[Story][Dybo/Nyarah] Fire in the Sky
[ Dybo is my rogue. He's had a rather lengthy inactive time, so I figured that, to explain it, I better do something to him - and what better way to introduce my Orc Death Knight, Nyarah? ]
Dybo Darkspear's luck was known to be horrid, at least, in his mind, and anybody that ever told him this wasn't true often heard a snort and snicker in response. "You dunno me, mate," the sneak would say, then he'd fall back into a broody silence and finish smoking his cigarette.
That night above Icecrown, Dybo's lack of luck proved true. He guided his Wyvern just out of reach of the Orgrim's Hammer, not that he really cared if he was recognized, but he failed to notice the Alliance's airship on its looming approach until he heard the faint thudding of its rotors and heard the cries to open fire. Similar shouts were heard from the Horde's airship, and suddenly the sky was ablaze with magic and gunfire.
Dybo shouted as he yanked on the Wyvern's reigns in a panic in his attempt to make the beast pull up, but the animal went limp beneath him as it was peppered with gunfire; a bullet had also split Dybo's armour and buried into his leg, prompting a sharp cry, especially as the animal began to fall to the valley below.
The ol' sneak squeezed his eyes shut and reached for the cord of his standard-issue parachute and prayed with all his might that it would work.
And it did.
The 'chude deployed with a fwoomph and Dybo was jerked up as he pried himself from the saddle of his mount. Unfortunately, several metres from the ground, the already-worn lines snapped and the sneak found himself plummeting the remaining distance into the snow, onto the remains of his mount, where he lay with little movement and in utter silence.
- - -
Nyarah Deathrattle's days were spent adding to an internal list of things she hated.
Icecrown. Wyverns. Scourge. Idiot Alliance. Idiot Horde. Men. Women. Cats. The Wind. Druids.
Her attention was drawn from her own thoughts to yet another pissing match in the skies above, but that time, she decided to allow her Wyvern - a bulky, snarly-looking old creature with plain armour and plenty of scars - to alight on a rock outcropping so she could watch. She sat that way for nearly half an hour as the firefight continued before an odd scent caught her nose.
Dead Wyvern. Sweat. Blood. Troll.
She sniffed again.
Nearby, too. Might be fresh meat.
Nyarah sharply kicked the Wyvern in the ribs and it glided to the snow below. A curt order under the Orc's breath guaranteed that the cranky beast would stay where it was, and she dismounted to perform her walk-around.
Five minutes of following her nose was rewarded with the dead Wyvern, which was already being scavenged by Ghouls. The Orc couldn't leave while Scourge were still standing, so she whipped her blades from her hips and made quick work of the creatures before moving on. Her eyes flicked over the area around the dead beast until she caught sight of some disturbance in the snow - a trail of blood headed west. Nyarah followed.
Another rock outcropping jutted from the tundra about fifteen minutes away from the site of the dead Wyvern and, from the shadow of it, she could smell blood and fear. The Orc gripped the handles of the swords that sat at her hips as she ventured closer.
'Click-click.'
The glint of metal in the shadow of the outcropping made the Death Knight pause and wait, because she knew she had nothing to gain from rushing in and getting herself shot.
"Who-who's there."
It wasn't so much a question as a demand. The voice was raspy and weak, its bearer was probably shivering from blood loss as much as from the cold that permeated the land. Clearing her throat, Nyarah responded,
"Horde."
She was starting to be able to make out a shape in the shadow of the rocks. It resembled a Troll, male, and was slumped against the outcropping, struggling to keep its head up. He seemed startled by her voice... and with good reason. On top of the ghastly echo that characterized the voice of most Death Knights, Nyarah's was unnaturally deep and ragged - raising it to a level that it could be heard from ten feet away took effort, and yelling just did not happen. That voice was how she earned her name.
"I-I need a medic," the Troll exclaimed. He was lowering his weapon.
The Orc closed the last little bit of distance between herself and the wounded soldier, bent down toward him, then grabbed him by the arm to pull him out into the light. This was met with a strangled cry from the Troll, who looked up at her with wide, pain-filled eyes.
There was no empathy in the dead, glowing eyes that stared back - she was simply inspecting him.
It was the tabard that stopped her from putting him out of his misery. The tabard was familiar.
Harbingers of War.
Nyarah snorted, then turned in the direction from which she came and whistled sharply. The Wyvern landed moments later, and the Troll mercifully lost consciousness as he was hauled onto the loudly protesting beast's back.
- - -
One Year Ago
"I'm joinin' the army."
Nyarah leaned back in her chair at the World's End Tavern and planted her boots on the table between herself and Krensythe Longblow, who nearly choked on his ale.
"Thought you were of the mind that they could fuck 'emselves with a broken beer bottle?" Kren said, when he recovered from the news.
