World of Warcraft®

An envelope is delivered to a dock just outside Darnassus. The item is stuck to a wooden plank by what looks to be a rough, orcish skinning knife. The deliverer of this message stabbed it into the wooden face with a single pass by wind rider, without slowing down, and hastily makes his retreat by air, howling with rage.

The letter is written in perhaps the shoddiest attempt at Darnassian characters that has ever been seen. The wording seems mostly right, but the letters themselves are rough, coarse, clumsy, hardly legible. Like someone sat down with one of Dalaran's copies of "Learning Darnassian in 10 Easy Steps!" and foolishly thought it would be sufficient for learning the language. But, with a close eye, and with several hours dedicated to figuring out JUST what the letter means, the text should go something like this:

Dear Night Elf Huntress (You Know Who You Are!)

Of course, you realize, this means war.

I came to Darnassus under a banner of peace, in good faith. Am I DRESSED like a spy? Do you think I wear plate because I mean to sneak about, and steal Alliance secrets? And, furthermore, have you LOOKED at a calendar recently? Perhaps I am mistaken - after all, I am a warrior, not a scholar or thinker - but are many of the Elders we are encouraged to honor at this time of year not among YOUR people, and in YOUR territories?

Between the joyous holiday and the recent accord that I had agreed to sign, an accord wherein I agreed not to act as an aggressor in your home territories, I thought perhaps I had done enough to warrant just a little decency. Perhaps even a little honor from you. I see now that I was mistaken!

As I am sure you know, not a single night elf in Darnassus was slain during my visit, or seriously harmed. Not a one. For once in my life, I attempted to cause as little trouble as possible, in the spirit of peace and goodwill. And for reference, that last sentinel attacked ME first. Shot me in the back. Repeatedly. I was fighting for my life, as you were standing there, watching, waiting, and closing in for the kill. If I live to be five hundred years, I will not forget the wicked look on your face, that...that GRIN!

At least you granted me the courtesy of a quick death.

When I washed up on the coast of Darkshore, multiple arrow wounds in my chest, claw marks along my arms and legs, slashes in the chinks of my armor, I glanced up at the sky. I know not how I was revived, or...or by what means I am still alive, but I consider it a gift from the spirits of my father, Mok'Rukh's ancestors...the spirit of the orc Rukh, and the warriors of his clan.

As I looked up at the sky, do you know what I realized, night elf? I realized that I had to get up, and walk home, despite my multiple, freely bleeding wounds. I had to live. I have many good, beautiful, wonderful people in my life, and I realized that I must live to see them again.

That, and I realized that in no lifetime - this one, or any other - could I POSSIBLY let YOU outlive ME. Oh, yes. I think you do not yet realize what you have done, huntress. I do not believe it would have killed you to be civil.

This outright aggressive act, however, will cost you dearly. Most dearly.

I will find you. In Warsong Gulch, Arathi Basin, Alterac Valley, it matters not. Let the field be of your choosing. If you would prefer to die somewhere like Wintergrasp, huntress, I am CERTAINLY not aversed to honoring your wishes. Revenge is a dish best served cold...and it is very cold in Wintergrasp. Mark my words, when I find you - and I WILL find you - vengeance will be mine.

Do not mistake my words. This is not a rallying "For the Horde", nor is it a damning "Death to the Alliance!" This has nothing to do with the Alliance, or the Horde. This is pure, and simple. This is between us. This is personal.

My name is Drakehide. Prepare to die.

A response in shoddy Orcish (nearly as bad as the Blood Elf's Darnassian) arrives at the house of Rukh, addressed to "Drakehide" It reads, plain and simple.

Next time, tell that to the sentinels BEFORE their distress call interrupts my dinner.

A rather elaborate drawing at the bottom shows an example of the next time the Son of Rukh makes that mistake. Rather, it shows a mutilated Blood Elf corpse, bloody and shot with many arrows. With further examination, it is noticed that Drakehide's head seems not to be attached to his body

((Note that I mean you no IRL ill will. You know I love ya, Drake :) ))

A second letter is tacked to the first one, stuck there by a sharp, truesilver arrow.

