wanted. If Syreena couldn’t have it, the girl shouldn’t either.

Syreena yanked the girl’s head back against her chest to hold her tight, and she plunged the dagger into her stomach with an upward motion. The girl struggled, but only for a moment. Syreena removed the knife and set it back on the counter, to lower the girl to the floor. Hot blood gushed over her hand and stained it red. The girl let out one last breath that left her body sagging and limp. The soft nightgown was now ruined. Syreena had ruined it, and she had taken a life. For the first time since the old man had taken her away, she didn’t feel completely helpless. She had the power to take a life.

[Keeper Of Lore]

On the way home that night, her hands sticky with blood, the feeling of power stayed with Syreena. She walked more boldly than she did on every previous night she burglarized, taking to the darker shadows only when she passed the local inn where men still talked and drank and played their games of chance.

When she crossed the threshold of the shabby potion shop under the old man’s quarters, however, that feeling abandoned her. She set the sack down in the corner and listened for a moment. She heard snoring. The old man was home. She washed her hands, picked up the sack, and went upstairs, keeping her feet close to the wall where the steps were least likely to creak.

Her efforts were futile. The old man awoke when she entered the room.

“It’s about time! Come here, my little prize,” he slurred as he stood up and staggered to her to take the sack of goods she had collected that night. He squinted as he looked into it, then tossed it aside. “That’s it? That’s all you brought me? I keep a roof over your head, feed you from my table, and this is all you can manage?”

Syreena cowered against the wall, murmuring apologies, but the old man grabbed her by the throat and hauled her up. She could smell the booze on his breath as he pressed his face closer to hers.

“You are a worthless little whore!” His free hand rose then slapped her across the cheek. He shoved her roughly aside, and Syreena cowered again at his feet. But he ignored her, turning back to the bed where he collapsed in a drunken stupor. Syreena was grateful. When he was this drunk, he usually slept the whole night through without bothering her.

Syreena didn’t sleep that night. She thought about a girl lying in a pool of blood on a kitchen floor, and about the family that would miss her. Syreena wondered if her own family missed her, and if her father was sorry he gambled her away. Or maybe they were glad to be rid of a worthless whore like herself. That life was far away, and no longer existed for her. She had years ago given up any hope of ever seeing her sisters again. This was her life now, and bad as it may be, she had come to accept it. She understood her place in the world, and in some twisted way, that understanding made it comfortable.

[Keeper Of Lore]

With effort, Syreena sat up to look at the arrow wound on her leg. Blood and ooze seeped from the hole. She rummaged in her packs until she found a bandage. She banished thoughts of the past from her mind as she wrapped her leg, and despite the pain, she sighed in contentment as she thought of how much her life had changed with her death. Death wasn't the end of life. It was the beginning.

The days of serving the Lich King were all a blur--marching and killing and not much else. It was disturbing for her mind and body to be so completely controlled by an outside force, but Syreena had been accustomed to control of one type or another for a very long time.

When she was freed from the Scourge to become Forsaken, everything changed. Suddenly, she was free, and for someone who'd never tasted it, freedom could be terrifying. Syreena was on her own, with no one to tell her what to do, or where to go. For weeks, she wandered aimlessly.

Then she found The Grim. Syreena smiled as she tied off the bandage. For the first time since becoming a card game prize, she had a family. The Grim, to her, was her home and her family and everything else she had lost in life.

With a soft groan, she stood, tentatively testing her wounded leg. It would bear weight, but the going would be slow. She hoped the dwarf had moved on by now, as she started down the beach, eager to go home.