The Spirit of the Warrior

[Anski]

warrior came tumbling down the side of the cliffs, the ocean raging below. She spun, gripping one rock with her free hand, the force snapping and whiplashing her off of her grip. The woman hit the rock side and bounced off, nearing the end. Using her blade, she struck it in between stones. A one in a million shot, was all she could think of and consider as it stuck. However she twisted on that, the force of gravity making a sick turn. She lost grip of the blade in the motion and fell once more. The warrior flew downward at a slower speed, and rolled into a pit cave, lost to the rough ocean. She was shrouded in darkness, and then she knew no more.

Devoid of life, the warrior opened her eyes with thin precision, like the slice of a razor across flesh. There was the slightest shimmer of light spraying in from the top, and the sound of the ocean splashing and spraying across the opening. There she lay, chest rising and falling so shortly it could be easily unnoticed. The surroundings were pitch black, only the top of the pit was visible, and it certainly had to be a long ways up. The last she could remember involved combat. Some sort of fight against someone. It was someone big, they had kicked her off the side of the cliff. The barrens... She winced, her temples feeling swollen and engulfed in pain. It was then as she took in more air did she feel the massive amount of pain engulfing her body. The warrior grit her teeth and let out a painful, guttural cry. She exhaled, feeling the tough scar tissue twist in her expressions of pain. The warrior turned her head, her vision blurring as she focused on the darkness. It had to be morning, she had to have fallen at nighttime or so.

She moved her arms. Her right wrist felt as if it were broken, but her left arm seemed fine, save for the stinging cuts and swelling bruises. She could hardly see herself, but as the light rose, the pit was illuminated. It was composed of rocky, violent sides that were cut out by the ocean but drained along history. She looked down to find the bottom of her robe, which was almost completely gone, soaked a deep, lush red. Certainly her legs were useless. She pushed herself up with her left hand, and a sharp pain stung her inside. Ribs, broken. One had to be too sharp on her lungs. She leaned back down, trying to breathe. Over head the maddening drift of the ocean on rocks was all that echoed through the pit, cutting out the sound of her breathing. She hadn't been around Camillia for months, she wouldn't have the slightest of where to come looking for her, if even the notion to do so. The warrior was on her own, as she had always been. She inhaled, the sound of air wheezing in the back of her throat. She pushed up again, the pain piercing her lungs again. She reached out with her right hand, shaking and struggling, pulling back the hem of her robe.

Her right leg was clearly broken, bone pierced out of the side sharply. She closed her eyes and inhaled, sitting up fully and grabbing her legs, pulling them in to her despite the vicious pain. She thought, her mind drowning out the thrashing of the ocean. It was just her and her breathing. The warrior had spent her prison life in such a state, and found it comforting and helpful as she planned what to do. When she opened her eyes again, it was no longer morning, but night. The blue hue of the sky dimly shined off the rock walls. She sighed once more and closed her eyes. Slipping into sleep, her body slowly worked. When she awoke, it was dawn once more. There was no food, and without the strength of the warrior, she would certainly die.

The warrior lurched forward and landed on her hands, pain shooting up her right side like a blade in her skin. She pulled her right side forward with her left, clenching her thigh and pushing herself up to the rock wall. She grabbed it with her left hand, her teeth squeezing upon one another. It was time for the warrior to rise.

[Anski]

to the world, the warrior closed her eyes. She had made it to a full height standing, and all she could feel was the sharp, violent pulse in her leg. Certainly it was bleeding but her skin was cold, everything blended in in the pain, like a myriad of mixing paints. Above the monotonous crash of the ocean was growing louder, and from her standing position she could feel the light spray of sea foam on the upper reaches of her hand. Peace was far lost, as the warrior tried her hardest to block it out. Any mental training, thought and solace was lost, it was now a battle of strength. Her bicep muscles tightened, and she lifted her left leg off of the ground, her fingers pulling onto the rough, jagged stone with all of her upper body strength. Her leg touched down on a stone, pushing her foot upward. Years of walking without shoes has toughened her feet, but the stone still presses in viciously, razor sharp from the ocean carving. The warrior pulled herself up, reaching her left hand up as her right wrist went instantly numb with pain.

She inhaled quickly, but the pain was too much. Her right hand went numb, lost of all control. Her fingers slipped and the upper weight was too much. The warrior felt, crashing back to the stone below. She let out a vicious cry, her voice echoing out over the wave foam. There she was, breathing quietly. Her hand was numb with pain and all she could do was block it out. The warrior closed her eyes, old bones rising and falling. When she opened them again, it was the evening. The red hues bounced off the rock walls, giving them a blood red splash. She breathed out quietly, sitting up with a lurch once more. Her hand had been reduced to a dull pain but her leg was numb. The warrior rolled on to her left leg, using it to spring herself up. Taking ginger, preparing breaths, she leaned forward to the wall and stopped herself with her left hand, stepping forward and dragging her leg. She gripped the stone, and with a valiant burst of speed, she pulled herself higher up the wall then she had been, propelling herself with her left arm and hand in unison. Swinging her right hand, she gripped her leg and held it up, pressing her lifeless foot to the stone. The warrior pulled herself up, arm and eventually body shaking with tense pain, reaching up with her left hand quickly. She pulled up, already breathing with great force.