P.S. The name's Tyr. Die yourself

((In IRL, I thought that little Darnassus encounter was BLOODY funny. xD The chase on the docks was brilliant, and the fact that I completely neglected to look where I was going while backing away was just...well, comic. xD Honestly, in-game, I can't even see Drake being angry about this for an especially longer period of time. He's just irate for now. ^^))

A second letter arrives. This time, rather than being delivered by wind rider and speared to a dock, it is politely delivered to Tyrynna by a spirit wolf. The first half of the letter is the same shoddy attempt at Darnassian as the previous letter.

Tyr,

Do not think this will go unanswered. You cannot frighten the sons of Rukh, with pictures of arrows in corpses! Rest assured that when I have finally caught you, and killed you, my treatment of your corpse will be FAR worse. I intend to paint my face in your blood! I will make a new coat, of your skin! I will - !

At this point the characters trail off, as if suddenly interrupted. A second, more formal, and more elegant style of script takes over from this point going onward. It is significant to note that the parchment is also stained in spilled Moonberry Juice.

Dear Tyr of Darnassus,

I write this so that you know the sons of Rukh bear you no ill will. I was able to hear the commotion in Darnassus from our home in the Northern Barrens - so, I hope you will take me at my word when I say I am deeply sorry for the ruckus my son stirred up, and the trouble he has caused you.

Also know that he will not trouble you in the future. It has been many moons since I was a warrior, but even I see folly in the attempt of a lone individual, for whatever reason, trying to sneak into an enemy capital wearing a Horde tabard, wearing heavy armor, and carrying the sheer number of weapons my son keeps on his person. As for the sentinel that "snuck up" on him, I will speak with that fine Keedriel Boughstrider boy, and arrange for my son to go through survival training. To become more aware of his surroundings. AFTER he cleans his room.

So, again, I say that the sons of Rukh bear you no ill will. If, however, you wish to send me - er, I mean us - an offering of cake to secure my friendship - er, I mean OUR friendship - I certainly will not be aversed to such a gesture.

Aka'Magosh! Spirits be with you.

Mok'Rukh, son of Rukh, eater of cake that remains to be eaten.

The next morning, the Son of Rukh wakes up to find himself not in his own bed. Instead, he is tied to a chair in a dark room. Not three feet in front of him, a hearthstone, which plays the AAMS jingle, has been left, next to a card reading "Psychological Warfare!" Accompanied by a cartoonish raspberry face.

Drakehide's screams could be heard from the House of Rukh, where the orc Mok'Rukh happily munches on cake.

Mok'Rukh glances up, between mouthfuls of cake, hearing the strangest sound in the distance. There is a pang of guilt in him, for a moment, as he realizes that someone he cares dearly for may be in dire peril.

"Hmm," he ponders, "Perhaps I should go and - "

But then Mok'Rukh remembers that he has cake.

"Bah," he chuckles, reaching for a fork and cutting off another piece of the dessert for himself, "He's a grown lad. Sure he can take care of himself."

Offering no sort of explanation for his presence, Mok'rukh is joined by Bralox. The two orcs have cake, scratch themselves, and nap. It is considered a glorious day.

((WIN, WIN, WIN! I just about DIED laughing when I read that. Well played, sir, well played!))

Unfortunately, Mok'Rukh's words would not prove true. Drakehide could not take care of himself. Or rather, even if he COULD, he failed to that night, when he and a small strike force had entered the Stockades to rescue an old friend from Alliance captivity.

Roriel, Pakaza, Andaendis, Akira, Kagran...all of them were hearthing from the depths of the rocky prison to their respective homes, as the Alliance forces and a familiar night elf huntress had stormed in to meet them. Drakehide, like all of the others, had reached into a satchel at his side and grasped the little stone.

Moments before he could brush the rune on the hearthstone with his fingertips, a salvo of arrows shot through, from the dark. Drake watched with horror as one of them came dangerously close to Akira - only, in his distraction, to hear the sharp punching sound of an arrow piercing his own saronite gauntlet. He howled in anger, dropping his hearthstone.

The others were gone, in a flash of green.

There was an explosion.

The cavern was collapsing.

Everything went dark.

* * *

Darkness. Everything was darkness, and silence. He could not see, or hear, save for the echo of his own breathing. He was bound. He was...elsewhere. This did not smell like the stockade, the air was not as arid, or as stale.

He was a prisoner. But...whose prisoner? And where?

"I am Drakehide," he called out, angrily, "Son of Rukh! You...you cannot hold me here forever! Release me!"