"Yeah, well, army's the only thing that pays anythin'," Nyarah replied as she started to pick her teeth with a knife. "an' I don't like not havin' money."
The battered old elf shrugged his jacket off as he eyeballed his companion and asked, "Who you gonna join with? Dunno how many options there are, mind you, but you better make up yer mind before you lump in with the cannon fodder that makes up Thrall's army."
Grinning crookedly, Nyarah fished a tattered flyer from her vest and handed it over to the elf, who squinted at it as she spoke. The flyer was hardly readable, faded from age and the trials of rubbing against the Orc's bosom for months on end.
"Harbingers of War. They's gonna be goin' into Northrend too, small unit, prob'ly got it easier 'n all these other, bigger groups. 'sides, they's lead by a elf, how easy's that, huh? No offense, though, Kren, 'cause you ain't much ovva elf."
"Yeah, yeah," Kren grumbled and handed the flyer back. "You keep sayin' that."
The young woman grinned broadly. Unfortunately, Nyarah would never make it to Northrend - she'd never see the battlefield beyond the Plaguelands, and she'd never live to wear a Harbinger tabard.
- - -
Present Day
Nobody in Dalaran would even look at the Death Knight as she stormed through to the Ledgerdemain, even with the Troll she had slung over her shoulder. Upon entering one of the empty upstairs rooms, she dropped him onto the bed and worked at removing his armour, pausing on occasion to peer over her shoulder at the doorway. Once the sneak was stripped down, Nyarah kicked the door closed and set to work.
Three thick rolls of Frostweave bandages were set on the bed with a couple of vials of red liquid and another of a clear substance that was labeled "Cleansing Solution". Nyarah removed her gloves and bracers, tore a strip of bandage from its roll and dabbed it in the vial of Cleansing Solution, then began to swab her patient's open wounds. With those clean, she added a few drops of red potion before securely wrapping the injuries and moving on to the more troublesome parts - broken bones. Setting the bones with her patient being unconscious made the whole operation easier than she would normally have thought it to be, which made the operation take much less time than originally predicted. With that task complete, Nyarah pulled the man into an upright position, slipped his tabard over his head ... and left.
She didn't even look back.
- - -
The next morning, a package arrived at the Ledgerdemain Lounge that was addressed to the Innkeeper. In it was one hundred gold coins and the following note:
Innkeeper,
There is a troll in one of your upstairs rooms. Take care of him. When the money runs out, leave a note under the door of room number 8 at the Cantrips and Crows. Do not knock. What you need will arrive promptly.
N. D.
Luckily for the Innkeeper, the money would outlast Dybo's stay.
Dybo Darkspear's luck was known to be horrid, at least, in his mind, and anybody that ever told him this wasn't true often heard a snort and snicker in response. "You dunno me, mate," the sneak would say, then he'd fall back into a broody silence and finish smoking his cigarette.
That night above Icecrown, Dybo's lack of luck proved true. He guided his Wyvern just out of reach of the Orgrim's Hammer, not that he really cared if he was recognized, but he failed to notice the Alliance's airship on its looming approach until he heard the faint thudding of its rotors and heard the cries to open fire. Similar shouts were heard from the Horde's airship, and suddenly the sky was ablaze with magic and gunfire.
Dybo shouted as he yanked on the Wyvern's reigns in a panic in his attempt to make the beast pull up, but the animal went limp beneath him as it was peppered with gunfire; a bullet had also split Dybo's armour and buried into his leg, prompting a sharp cry, especially as the animal began to fall to the valley below.
The ol' sneak squeezed his eyes shut and reached for the cord of his standard-issue parachute and prayed with all his might that it would work.
And it did.
The 'chude deployed with a fwoomph and Dybo was jerked up as he pried himself from the saddle of his mount. Unfortunately, several metres from the ground, the already-worn lines snapped and the sneak found himself plummeting the remaining distance into the snow, onto the remains of his mount, where he lay with little movement and in utter silence.
- - -
Nyarah Deathrattle's days were spent adding to an internal list of things she hated.
Icecrown. Wyverns. Scourge. Idiot Alliance. Idiot Horde. Men. Women. Cats. The Wind. Druids.
Her attention was drawn from her own thoughts to yet another pissing match in the skies above, but that time, she decided to allow her Wyvern - a bulky, snarly-looking old creature with plain armour and plenty of scars - to alight on a rock outcropping so she could watch. She sat that way for nearly half an hour as the firefight continued before an odd scent caught her nose.
Dead Wyvern. Sweat. Blood. Troll.
She sniffed again.
Nearby, too. Might be fresh meat.
Nyarah sharply kicked the Wyvern in the ribs and it glided to the snow below. A curt order under the Orc's breath guaranteed that the cranky beast would stay where it was, and she dismounted to perform her walk-around.
