The sun set slowly on the shores of Stranglethorn Vale. The statue on Janerio’s Point welcomed it, basking in its glory, with arms outstretched wide and a smile that haunts any child’s nightmare. Booty Bay, the home of pirates, thieves, and those of ill repute, seemed to come alive at dusk. Merchants hawked their wears in side streets and dark alleys. People moved about the streets some looking for adventure and others mainly looking for monetary gain. The auction house was packed with smugglers trading goods between enemy lines. A fight broke out overhead on one of the open walk ways and no one seemed to care. A few stood around and watched. Placing bets on who would win. People in this town did not seem to care about much, especially when a stranger in hooded cloak walked quietly amongst the crowd. His face barely visible behind the black hood but the eyes you could not miss. They were a deep dark black set back in shallow eye socks, haunting and eerie. He walked slightly bent over and slowly scanned the crowd as if looking for someone or something. He came to a stop looking up at the fight and shook his head. “Miscreants”, he muttered to himself and kept walking.
Finally he came upon the building he was looking for, the Salty Tavern Inn. Loud noises erupted from within laughing, talking and the sound of heavy metal mugs hitting tables. The stranger took a deep breath and walked slowly inside pulling his hood closer to his face. The air inside was stale and smelled of pipe smoke. Right at the front door the stranger noticed two dwarves with long white beards and balding heads conversing in their native tongue. They looked up at the stranger and cursed under their breath. One blew smoke from his pipe in the stranger’s direction. The other laughed and patted his comrade on the shoulder. The stranger kept walking. He had become use to this behavior, his kind was rarely welcome anywhere. Slowly he made his way up the stairs looking for an empty table. The inn was packed tonight. A large ship from Kalimdor had docked in the bay earlier and it seemed that the crew had taken up rooms here for the night. At last he found a table and sat down as he motioned for a barmaid. A slim human woman sauntered over to the table, dipping low to give the guest the best view possible of all things not necessarily on the menu. He seemed not to even notice and ordered a mug of the best ale. Looking a bit affronted she finally took a full view of the man under his hood. She gasped looking horror struck and hurried away.
He was use to this reaction. In his other life he was handsome, arrogant, and quite the ladies man. In this life he was scared and feared by all. Death had been quick and at least he could not remember the pain as some of his brethren. Known as Jonathon Miller, a human of slightly above intelligence, before his death he studied magic in Daralan. Not the quickest apprentice in his class but still capable. Then word came that his village on the outskirts of Daralan were under siege from the Scourage, he rushed to find word of his family. He did not know what to expect when he reached home and what he found destroyed him. His village was swarming with undead. People he had known all his life were either lay dead on the streets. Then he say her, his love. She lay in the town square with her eyes wide open in horror. He ran to her all the while throwing spells left and right to keep the vile undead from killing him. It wasn’t enough, they were to strong and before he could reach her they engulfed him. Then in a flash of light there was a huge explosion. A few days later mages from the Daralan came to survey the city and search for survivors. They found no one. The village a ghost town and all that was left was ashes.
“I know you are here,” the stranger said in a hushed and raspy voice. Slowly he removed the hood from his traveling cloak finally showing his face or what was left of it. The stranger was Forsaken or undead as most people like to say in not so polite conversation. There was no skin only bone. His face was shallow and what had appeared to be eyes where not eyes at all but empty black and lifeless sockets. “I bring word from the clan Lexanya.”
“There is no clan,” said a female voice from no where and before he could react a dagger was at his throat and in an instant she appeared behind him. In another life he would have fancied her, for Lexanya was beautiful. Her shoulder length hair was an auburn red and across the bridge of her nose danced small freckles. Her eyes were a very pale shade of emerald green. Unlike most of her kind, Blood Elves addicted to the arcane, they did not grow with a fierce green fire. She wore an expression not of hate but of annoyance. “Why are you hear Jonathon?”
His expression did not change even with the dagger pressed close against his throat and the use of his past name. He lifted the mug to his lips and took a sip. “If you remove the dagger from my throat old friend I shall tell you.”
“You should know me better than that Jonathon.” She continued using his real name even after death, to annoy him yes but to also make sure he held on to some semblance of humanity. “Tell me why you are here and if I like your story I will remove the blade. I warn you it’s coated with poison. So I do not have to slice you open to kill you, again.” The patrons in the inn did not come to his rescue. In fact they did not even bother to turn and look their way.
“I would expect no less from you Lexanya.” He turned his head slightly to glimpse her and what seemed to be a smile danced across his face. She stood in silence for a moment and as pressed the blade closer to his throat to prove her point. “You have not changed a bit my old friend.”
“Enough with the pleasantries! Why are you here? Make it quick. The only reason I have not killed you already is because twice would be cruel.”
He let out a sigh and the poison coated dagger scratched his neck. “Fine we shall do this your way. I do not know why you must be so hostile.”
“Flamededge!” She exclaimed in annoyance. Finally calling him by his name in death. He knew this as a sign to not play the game anymore.
“I bring word from the clan Lexanya,” he waved his hand to dismiss her from telling him yet again she would kill him. He knew she could, for he’d seen the rogue dispatch of men quickly and wipe the blood away from her dagger with a slight smile across her face. “Lexanya, we are still here. We are your friends, your family. Come back home.”
“Begging does not become you Jonathon.”
“Lexanya, hear me now. I do not beg. I simply was asked to find you. To make you see reason. There is no need for you to be out here in this,” he looked around and a sudden expression of disgust crept across his face “goblin infested place.”
“Careful Flamed, they can hear you,” she teased. “I have no intention of going back. There is no clan. He destroyed what little there was. If this is your sad pitiful story it will not be enough.” She removed the dagger from his throat and in one graceful motion brought it down against the table. The blade made no sound as it cracked the very surface of the table top; such is the skill of a rogue. She sat in the chair opposite him studying his face. Unlike most she did not see death when she looked at him but the human he once was, her friend.
“Kuro is gone.”
“What do you mean he is gone?”
“Gone. We do not know where and honestly we do not care. You know what he did to us, to you. Is it no surprised he packed up and left without a word?” He reached inside his travel cloak to pull out a letter sealed by red wax, careful to make sure his hands were always visible. “You are losing your touch Lex. I am surprised you didn’t take this from me. Here, it is for you.” With that he stood from the table. He covered his face with his hood as he looked down at her he knew that this might be the last he saw of her. It was a risk coming here to find her. That much he knew. Though death had taken away many things it had not stolen his humanity, not yet anyway. She was still his friend, even in death and one of the very few who knew him before his rebirth as Forsaken. Just as he had known her before addiction ravaged her kind. “I thank you for not killing me Lexanya.” And with that he walked away.
Lexanya’s expression did not change. She did not wish him well or make any attempt to stop him. Instead she took the letter and let her long fingers run over the emblem in the wax. If it had been from anyone else she would not have cared. Almost losing her self in thought as a memory from another time played out in her mind, Lexanya shrugged it off. She did not open the letter, just held it in her hand. She did not have to open it to know what it said. Lexanya took it from the table and placed it with care in a pouch around her belt. Her voice was barely a whisper, “the clan is no more.” And then she was gone.