Within seconds of his cry, The Son of Rukh encountered a dagger held to his neck. Behind him, was the sound of a familiar sounding elf giggling wickedly.

"I told you, Drakey. I told you not to bother me. I told you to get your --- out of Alliance territory, to STAY OUT OF MY WAY. Did you listen...?"

The thought is interrupted as Tyrynna bursts into laughter. The Blood Elf feels a startling, unbearable pain in his head.

"NO," Tyrynna cackled. "You DIDN'T listen! Now, I have you, right here, free to torment at my leisure!" She laughed louder, and louder, a twinge of pure, violent insanity apparent in her voice.

The pain grows worse, worse, and worse still as the Emerald-haired elf's raises her voice to her cackle.

Drakehide clenched his teeth and squirmed a bit. The ropes were weak. He could easily break free of them. And with Tyrynna distracted, he could just as easily escape into the night. The Son of Rukh smirked at his glorious plan, but only, minutes later, to have the dagger sitting up against his neck once again.

"Not so fast," Tyrynna sang. "You aren't going ANYWHERE."

Then, with the pain so unbearable, Drakehide finally gave in, and slipped into unconsciousness, the sound of the other elf's laughter ringing in his ears as he fell to his forced slumber...

((To those who I know IC to whom I keep making the claim that Tyr is insane, now you know how she copes. I'd feel VERY sorry for Drake right now.))

Drakehide awoke. The blood elf had no concept of time, or how long had passed since he'd fallen into darkness and slumber. Everything hurt right now - his forearm, where he had been pierced by the arrow, stung viciously, but the pain...that undescribable, inexplicable pain, coursing through him...it was worse. Much, much worse.

The son of Rukh, in his many days as part of the Horde's active forces, had known that capture and torture were possibilities, though unlikely. The Alliance rarely took prisoners in Warsong Gulch. But, if captured, he had been warned that one could expect torture. He thought he'd been prepared for such an event, but this pain...it was not something he had ever experienced. It was not something he could prepare for.

Drakehide also couldn't figure out why he was being held, or tortured. He fully expected interrogation, or that intelligence he possessed on Horde current affairs and the relative strength of Horde forces at different strategic points might be of value, but...Tyr was not asking any questions. None at all. So...whatever she wanted, it was clearly not information.

Perhaps this was vengeance, and perhaps this time vengeance was not on the side of the son of Rukh. It had been his claim for years that his clan had delivered thousands of scalps to the warchief...perhaps, now, he was answering for those scalps in full.

Part of him longed to relent. To break. He could not allow himself to. He thought of Aeshi, and all of his friends in Homeland. He thought of the people who needed his help right now, like Keedriel and Fearow...he could not leave them to their fates, not like this. He had no means of contacting them...no means of escape...which meant that he had to survive. He had to endure.

He knew that soon the lances of pain and fire in his mind, arcing through his body, would resume. He was not naive, and did not think for a moment that Tyr would be satisfied with their previous session. He groaned as he awoke, laughing darkly, but weakly.

"You..." he snarled, "Are going...to have to do...better than that, huntress."

Meanwhile, in the Northern Barrens, Mok'Rukh awakened in his hut's humble kitchen, seated at the table. Across from him, still snoring, was Bralox - a vulgar yet insightful fellow who had randomly arrived yesterday, almost at exactly the same time that Mok'Rukh had received cake. What a strange coincidence...

Cake. Mok'Rukh glanced at the empty plate, littered with crumbs, at the table's center, and realized that the cake was gone. He frowned, sadly, but then his attention was drawn to a curious note, also on the table. He picked it up, and read it eagerly.

Husband,

Do not panic when you realize I am gone. I have taken a caravan to the Crossroads. I shall return by this time tomorrow. Your dinner is in the ice-box.

- Wife

Well, this was inconvenient. Mok'Rukh curiously wandered over to the "ice-box" - aptly named because it was a box that one filled with ice, and it was insulated so that the ice would stay cold, and keep other contents cold. It was a strange device that Caer'ias Aeddan had given him and the wife some time ago. He popped open the lid, not sure what he would find inside...

And his eyes went wide with delight.

A two-tiered chocolate cake with a plethora of fruit native to the Barrens, covered with sprinkles, and frosting, and all sorts of other delightful things. He slammed it down on the table, grinning excitedly, and probably waking his new friend up in the process.

