Blinding powder at the ready.
Poisons applied.
Weapons sharp.
Notable locations to retreat.
Vials accessible.
Mission is clear.
Vikstyn had been running through the same checklist ever since his time with SI:7, Stormwind’s secretive wing of rogues and spies. Of course, he was no longer associated with them now. They rarely allowed those with bones poking through rotted skin and jaws hanging slack to join their ranks.
He had been one of the unfortunate number who were unable to flee when Lordaeron had fallen to the Scourge. To his misfortune, he had only just been stationed in Lordaeron to gather intelligence, as even among friendly human kingdoms the need for spies was critical. When the scourge flooded into the city he fell just like the rest, masquerading as an ordinary citizen, some baker or butcher or some other such nonsense. It felt like a lifetime ago. He supposed it was.
Soon enough, the Stormwind spy was reborn, turned into a member of the Forsaken. Much to his relief, he could still dip in and out of the shadows as he had in life, just with a notably changed, perhaps less appealing, appearance. With flesh missing and bones protruding, he no longer believed he could pass for the humble Stormwind citizen.
There were notable advantages of being an undead, however. There was the practical; lack of a need to breathe made underwater stealth far easier, and being a part of an entirely new organization meant that all who would have recognized him no longer could. There was also the psychological; whatever emotions of regret or fear he had felt in life, few as they may have been, were all but entirely absent now.
That, and a personal favourite of his; adaptability. Having lost his eye at the battle for the Broken Shore, he had a goblin engineer craft him a new one. A brand-new, mechanical gadget sewn into his very flesh, allowing him to see in the dark just as well as the light. Considering his line of work, it had proven fruitful on multiple occasions.
He was sure to put it to use today.
SI:7 had returned to Lordaeron, now the Undercity, after the attack on the night elf homeland. There was an irony in the situation he found himself in. He died here in service to SI:7 so long ago, and now he intended to bring the same fate to others.
Blinding powder at the ready, he whispered, beginning his checklist again.
It wasn’t long before the bodies began to pile at his feet. The SI:7 spies couldn’t have known that a former one of their own was in their midst, making the hunter the hunted. They’d spread out in the same formations as he had when he was in their boots, aiming to find the same pieces of information, going after the same kind of targets. It was simply a matter of lying in wait, ambushing them just as they thought they were safe. He knew their every move, the very way they thought.
Poisons applied, weapons sharp, vials ready, Vikstyn would whisper to himself as another member of SI:7 dropped into the Undercity’s viscous green canals, two dagger-sized holes in his back and poison in his veins.
He noticed a change. The shadows looked less familiar, the room feeling smaller. They were beginning to catch on. Sure, he got the jump on many, but they were the elite, some of the best Stormwind had to offer. Notable locations to retreat. He slipped out into the sewers, waiting until the heat was taken off him. It didn’t sound so bad, anyways. He’d be sure to find a few more Alliance soldiers there regardless. After all, the horns of war were sounded, and this was to be an invasion. There would be no shortage of prey.
---
Everything cold and damp.
The perpetual smell of rot.
Hammer seems to have wandered off on its own.
Night elves, humans and those big blue ones everywhere.
Aethelbald was truly miserable. There was little going right on this expedition, and they’ve only just reached Brill. He wasn’t sure what was worse; having to smell the strange variety of slimes and potions of the Forsaken apothecaries or having to listen to the barking orders of some human mage who felt she owned the place. This was nothing new to him, of course. Never had he met someone taller than him that he thought was worth his trust. Even the gnomes, often tiring with their exuberance and energy, were preferable to the insufferable piety of the humans and night elves. And whatever the blue ones were called, for that matter. He couldn’t remember, and neither did he care.
Northeast, the human mage who was leading the expedition, came to stand over him as he slouched on the side of a Forsaken monument to the Dark Lady. He was certain humans always used their height to try and intimidate him, but dwarves were not one to feel insignificant. “Get your gear. We’re moving out and heading to the sewers,” she said dryly. He was sick of her, but the feeling was certainly mutual.
“The sewers!” Aethelbald said, his blue eyes like the ice of Dun Morogh, opened wide. “I thought it couldn't get worse. Well, yer waitin’ for me. I can’t find my blasted hammer. Just put it down…” he mumbled, searching around.
Northeast pursed her lips and frowned. She looked like she wasn’t particularly happy about the assignment either, let alone being tasked with watching over a grumbling, complaining dwarf. “Well, find it quickly, and get packing. The orders are given, and we’re heading out. Use those stubby little legs to catch up, then.”
Aethelbald was furious, balling his fists in anger. “Oh, if I had my hammer I’d be-”
“Well, you don’t,” she said. “Find it. The sewers are due southwest.”
With that, she marched off to find her unit and continue the advance, moving to cut off the path of escape for any undead that lost their will to fight as the Undercity was being cleared. The main force - a massive invasion - was being planned for the main gates.
