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deathbypixelz · 1 year ago

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No Sister Left Behind (4.3k)

New one shot :) This one details Tarinne's escape from the Alliance outpost in which she'd be imprisoned and interrogated during the Third War. It's from the perspective of one of the Sentinels attacking the outpost during the recovery mission.

If you haven't already, read this post I made on my WoW/OC sideblog, as it explains a headcanon/AU thing that's central to this one shot.

AO3 link in case anyone (with an account) would prefer to read it on there.

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It’s been only months since the humans and orcs landed on Kalimdor’s shores, with the Legion and Scourge not far behind. The Sentinels are spread thin and losing ground in Ashenvale. Every victory against old enemies is matched by a loss to new ones. But unlike the Legion, the humans take prisoners. Now, two weeks after a midnight ambush on a human encampment went catastrophically wrong, it’s time to free one.

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World of Warcraft | Original characters

Be warned for: graphic violence, some elements of horror, and torture (not shown directly)

Under the light of two crescent moons, the forests of central Ashenvale were silent as a songbird watching a circling hawk. The star-soaked sky was cloudless. The wind held its breath. The trees stood still as stone, not risking even a whisper in their creaking voices. They only stood and watched the hawk's nest in silence.

It was an ugly thing – a stockade of stripped timber encircling a cluster of square buildings. All were squat and perfectly square, save for the watchtowers -- one east, one west -- which loomed over the torchlit outpost as if to mock the trees around them. A single, wide gate to the north was the only entrance and exit. At present it was closed. Deep ruts scarred the earth with a path winding north into the forest, marking where wagons and armored machines of war had crawled to and from this outpost in the preceding weeks.

The orcs and humans had made landfall only a season before. This compound was less than two months old. But the destruction around it would've easily fooled anyone.

The outpost sat at the center of a circular clearing, the dusty earth dotted with tree stumps and pockmarked with pits left by explosive charges. If one looked closer, they would see the broken arrow shafts still in the ground. The splintered wood that was the only remains of a glaive thrower.

And to the south, a shallow pit filled with dark, unmoving forms: at least a dozen bodies still wearing the leather and fur that had failed to save them.

With some effort, Sentinel Runa Stillblade dragged her eyes from the pit and stuck them firmly to the outpost. She blew a measured breath into the balmy air. She shifted her weight, the thick oak branch beneath her holding strong.

From here, she could see over the stockade and most of the western side of the compound. The buildings along that side of the stockade had dimly lit windows. No movement inside. The alleys between them were empty. Near the gate: huge, eagle-headed, armored machines. The siege engines that had doomed the attack two weeks before. But it was not them that concerned her; her eyes were on the watchtowers and the shadowy figures inside.

Her foot started to tingle and she shifted her weight again, forcing herself to relax her grip on her bow.

‘Don't overcomplicate this’, her superior had said just hours before. ‘Getting her out is your first priority.’

Runa ran her free hand along her belt, verifying for the umpteenth time her dagger and horn were still there.

‘You said you wanted a chance to make things right after falore An’ethella couldn't be recovered. I'm giving you that chance.’

Movement in the air above the outpost shook Runa from her thoughts. The hand on her bow clenched again before she recognized the shape of a short-eared owl.

The owl circled above the buildings on the western side. Twice it pitched down towards something near the largest one before rising again. Then it dove and disappeared behind the stockade. A few seconds later it reappeared, climbing higher and higher with deep, silent wingbeats. Once it rose above the light of the torches and was only a shadow against the stars, it turned and glided south. Runa watched it until it disappeared into the trees.

She counted to ten in her head, then let her form solidify from the shadows of the oak's boughs. She kept her eyes on the branch beneath her to hide their shine.

A second weight alighted on the branch, and Runa looked up into the owl's golden eyes. Surrounded by black feathers on a round, near-white face, they almost appeared to glow.

Runa smiled softly and held out her left arm. Kim'shalla, her companion of nearly a decade, climbed onto her forearm, its claws scratching the thick leather of her bracer. It looked down at her bracer as it shuffled its feet to find a comfortable grip.

She waited for Kim'shalla to settle, then she clicked her tongue. Paused. Then clicked it twice more.

Kim'shalla's head turned to face her. It blinked a slow blink, looked back at the outpost for a beat, then down at its feet as it adjusted its grip again. But this time, it moved its talons with purpose.

A-L-I-V-E, the short taps and longer holds spelled out letter by letter. Q-U-I-E-T. A-L-O-N-E.

Kim'shalla repeated this message once, then settled down again and puffed out its feathers, its task complete. It looked at Runa expectantly.