"More cake, mister Bralox?" Mok'Rukh inquired.

"Better than what, exactly?" the Son of Rukh heard behind him as he spoke. He looked behind, but it was too dark to tell if Tyr was actually there, or if it was but a figment of his imagination.

"Well, I'm waiting. Better than what?"

Drakehide again turned, this time to his left, but still saw nothing. The voice seemed to echo around him.

"Better than capturing you and keeping you from those you need to protect?"

Before his eyes, a vision of Fearow and Keedriel's battle flashed. It was bloody and gruesome, with Fearow emerging as the victor, and Keedriel left to die in the Barrens.

"Better than ripping you away in your guildmates' time of need?"

Another vision ensued, this one being of his fellow Homelanders with whom he'd invaded Stormwind. Brief glimpses of Roriel, who had led the endeavor, Kagran, Andaendis, Akira, and Pakaza, who'd they'd been rescuing in the first place.

For a brief moment, Drakehide remembered the arrow that had come so dangerously close to Akira. He wondered in the back of his mind what had become of him and the others.

Tyr let out a dark giggle as she went on. "Or perhaps better than keeping you away from a certain Drakkari lady-friend of yours..."

The previous two visions faded, replaced by one of Aeshi, his lover and savior, but was quickly replaced by a spike of mental pain, possibly worse than what was experienced however long ago.

Tyr finally appeared behind the Blood elf, her faced warped into a twisted, insane grin.

"So," she cooed, "What would you like me to show you next, BRONTES EMBERWING?"

Drakehide sat stock-still. Up until a few seconds ago, the enraged warrior had been prepared to shake, and struggle against his bindings, and make a mad break for freedom from...from wherever he was. Now...he felt fear. He found himself at a massive disadvantage.

That...and the pain, running like a river's course through his whole person, prevented him most effectively from escaping at all.

How did the huntress know so much about him? It made no sense...he had told few, very few, his blood elf name...and the number of people who knew about his closest friend's origins, he could count on one hand. Somehow...this huntress had discovered each and every one of the secrets that Drakehide guarded, as if...as if she was inside his very mind.

But...that was impossible, wasn't it?

...wasn't it...?

No. Drakehide would not allow himself to be fooled, or manipulated by this purple-skinned menace. He would not play into her little game. However she was doing this, the images in his head, the sharp pangs of agony in his mind, laying his secrets out bare before him...there had to be a perfectly rational explanation for all of this. He would not accept defeat at her hands. He would not surrender.

"I - AH! I am...not...sure you've anything left - DAMN YOU - to show!" he spat, accompanying the statement by a scowl. He grunted in pain, struggling against the fire and lightning that was coursing through him, through his mind and body. "I applaud - rrrgh! - all the int-intelligence...gathering...it must have taken you t-to learn these things. B-but I will not...be broken...by this cheap - BY RUKH'S AXE, RRRGH! - PARLOR trick of yours!"

((EDIT AND P.S.: We SO have to copy a transcript of this to the Homeland forums when we're done. This is awesome so far.))

The "Purple-skinned menace" scowled, but her tone remained the same.

"Parlor tricks, you say, Brontes? I'm hurt!"

Her eyes glowed a disturbing shade of scarlet as Drakehide's pain worsened. Tyrynna let out a cackle. "And you say I have nothing more to show you? No, no, no, I'm not stopping there!"

Before his eyes, all three visions returned, the only sighs visible in the total darkness. Tyr grinned darkly, demonically, even, as the three images twisted into one, of a bloody field, the corpses of his many allies strewn about it.

Aeshi, face twisted into a final, horrified scream, a blade sticking out of her chest.

Keedriel, who looked so peaceful he could've been sleeping, if not in a pool of his own blood.

Akira, pierced by too many arrows to count, his head attached only by the smallest strands of skin and flesh.

Mok'Rukh, face planted into a small white cake, Tyr's polearm impaled through his back.

Many others that Drakehide knows and cares about lay about the bloodied fields. Tyr stands over the masses, holding the head of a certain Fehl by the ponytail.

"And you realize, little Blood Elf," Tyr giggled, now holding said polearm to Drakehide's neck. "I can do all of that."