Aethelbald found his hammer resting just on the other side of the statue. He held it tightly, thinking back to the comments that fool mage had made, and trying to tone down the anger that built in him. He wished that the scar he had across his nose would prove to be more intimidating, making him look more like a warrior not to be spoken to lightly as she had, but mages had an arrogance about them that looked past such things. The fact that he got the scar from bumping into a door after a night of a few too many mugs of ale shouldn't’ have made the difference. She didn’t know that, after all.
He set off to catch up to his unit. Inwardly, he wondered how much worse the sewers could even be.
--
Vikstyn heard the echoing calls from Alliance soldiers forming up and calling for a quick retreat. Avoiding the rogues of SI:7, he spotted a perfect place for an ambush: a dark, quiet spot in the sewers that led towards the main city itself - exactly the place the Alliance would have to travel to close off the exits to the Undercity. It wasn’t long before he heard the first patrols, and using the goblin-created eye he was given, he made short work of the first two soldiers that tried to pass through. The rest fell back immediately, not willing to battle with a rogue who could see in the darkness.
“Mission is clear,” he mumbled to himself, acknowledging that his new role would be to hold this tunnel for as long as he could, leaving as many casualties behind as possible. With the rest of the sewer line at his back, there was an easy means of retreat. His weapons were ready and his powders prepared. Of course, that didn’t stop him from checking every time he had the chance. All it took was one instance of poor preparation to find himself ripped to pieces by some rampaging worgen or blasted apart by a gnomish mage. Always check. Always. Again and again, and again and again.
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Lying in wait along the side of one of the sewer pipes, structures large enough to fit one of the duskbats that carried the undead from location to location, he waited patiently for the Alliance’s next move. For a while, they seemed content to hold their position. Likely, they’d be moving to bring in a mage to brighten the tunnel, nullifying the advantage of darkness the rogue held. In Vikstyn’s mind, he'd already done well. He had already taken out two of their soldiers, and a delay to their movements deeper into the city were admirable for a single rogue.
Seeing their next move as both limited and obvious, he found it strange when he heard bickering from down the tunnel. What would possibly be worth arguing in this situation?
--
“Well, where’s that mage? Get ‘er in here and clear the damned monster out o’ there!” Aethelbald yelled in frustration. He was almost shocked he managed to find a place that he had hated more than Brill, but here he was. It took all of the powers of the light to keep him from losing his temper when a drop of the strange, viscous slime that permeated nearly everything in the sewers managed to find its way into his long, white hair.
“I told you - twice now - we sent a runner to find Northeast and bring her here,” a night elf who was given command said through gritted teeth. “She’s down a different tunnel. When she gets here, a few simple spells will brighten it enough for us to see where this one lurks.”
“We’re really waiting for one skinny little undead? We’ve got the full party of the Alliance at our backs and we’re sitting here languishing in a tunnel!” Aethelbald’s voice echoed loudly enough that it could wake the rest of the dead that hadn’t already risen in this place. “Give me two good dwarves and we’d have that tunnel cleared in no time. I don’t want to spend another second in this disgusting sewer!”
“He’s already taken two of our own. We’re not losing a third.” The night elf’s stoicism so characteristic of her people was beginning to wear thin. As were her teeth, as she clenched them as hard as she could.
Aethelbald held up a finger. “One. Rogue. That’s all. If it’s dark, I’ll bring the light. It’s what us paladins do.”
“I order you to-”
“Yeh can’t order me. You must be only this tall to do that,” Aethebald said dismissively, holding a hand up near his forehead. To the shock and bewilderment of the rest of the waiting Alliance party, he walked right down the dark, empty tunnel alone, his heavy boots splashing in the muck. He had no pretense of subtlety. If anything, he was taunting the rogue to try to come at him.
---
Vikstyn searched for signs of a ruse. He tested his eye, ensuring that it was not broken, and that he did indeed see a single dwarf walking right down the middle. He even so much as passed by two of his fallen companions. The rest were hanging back, the argument having ended in the dwarf seemingly deciding that whatever they were waiting for was taking far too long for his liking.
Watching the dwarf - a paladin by the looks of it - walk right through his midst, undaunted by the dark or any fear, he wondered if he were mad, a fool or perhaps secretly brilliant. Did they have a mage nearby, waiting to set the world on fire and illuminate the dark tunnels of the sewers? Was it actually Vikstyn who was walking into the trap?
He wasn’t sure. So, he did as he always did. He ran through his checklist.
--
The Alliance soldiers watched as the dwarf disappeared from view. They had not yet heard any sounds of battle, nor a cry for help - or, ideally, a roar of triumph if the paladin had miraculously defeated the rogue from his position of disadvantage. All they heard was the sound of metal footsteps sloshing through the muck of the sewers and the occasional curse and grumble of the dwarf that was causing them.
“Not seein’ rogues! Yer scared of a shadow!” he called back to them, his voice reverberating off the cylindrical chamber. “Going to join me, or are we still afraid of the dark?”