She nodded in thanks... and relief. She reached around and took a small piece of rodent meat from a pouch on her belt.

Kim'shalla pecked it from her palm.

Runa waited for it to swallow its treat, then clenched her left hand into a fist. With a disgruntled clack of its beak, Kim'shalla left her arm and glided a few trees down.

The beat of its wings blew a strand of curly black hair into Runa’s face. She brushed it away and began shuffling backwards along the branch, her split-sole boots giving her a sure grip. Her form faded back into the dark air. When she reached the trunk, she rapped her knuckles thrice on the lichen-spotted wood.

Prepare to move.

She held her breath and perked an ear to wait for the response.

From a branch above her, two taps: Understood.

She responded with three taps in a different rhythm — wait for my signal — and again the scout above responded with two.

In one smooth motion, she plucked an arrow from her quiver and rested it against the bowstring. Her gaze once again on the eastern watchtower, she waited.

And waited.

For nearly two hours.

~~~~~

It was not until the moons reached their apex that the watchman abruptly stood from his chair.

Runa tensed.

A second guard’s head appeared as they emerged through a trapdoor in the floor. The new arrival climbed up.

She forced herself to keep still as they began to exchange words, despite how her fingers tingled with the urge to let fly.

The new lookout made vague motions with their hands, then the first laughed and punched the second’s shoulder in response to some jest. The first moved past the other and began climbing down the ladder.

The moment his head disappeared from sight, Runa loosed her arrow. The new watchman dropped without a sound.

On the other side, the watchman in the western tower dropped as well.

A storm crow swooped out of the branches above Runa, silent as thought, trailing tail feathers shimmering blue and purple. A second followed just a few wingbeats behind. Then a third.

They dove over the stockade and out of sight.

Please let this be easy.

Over the top of the stockade, Runa saw the crows land on the roof of one of the buildings on the western side. It was taller than the rest, with large double doors — likely a storage barn.

They sauntered as crows did to the edge of the roof and dropped down. She caught a glimpse of something metal partially covered by canvas beside the building’s north wall.

Now they will break the lock and reshape the stockade to allow them all out. Once she is free, we can-

A soldier carrying a lantern pulled himself halfway through the trapdoor — Runa had been so focused on the crows she hadn’t seen the light growing in the ladder shaft.

The soldier froze at the sight of the body. He got out half a warning shout before Runa’s arrow sank into his chest.

Shit.

He gasped, coughed, and dropped the lantern, which bounced off the wooden floor and back down the entry shaft. A second later, glass shattered far below. The soldier grasped for the arrow in his lung, then toppled backwards off the ladder. Another second, then a hard thud.

A shout below, then another, and another, and another.

Shit!

Two more storm crows dove out of the tree above Runa. Their forms began to change midair. Their bodies grew, their feathers shrank, limbs lengthening, joints popping, until they solidified into two kaldorei men in leather and fur — one bald, the other with a thick, dark braid running from the top of his head to his waist. They hit the ground and ran to the stockade, cloaks of black feathers shimmering behind them.

They stopped at its base and the bald druid raised an arm towards it. The other mirrored him, then they both set their feet as if to put their weight against a heavy object, and began murmuring words Runa couldn't catch over the growing sounds of alarm.

Dead leaves and dust began to circle them as their words became a chant. Their voices rose, they lifted their arms, the leaves and dust following. Then the air between them solidified and slammed into the stockade. Solid timber shattered like glass.

Runa yanked the horn from her belt and blew a long, deep note, though it was more a formality than anything. The Huntresses and their sabers below were already leaping through the breach.

Runa leapt from the branch, rolled across the dirt, and vaulted over broken timbers through a cloud of swirling dust. More storm crows swooped past her like whistling arrows. A saber sailed through the dust and splinters an arm’s length from her, all muscle and claws, its rider’s glaive flashing.

To the north, an enormous crash as the druids blasted the gate to splinters.

Distant lantern light turned the dust to orange, silhouetting the dozen or more soldiers that had circled the breach. Mostly humans, and a few of the shorter beings called dwarves. They shouted orders in their strange language, heads snapping around in the murk.

Runa sprinted through a gap between them just before a Huntress charged through, glaive arcing. Steel sliced into flesh, blood sprayed. A body hit the ground, then its head.