Drakehide, for a moment, felt empty inside. Hollow. Defeated. All he could see were those visions...those terrible, terrible visions...

He...he couldn't save them. He couldn't make the visions stop. He couldn't make it all just...go away. Keedriel...Keedriel, who had been a good and faithful friend, he was gone. Just like that. Akira, so full of energy, attitude, and hope...whose future had looked so bright...now he was dead, and Vel was a widow. Mok'Rukh, who had been a father and mentor in so many ways to Drakehide...he couldn't save him, either. Fehl...Fehl, who had been a good friend, who had forgiven Drake so many failings before...now she was gone, too.

The worst though...the worst was that one, piercing, lone scream. That terrible, terrible scream. The sound of a blade piercing flesh, the look of pain and horror...

He could not feel the pain, that boiling feeling in his mind, or in his body. He could not feel her mental assault on him. Drakehide could not even feel the polearm, at his throat. All he had held dear...all he had lived for...everything was gone now. Gone...gone away...

Nothing mattered now.

No.

No, this could not be. This was not possible. This was not real. Visions...they were all just visions. Horrible visions nonetheless...but he would not let them come to pass. He could not. Drakehide began to struggle against the bindings, not violently or chaotically, but systematically, testing the bonds. He was trying to be as smart about this as he could.

"If you can do what you claim, night elf," Drakehide hissed, "You would have. It would be their REAL bodies laid out, before me. You...are a deceiver. I...will not...play...your...GAMES!" He continued struggling against the bindings, trying to ignore the pain continuing to course through him.

Tyrynna just continued laughing. That dark, irritating, insane laugh.

"What's so funny, deceiver?" The Son of Rukh hissed.

Tyrynna smiled, almost playfully, sanely. Hardly. "The way you struggle, the way you writhe... And you don't even realize the obvious! It amuses me!"

So this is all it was. A game. Or is it...?

Drakehide looked down in horror. His arms, legs, were completely free. But he couldn't move, as if he were bound. Was it another trick?

Unfortunately, he didn't have the time to ponder that before a blade was driven into his shoulder, adding to the already near unbearable pain.

Tyrynna grinned. "You're a strong one, Brontes. Not even the sight of your closest friends dead could break you... but I CAN do worse...much, much, worse! Hah, I can show you! I could tear you apart, into little shreds, and not allow you to die until you've seen those images a MILLION TIMES! You underestimate me greatly! I could--!"

Suddenly, she stopped. For a moment, the scarlet color faded from her eyes, as did Drakehide's pain, almost as if she were...regretting? As if she didn't mean this...

But the Blood Elf's reprieve was quickly cut short. The grueling mental fire returned full blaze, the pain nearly knocking the elf unconscious again. Tyr screamed, as if trying to scare something away.

Suddenly, the elf could move his arms and legs again. Tyrynna drew her bow and aimed.

"Enough of this!" she called, "Tonight, you will break!"

Drakehide was confused, mildly, by the conflicting behaviours in Tyr that he was witnessing. The confusion didn't last long, though, when the bow was pulled up, and when Drakehide found himself in the huntress' sights. He came to his senses, realizing that he was once again mobile, and that he could move, and saw - to his great surprise - that his weapons were close by, and that he still had all of his armor on.

He couldn't help but wonder, now, how much of this - this place, his capture, any of it - had been dream, and how much of it had been reality.

The first thing he did was go for his shield. Why? Because, while a sword would be a more fitting weapon for a son of Rukh, swords were a notoriously poor means of catching arrows. That, and the gaping wound in his shoulder where the blade had been driven in was mildly preventing him from any reasonable use of his sword arm.

"Break? I will do no such damn thing," Drakehide growled, "Not here, not now."

He rapidly fastened the shield to his arm and barrelled forward, the bulwark high, ready to catch the arrow when Tyr finally let it fly.

"Give me...your best shot, night elf!"

Tyr grinned wickedly. "You'll regret saying that!" She let out, not one arrow fly, but five. Many collide with the shield, but one impales Drakehide's shoulder, through a crack in his armor.

The mental pain returns full force, as if his head were hit by a glaive. The Son of Rukh clenched his teeth, then charged, shield in hand. Tyr chuckled.

"Come get me!"

With that, Tyrynna disappears, only to reappear behind him, aiming right for the head.

She fires.