Five minutes of following her nose was rewarded with the dead Wyvern, which was already being scavenged by Ghouls. The Orc couldn't leave while Scourge were still standing, so she whipped her blades from her hips and made quick work of the creatures before moving on. Her eyes flicked over the area around the dead beast until she caught sight of some disturbance in the snow - a trail of blood headed west. Nyarah followed.
Another rock outcropping jutted from the tundra about fifteen minutes away from the site of the dead Wyvern and, from the shadow of it, she could smell blood and fear. The Orc gripped the handles of the swords that sat at her hips as she ventured closer.
'Click-click.'
The glint of metal in the shadow of the outcropping made the Death Knight pause and wait, because she knew she had nothing to gain from rushing in and getting herself shot.
"Who-who's there."
It wasn't so much a question as a demand. The voice was raspy and weak, its bearer was probably shivering from blood loss as much as from the cold that permeated the land. Clearing her throat, Nyarah responded,
"Horde."
She was starting to be able to make out a shape in the shadow of the rocks. It resembled a Troll, male, and was slumped against the outcropping, struggling to keep its head up. He seemed startled by her voice... and with good reason. On top of the ghastly echo that characterized the voice of most Death Knights, Nyarah's was unnaturally deep and ragged - raising it to a level that it could be heard from ten feet away took effort, and yelling just did not happen. That voice was how she earned her name.
"I-I need a medic," the Troll exclaimed. He was lowering his weapon.
The Orc closed the last little bit of distance between herself and the wounded soldier, bent down toward him, then grabbed him by the arm to pull him out into the light. This was met with a strangled cry from the Troll, who looked up at her with wide, pain-filled eyes.
There was no empathy in the dead, glowing eyes that stared back - she was simply inspecting him.
It was the tabard that stopped her from putting him out of his misery. The tabard was familiar.
Harbingers of War.
Nyarah snorted, then turned in the direction from which she came and whistled sharply. The Wyvern landed moments later, and the Troll mercifully lost consciousness as he was hauled onto the loudly protesting beast's back.
- - -
One Year Ago
"I'm joinin' the army."
Nyarah leaned back in her chair at the World's End Tavern and planted her boots on the table between herself and Krensythe Longblow, who nearly choked on his ale.
"Thought you were of the mind that they could fuck 'emselves with a broken beer bottle?" Kren said, when he recovered from the news.
"Yeah, well, army's the only thing that pays anythin'," Nyarah replied as she started to pick her teeth with a knife. "an' I don't like not havin' money."
The battered old elf shrugged his jacket off as he eyeballed his companion and asked, "Who you gonna join with? Dunno how many options there are, mind you, but you better make up yer mind before you lump in with the cannon fodder that makes up Thrall's army."
Grinning crookedly, Nyarah fished a tattered flyer from her vest and handed it over to the elf, who squinted at it as she spoke. The flyer was hardly readable, faded from age and the trials of rubbing against the Orc's bosom for months on end.
"Harbingers of War. They's gonna be goin' into Northrend too, small unit, prob'ly got it easier 'n all these other, bigger groups. 'sides, they's lead by a elf, how easy's that, huh? No offense, though, Kren, 'cause you ain't much ovva elf."
"Yeah, yeah," Kren grumbled and handed the flyer back. "You keep sayin' that."
The young woman grinned broadly. Unfortunately, Nyarah would never make it to Northrend - she'd never see the battlefield beyond the Plaguelands, and she'd never live to wear a Harbinger tabard.
- - -
Present Day
Nobody in Dalaran would even look at the Death Knight as she stormed through to the Ledgerdemain, even with the Troll she had slung over her shoulder. Upon entering one of the empty upstairs rooms, she dropped him onto the bed and worked at removing his armour, pausing on occasion to peer over her shoulder at the doorway. Once the sneak was stripped down, Nyarah kicked the door closed and set to work.
Three thick rolls of Frostweave bandages were set on the bed with a couple of vials of red liquid and another of a clear substance that was labeled "Cleansing Solution". Nyarah removed her gloves and bracers, tore a strip of bandage from its roll and dabbed it in the vial of Cleansing Solution, then began to swab her patient's open wounds. With those clean, she added a few drops of red potion before securely wrapping the injuries and moving on to the more troublesome parts - broken bones. Setting the bones with her patient being unconscious made the whole operation easier than she would normally have thought it to be, which made the operation take much less time than originally predicted. With that task complete, Nyarah pulled the man into an upright position, slipped his tabard over his head ... and left.
She didn't even look back.
- - -
The next morning, a package arrived at the Ledgerdemain Lounge that was addressed to the Innkeeper. In it was one hundred gold coins and the following note:
Innkeeper,
There is a troll in one of your upstairs rooms. Take care of him. When the money runs out, leave a note under the door of room number 8 at the Cantrips and Crows. Do not knock. What you need will arrive promptly.
N. D.
Luckily for the Innkeeper, the money would outlast Dybo's stay.