A human-sized form appeared in the dust beside Runa, she reached for her dagger, then a storm crow slammed into their face. The human dropped their sword and tried to pull the crow away, shrieking in pain, but two more landed on their shoulders and arms, engulfing them in a cloud of wings and beaks and claws.

The wind whistled, then howled, then a wall of air swept through the combatants. A few humans toppled over, shouting curses. The dust hissed into nothing. On the other side of the courtyard, the three original druids stood with their arms raised.

Runa turned right and ran north. She stopped, blinking dust from her eyes, then caught a sound behind her and threw herself to the ground as a human’s mace whistled through the air where her head had been.

She rolled, rose to one knee, and drew back an arrow as the soldier charged, her mace held high. A heartbeat, then Runa loosed and the arrow sank into the soldier’s throat. Blood spurted, she choked and gasped, stumbled, and dropped with a thud.

Runa sprang to her feet and continued north. A handful of Huntresses and half a dozen archers were pouring through the northern breach. Human and dwarf soldiers ran out of the nearby buildings, some for the south and some for the Sentinels. Arrows flew. The druids had already surrounded the eagle-headed siege engines, their arms raised. Vines sprouted from the ground and stockade, flowing over them, crushing the metal like paper.

She ran past a cluster of tents and jumped over the body of a half-dressed soldier, their eye sockets raw and empty, lips torn to bloody ribbons. Human words Runa had come to recognize echoed behind her.

“We’re under attack!”

“Night elves! Nigh-“ A gargled scream, then a thud.

She glanced at the buildings along the western side. Her feet slowed.

The metal and canvas object beside the storage barn, as she had presumed, was a cage. It was hardly big enough even for a human. Its bars were thick, its construction sound.

But the door hung wide open, and it was empty.

Have they already…? No, they haven’t sounded the-

Something moved in the alley between the storage barn and the building beside it. A flicker of light.

In the alley behind her, someone shouted in Human. A heartbeat of hesitation. She wheeled around, reached for her dagger, but the dwarf soldier’s bayonet caught her thigh and cut straight through leather.

She hissed with pain and fell to a knee. He drew his musket back, raised it to swing again, and she twisted and cracked her bow into the side of his head. He cried out and stumbled, blood pouring down his temple. She scrambled away and pushed herself up. She readied an arrow, sucking in breath through the pain, but he was upon her before she could raise her bow. He swung the musket towards her knees, she feinted, loosed the arrow, and it thunked into the dirt near his foot. She spat a curse and darted past him into the alley.

She slipped into the thick shadow and flattened herself against the wall halfway in. She held her breath as he moved into the alley, musket held low. Pain radiated up her thigh.

The dwarf’s dark eyes flicked back and forth, passing over her twice. He was saying something in a mocking, sing-songy tone, but the words were meaningless.

He walked past her. One more step. Another.

She darted out of the shadows and sank her dagger into the side of his neck. Hot blood sprayed across her knuckles. She tore it free and sprinted out of the alley as he dropped, choking out his last breath.

Runa stopped at the alley’s entrance, the pain in her leg forgotten.

The storage barn was in flames.

This was not part of the plan-!

“What have you done?!” she shouted at a fair-haired archer as she ran past.

“That wasn’t us!” the archer shouted back, and continued on.

“Then who-“

A man screamed, voice shrill with terror, from the building beside the barn. The door had been torn clean off its hinges. Runa caught the movement of a struggle in its dark interior. A smaller figure darting away from a much larger, broader one.

Instinct urged her forward and she ran out into the courtyard. She was halfway across when the dirt near her foot exploded. A blast from somewhere above and behind. She threw herself to the ground, then looked up for the source of the sound.

She could just see the top of a dwarf’s hooded head as they crouched behind the wall of the eastern watchtower, hurriedly reloading a blunderbuss.

“ARCHERS! WATCHTOWERS!” she shouted, and readied an arrow. She forced her eyes to stay on the dwarf even as the sounds of the struggle behind her grew louder.

The dwarf stood and raised their blunderbuss, head peeking out over the wall. Then two arrows pierced their skull and they dropped like a bag of stones.

Runa looked to her left, where twenty or thirty paces away the fair-haired archer was already nocking another arrow. They made eye contact, Runa made a motion of thanks, then spun on her heel and ran to the door of the building. The stinging in her thigh was fading to a dull warmth.

Its interior was silent. She stopped at the doorframe and peered inside.

The firelight poured through small windows and filled the interior with uncanny, wavering shadows. This building was an armory, and it was in ruins. Swords and maces scattered across the floor, empty hooks on the walls, chests of mail and plate armor upended, the tang of weapon oil leaking from broken bottles.

