- -by Darlyn
The wind rushed across Darlyns pocketed and scarred face, whipping his silver mane around his shoulders. He muttered something about tying his hair back, as he had done in his youth, but made no move to do so.
Instead, he faced directly into the wind. Into his awaiting demise.
He huffed, his hot breath mixing with the chill wind and being taken off to the heavens. Wrapping his dragon-hide cloak around his brittle but still large body, he trudged forward, ever slowly, through the deep snow drifts.
His friends had all since become officers in the Army of Stormwind. Or settled down with families. Or sat up high on seats in goverment. However, Darlyn's life as a mercenary had left him no room to rise, and no place to go. This was his last job, he swore, like so many times. He hoped, finally, he could find peace.
His joints creaked with the strain as he brought his stride into a slow, painful run. His left arm hung limp at his side, unable to do much more then lift itself, much less a sword. A parting gift from a particular blue-tinged Tauren with which Darlyn had often battled. Darlyn had finally defeated his foe for good...but not before losing the use of his arm. The victory was a hollow one, at most.
Unsheathing his sword with his good arm, Darlyn kicked in the door of the lonely hut perched high in the Alterac mountains. He charged into the middle of the room...into a trap.
Ten well armed men and women. And behind him a massive orc that closed the door and locked it. The only sound in the room for the next few moments was the 'click' of the lock. Darlyn raised his sword and charged.
The body of the aged mercenary was uncerimoniously dumped off the coast of Southshore by the remaining seven sellswords. Darlyn's sword was kept as a trophy by the orc, as they divided up the rewards and booty. Betrayed by his own friends, Darlyn would be forgotten, not even a foot note in history. After all, where was a soldiers place, but the frontlines and graveyards filled by mens greed.