Warcraft Highland Night

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**~8~8~8~**

He walks leisurely out in the warm summer night of the Arithai Highlands. The rolling hills are aglow with the full moon casting its silver shadow across the land. Stars, like tiny Azerothian diamonds, sparkle sprawled across the black velvet sky.

A smile creeps across his face, and he lets out a soft content sigh. His black armor melds perfectly with the darkness, making him just another shadow of the night. Twin daggers rest on either side of his hips, though sheathed and looped having no need of them in the peaceful midnight. Tonight they feel foreign and out of place and he wonders why he didn't leave them behind. But then he realizes that a foolish thought and determines not to think about his blades. Blades represent death and pain, which has no place on this tranquil night. He doesn't really like them, the daggers, bringers of agony and hurt, but he is a soldier, and it is his duty to be armed incase trouble arises.

But one day, he knows, killing won't be his trade, he will ply at peaceful work to create rather than destroy. It is a thought he day dreams of often on patrol and, as it does then, brings a smile to his face.

He sits at the base of an aged, lone, towering tree, it branches and roots spread wide. It is nearly shorn in two from a long ago lightening bolt but has fought through to remain tall and steadfast. Much like him. He rests his back against the trunk, making himself comfortable before slipping a hand into a breast pocket and producing an ivory pipe and a small snuff box.

The pipe is ornamented with small carvings of regal stags galloping through trees. Perhaps once belonging to a night elf, always the lovers of nature. The box is crafted of red Durotar wood, a small golden clasp holding its precious goods. Its lid is ornamented with the Hordes insignia carefully etched and darkened into the rose colored wood to match the Hordes color standards of red and black.

It was a gift from one of his orc friends currently on duty in the Basin, making it far more than just a simple Rose-wood box, but a link to the memory of a companion he knows might come back in a plain oaken casket.

He runs a bony finger against the grain of the wood feeling its coarse texture before opening the box and producing a pinch of dried Gold-thorn. It smells heavily of mulled spices, perhaps cinnamon coming to mind when one first smells it. He only takes a moment to appreciate the fresh aroma before stuffing it into the bowl.

A match flares to life with a slight hiss illuminating his face briefly before; darkening, completing its task, and being snuffed out altogether.

A cloud of gray smoke curls up to the dark heavens, and he takes a deep draw of the pipe. He relishes in the aromas encircling him, the heat from the bowl, and smoke a familiar tang in his mouth.

Closing his bright yellow eyes he allows himself another content sigh this time smoke exiting his mouth along with the sound. Smoking is one of his few pleasures still left to his decayed body; it relaxes him, now even more so in the mystically peaceful summer night.

Smoking leads his mind to pleasant thoughts of owning a small cottage in the Hillsbrad Foothills or along the mountains of the Arithai Highlands. Living off the land, perhaps with a wife.

Even though his heart no longer beats he feels a stab of pain go through it when thinking of children. He had always wanted strong strapping sons to teach his trades, or a beautiful daughter who would have stolen his heart away. But those times have gone now, no use dwelling on what would never be. Instead he focuses on what might be the possibilities of life after his war service and that soothes his troubled soul.

He doesn't sleep much, but feels himself drifting along the quiet hum of the Highlands. There's a silent lullaby rocking him into slumber, owls and crickets mingling into a soft symphony the conductor a gentle wind moving gracefully along the tall grass. The pipe slips slightly from his pale lips but he manages to stay awake and take another pull, still deep in thought.

Life has been unfair to him, circumstances of fate having made him what he is today. But he does not hate it; he enjoys this life as he did his first. He does not look upon himself as a mindless walking corpse as so many did. There was life in the bright yellow orbs of his eyes! A soul in the rickety looking, ugly, rotting husk of a body. To laugh, to cry, to hate, to love! All of these he still posses, so why should the outward matter? Amusingly he notes, it doesn't really bother him, and tough luck if it bothers anyone else.

Now, barely able to resist sleeps tempting realm, he upturns the ivory pipe dumping its precious charred contents. Embers glow briefly against the grass before dying away like fallen stars themselves.

He lies down on the cooling ground, his arms tucked behind his head. His eye lids flutter waiting for the last bit of slumber to claim his conscious.

The thunder of hooves across the land jolts him out of slumber like a splash of cold water drenching him. His body tenses, and reflexes jerk, he instinctively reaches for his daggers, the cold of their hilts sending a shiver through him.

Voices on the wind speak in a language he once knew but has become nothing more than meaningless jargon. One voice sounds commanding and angry, like a captain pressing his company forward.

Alliance mounts barrel past him like dark streaks of lightening, claws, paws, and hooves, churn up the earth in ugly clods. They ride completely unaware to his existence and defiling the serene night with their presence practically emanating death.

He can see tips of weapons sparkling like deadly slivers of moon light. And then all is quiet again, tremulously so. They are headed for the basin, he knows it with out a doubt, reinforcements eager to drive the 'evil Horde' away from all they perceive as good.

Hammerfall must be notified at once!

His fanciful thoughts of a peaceful unlife away from violence and the judging eyes of others are quickly placed away like the once peaceful night.

He no longer sees the quiet beauty but danger lurking behind every rock and knoll. The bright full moon is no longer beautiful but a safety risk in which he might be spotted along the open terrain.

He begins a fast pace across the Highlands, daggers brandished in case of trouble. There is a grim determination to his silent foot falls as he sprints across the land. The peaceful man is gone, he has a duty to his people, his queen, the Horde itself.

There will be peace one day, but he knows it will not be soon, perhaps he will never see it. Murmuring a quiet prayer to whatever deity may be listening he hopes fervently he is wrong.


End file.

Warcraft