And in the far corner, surrounded by the shattered remains of empty crates, was the corpse of a bearded, pale-skinned human man. He wore leather and cotton. The scabbard on his belt was empty, and beside it was a cat o’ nine tails hanging from a metal ring. He laid on his back in a dark pool of blood, his body twisted, legs splayed awkwardly as if he had been trying to crawl away from something. His eyes were still open, mouth frozen in a silent scream, blood draining from the corners of his lips. His hands gripped the edges of the kite shield that had crushed his throat so completely it still stood upright, jammed clean through his neck into the floorboards.

The hairs on the back of Runa’s neck stood on end. Her eyes moved from the mangled corpse to the door a few paces from him, still hanging open. The stockade was cast in yellow firelight beyond.

She readied another arrow and left the doorway. The smoke stung her eyes and throat as she moved south in a sort of half-run along the line of buildings, away from the fire. Bodies dotted the courtyard and the southern end of the compound. Near the barracks, the Huntresses and druids were making short work of the remaining soldiers.

Runa glanced into every alley as she passed it, but all she saw were shadows. Her heart pounded in her neck. She sprinted past a Huntress and her saber chasing a soldier into an alley, then glanced over her shoulder.

The fire had spread to the armory and was already reaching for the next building down.

Please, gods, grant me a bit more time.

The sound of another gunshot echoed off the stockade, ringing from everywhere at once.

Runa threw herself into an alley. She took a breath and leaned out, an arrow drawn back.

“Healer!” a distant voice shouted from somewhere near the barracks.

Then a second shot, a flash of light in the windows of a small outbuilding on the other side, near the breach.

Runa stayed close to the wall and raised her bow, eyes searching the windows for a silhouette. But either murky shadows filled the inside or the windows were more grime than glass, because there was nothing.

Something in the corner of Runa’s vision caught her attention. Not far from the gunner’s outbuilding, a tall, hulking figure darted into a dark alley.

Too tall to be human.

The wood near Runa’s shoulder exploded into splinters. An instant later the gunshot split the air.

She exclaimed in shock and stumbled back into the alley, blinking wood-dust from her eyes. She spat a curse.

One, two…

She turned and ran towards the stockade, then rounded the corner.

Sitting against the back wall of the building was a dark-haired archer, and beside her the bald druid from the breach. The archer’s face was twisted in pain, the leather on her right shoulder torn and soaked with dark blood. Her bow was still in her limp right hand. The druid was digging in the pouches on his belt, frantic.

Six, seven…

“Did the druids free her?” Runa asked, breathless.

The druid and archer looked up, startled.

The druid shook his head. “We didn’t… No. Two flew down, but couldn’t open the cage before-”

Runa nodded and ran past them.

Fourteen, fifteen, six-

The gunshot rang again. Runa turned on a heel and sprinted back through the buildings into the courtyard. She loosed an arrow into the back of a soldier’s thigh as he ran after an archer, then she reached the alley the figure had disappeared into.

Seven, ei-

Another mangled body was slumped against the wall. Another human. Her shortsword was stuck blade-down in the dirt a few paces away. Her jaw was dislocated, her neck and throat red and raw, blood soaking her collar and running down her plate armor in sheets. Runa stepped closer and saw where skin had torn from muscle. Pale cartilage and tendon.

Someone had nearly ripped this woman’s throat out.

A possibility flickered into Runa’s mind. A chill on her nape again. But she set her jaw and continued past the body. She reached the end of the alley and paused.

Fifteen, sixteen… seventeen…

Eighteen…

Nineteen…

Twenty…?

She leaned around the corner, back towards the breach, as the shot finally rang out. A flash of light and a portion of the stockade burst into splinters. Then a man shouted with alarm. An arrow flew from the courtyard and sank into the stockade, followed by a second thunk where the man’s voice had come from. He shouted again — gargled, weak. A thud.

Then the hulking figure ran out from the same alley, but this time Runa caught the shape of long ears, lilac hair, and ragged clothes.

Her heart leapt.

“Falore!” She ran out of the alley, but the other kaldorei had already disappeared through the breach into the forest beyond.

Runa pulled the horn from her belt and blew two, deep notes, the second longer than the first — mission success.

A few distant, triumphant shouts sounded from the corners of the compound, but the sound of whistling arrows and clashing steel continued.

There were still intruders to kill.