--
Vikstyn twisted at the metal eye again, hardly able to believe what he was seeing. Back in his training at SI:7, he had learned two very important lessons. One was to not rush in. Rogues were not meant to be the frontline, brash, charging soldiery; that was left for the warriors and paladins, brave fools that they were. A rogue was meant to wait and watch, biding their time until the moment revealed itself. All a fair fight meant was a greater possibility to lose.
The second was to recognize an opportunity when it presented itself. If you wait for perfection, then waiting is all you’ll do. There comes a time when a gamble becomes necessary, because the odds would never be greater.
The paladin was in his midst. His knives were sharp, laced with poison. The path of retreat was easy and open. The gamble was his to take.
--
“Look!” Aethelbald yelled back. “Not a single-”
Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was a gift from the light, but the dwarf twitched just in time to cause the knife coming for his neck to catch the edge of his shoulderguards as opposed to finding the soft flesh beneath. Still, it deflected up and across his cheek, leaving a nasty gash that connected to the scar that ran across his nose; a real war wound adding to the false one.
He swung his hammer behind him with full force, hitting only air. He couldn’t see a thing. All that was behind him was the meagre bit of light back at the entrance by the Alliance party, close enough to the beginning of the sewers to still catch some light from the outside.
“Gah!” Aethelbald called out, half in pain and half to alert the rest of them.
The night elf leader heard the cry of distress. She held up a hand, ordering them to stay. “He’s made his choice. His fate is his own. I won’t lose another soldier for his bluster and arrogance.”
Aethelbald saw no reinforcements coming. He was on his own. But he still had dwarven blood coursing through his veins and the holy light to protect him. He called upon it to heal his wounds. The screaming pain, made worse by a poison that made him wince more than the wound itself, was lessened by the light’s blessing. He knew the rouge was still near, but in the dark he had to rely on his wits and any good fortune he had.
He felt the motion of his adversary rather than see him, a slight gust betraying the rogue’s position. Holding his hammer tight, he swung again, but once more missed. He wasn’t even so much as sure he was close.
Another moment passed, and he hunkered down and prepared for the rogue again.
“Retreat back to this position!” the night elf called, struggling to the decision not to support the dwarf but deciding it was the only reasonable course of action.
“What, back down from this coward? Ha!” the stubborn dwarf called back.
Two daggers found his back before he could even manage a chance to react. His heavy plate armour protected him, but only just. They still pierced, digging deeply just beside his spine. He howled in pain and anger, swinging wildly and without direct purpose. Again, it came up with nothing. The rogue was going to bleed him out.
The wounds on his back and face were agonizing. His options were limited. But he was still a paladin; there was always a way to call upon the light when he needed to.
--
Damned dwarves are too stubborn to even die when they’re meant to.
Vikstyn was sure his second attack would have felled the dwarf, but yet he stood, breathing heavily, angry as hell, and not yet willing to die. Worse yet, he’d healed much of his wounds, and he was showing an abject refusal to retreat.
Still, Vikstyn was winning. He still held all the cards; his weapons were sharp, vials ready, powder at his side… time to gamble again. He crept forward, the paladin holding his hammer behind him, ready to swing at a moment’s notice.
The dwarf’s hand suddenly shot forward. For a brief moment, the entire chamber was lit with the power of the holy light. It blinded Vikstyn and revealed his position, not long enough for the dwarf’s allies to charge in, but long enough for his attacker to land a heavy hammer swing onto his ribs. Quickly, he reached for his blinding powder and threw it in the face of his enemy, giving enough time to slip backwards into the shadows again.
--
“Hah! That got ya good, didn’t it now?” Aethelbald taunted, blinking his eyes until the blindness went away. Certainly he had wounded the undead. However, his arms were weak from swinging and the damage that had been done to him took some of the might out of his attack. He knew the blow was far from fatal, and the ragged skeletons that the Forsaken were made of held a surprising hardiness. The fight was far from over.
He heard the sound of a popping vial, the sort he’d hear from an alchemist. “Agh, what now…”
--
Vikstyn had to hand it to the wily dwarf. They don’t make it this long in life without learning a few tricks. That, however, was why one came prepared. The vial of crimson liquid he always had with him healed the wounds on his death-ravaged form. After a moment, it was like it hardly happened. Still, he had to be wary; this was no easy adversary.
Coming forward again, he stepped close and ducked the heavy swing from the cursing dwarf, slashing at his leg. It dropped him low. Another hammer swing came, but Vikstyn was quick, stepping backwards and making the act of dodging an artform. Another swing came, and another, but they were slower, tired. It was time.
He stepped forward again, blending into the shadows and appearing behind the dwarf. His two blades swept in from either side, piercing deep. The hammer slipped from the dwarf’s hands, the rattling of the weapon splashing into the muck of the sewer all but announcing to his companions at the end of the line the fate of the brave but ultimately foolish paladin.
Fading away again, Vikstyn retreated back further than before into the sewers. Without his powder and his vial, he would not enter into another brawl like the one he had. One must be prepared, after all. SI:7 had taught him well.