She ran to the breach and vaulted over the broken timbers, now spattered with drying blood, and landed in the dirt on the other side. Her momentum carried her to the tree line, but her steps faltered. She looked down at the dirt around her then back at the breach.

The confusion of footprints made tracking impossible.

A calm hoot from above and Runa turned. Kim’shalla’s eyes glinted from a tangle of branches.

Oh, bless you.

Runa clicked her tongue and nodded into the forest.

Kim’shalla left its perch and glided through the trees a short distance before alighting upon a low branch. It turned its head to look back at Runa and gave a slow blink.

She stepped into the trees, fighting the urge to run. When she was nearly below Kim’shalla it took flight again, glided in a slightly different direction, and landed again. She followed. It flew, landed, and she still kept pace.

They continued like this for minutes, pausing every now and then while Kim’shalla tilted its head to listen.

To Runa, the forest was silent. The din of the battle became no more than a distant hum. And in the silence, her relief at having freed the prisoner began to sour into something else. She found herself gripping her bow a little tighter, though she couldn’t name why.

She became increasingly aware of how her footsteps were cracking thunder in the heavy silence and shadows.

Kim’shalla landed in a tree at the top of a low hill. Once Runa reached its crest, she paused and raised her ears. She heard it too, now: dry, ragged panting.

She broke into a half-run, heart pounding harder. Kim’shalla followed.

They came to the edge of a small glade, and Runa stopped.

The kaldorei woman she had seen sprinting through the breach was on the ground, leaning against a tree, her back to Runa. Her lilac hair was tangled and matted, her broad shoulders heaving and shaking. She wore only ragged trousers, which meant Runa could see the red, glistening, crisscrossing tangle of weeping wounds covering her from her nape to the small of her back. Raw muscle bared to the elements. Blood fresh and old ran in sheets down her back and over her sides. The wounds had not even been given the chance to scab over.

Those sadistic, godless devils!

She began creeping forward, bow held low — she did not remember nocking an arrow — but stopped a few paces from the woman.

Something about the way she hunched over, the way her shoulders shook, the twitching of her ears… it wasn’t right.

Runa opened her mouth, searching her mind for the name from the briefing. Her heart pounding in her neck didn't make it easier. She could only remember the second half.

“Falore Bla-?”

The woman whipped around, lips pulled back, teeth bared, eyes wide, wild, and devoid of everything but primal rage.

Blackhelm lunged, hands reaching, and ripped the bow from Runa’s hands. Runa leapt away. Kim’shalla screamed harsh and hollow.

Blackhelm tossed the bow aside and pushed herself to her feet. A strange, wheezing, almost-growl leaked through her teeth. Her eyes were two pinpoints of icy white light in dark, sunken sockets. Her chest heaved, thick muscle showing through skin thinned by deprivation. Blood ran from a cut on her forehead, down her cheek and over the taught tendons in her neck. Her hands were dark with blood.

Runa couldn’t move. Something about those eyes locked her in place. It was something ancient. Something unknowable. Something older than the kaldorei themselves.

Wolf-touched.

Kim'shalla screamed again, shaking Runa out of her fear-trance.

“Falore!” she shouted. “Blackhelm! Stand down!”

Blackhelm took a step forward. Her whole body shivered. So much muscle overloaded with so much more tension than it was ever made to bear. How it had not already torn her apart…

Another step forward, and the final spark of memory.

“Tarinne!” Runa reached for her dagger. “Stand down now!”

Tarinne Blackhelm blinked. Another half-step forward, and Runa pulled her dagger. Then Tarinne blinked again. She squeezed her eyes shut, shook her head weakly, then stumbled and fell to one knee.

Runa hesitated.

The wheezing growl fizzled away. Tarinne took in a few gasping breaths and began coughing horrible, wracking coughs. Like she had not tasted water in days.

Runa sheathed her dagger, ran up, and crouched beside her.

Tarinne looked up as she did and shrank away just an inch. Her eyes were wide, bloodshot, and desperate.

“Falore,” Runa said gently. She held her hand above her shoulder, debating whether or not to touch her. “What did they…?”

“Healer,” she rasped. Dry strings of saliva and phlegm hung from her lips. “I need… a…”

She collapsed with a rattling sigh, and Runa's heart dropped. But then Tarinne's chest rose with breath, and with shaking hands, Runa stood.

”Healer…“ she breathed, mind still processing this. She looked up, back the way she’d come.

“Healer!”

She broke into a run, back to the outpost and the glow of the fire, her bow forgotten.

”I NEED A HEALER!“

#my art #my writing #tarinne #runa #night elf #kaldorei #au lore #it's okay guys she's fine now #this was thirty years ago as of BfA #she still needs therapy about it but she's FINE #I just wanted to explore my thor'drinn idea as a little story and it was the perfect opportunity :)

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