Lungs alight with pain, she repeated the motion for as long as she could until her right hand burned like the red hot steel she had carved her hands up with many years ago. She was breathing sharply and the pain against her lungs had swollen and was too much to bear. She had made it roughly halfway up the wall and it was pitch black in the cave, save for the slightest glimmer of moonlight a top the way. The warrior clenched her teeth once more and continued climbing, her hand near numb as her leg. She looked up and saw stone, far off. She reached up with a shaking, bleeding hand, and gripped the edge of the stone. The stones had incised her hands, her feet, her arms. The warrior pulled with the final grip, the burst of freedom seizing her lungs and the energy drawing her out. She tore herself from the gap and onto the rocky coasts, coughing up small drops of blood that shone in the moonlight, lungs rough and coughs violent. She pulled her lower half from the stone, crawling over the edges the best she could manage, and the warrior collapsed onto the high sands, waiting for the warming embrace of dawn.

[Anski]

months had passed. Seven months of quiet isolation. While this was normally freeing to the warrior, now it didn't feel so tranquil as it had been in prison, or time gone by. She thought quietly as ever, running her hands through the grass. In some parts of her palm, she did not feel the texture of the wind carved blades of grass, and in others it was all too real. Her travels had been long and winding, and truly, the warrior felt as though her spirit longed for true rest. She had been losing fights that she had started, and had not been losing with honor or dignity.

The warrior was perched upon a plateau, much like the one she had been tossed off of nearly a year previous. The ocean spread out in all directions before her, her only sight being her lower half, which sat upon a golden, rolling field of grassland. The cold winter had passed, and she could somewhat smell the lush spring that was sweeping in. Soon the Barrens would not be barren, but full of life and wonder. And then, it would be gone, back to the sun-burnt deadlands of grass. She shook her head slowly, to nobody, her frazzled and chopped up red hair swishing. Her breathing was calm and peaceful, the ocean salt riding hard in the air. The warrior raised her thin hand and touched her face, running her fingertips across her skin. What registered back felt like a landscape post-war. Divots and cuts ran deep. The earliest scar came from the murder, the later ones from the war, and the most recent from her combat history. They ran like a roadmap that had been placed upon another, layers and layers of them distorted all over her face. The warrior felt as though her skin was no longer the original skin, now just scars that twisted and pulled with the consistency of tightly wound string every time she moved her face.

Footsteps had been pounding the earth for quite a while before she felt the need to register them. The warrior stood, slowly, as the grass cascaded back and forth with the gentle breeze. She watched the ocean as they drew within detail range of hearing, and then turned, slowly. Before her, some twenty feet away, stood a great orc, armed with a single sword. He was burly, mighty, and had probably killed more in the war than the warrior had in her entire thousand year lifespan. He grunted, heavy, hefting up his blade, which seemed to be made out of very thick hewn stone.

"We warrin' today r' did'ya change yer mind?" He asked in an equally thunderous tone proportional to his appearance. The warrior shook her head slowly, pulling her loose, uncovered blade from the red sash tied around her waist. She looked up at him, revealing her face. Her right eye was covered in a lengthy monocle, one that seemed far too gadgety for her.

"Tha' 'ell? You los' yer eye r' som'th'n? Yer didn't got that las' fight." said the beast, looking inquisitively at her. She did not have it a week ago. The warrior had awoken one morning to find she could only see through her left eye, and ever since then it had been flashing back and forth, in and out of use. Right now, it was out. The monocle let her see, poorly, but it existed.

"Worry not, Rok'thar. Fight me." The warrior said in her calm tone. In her mind, she was still distressed. The isolation, and now the reminder of why her vision had been going. The cycle of fate had come back around on her for murdering that man so long ago. She was a weaker warrior because of it. She raised her blade, and the orc took the signal, running at her. He had nearly killed her the first time they fought, and she was certainly getting better at surviving, but not dominating.

Taking the initiative, she leapt forward and placed her feet on his blade in a very squat manner, leaping and spinning behind him, landing stretched upon her feet. The orc turned, swinging his mighty blade so quickly the vacuum of air was felt in her lungs. She took a deep a breath as she could and held up her masterly crafted blade, the stone slamming into it as the sharp metal pierced right into the side of the stone blade. The warrior's weapon would need a great deal of sharpening to be useful again. The orc yanked his blade forward, the warrior still grappling onto her blade to free it, and kicked her flatly in the chest. She felt her ribs snap once more, as she went tumbling backwards, freed of her grip. He lumbered forward, raising his massive blade into the air, her thin straight-edged sword still stuck inside of it. He brought it down at just the right angle, and she rolled backwards, grabbing her blade handle in her right hand and the actual blade in her left, as it immediately cut into her hand. Another scar.

The Orc roared a guttural roar, his face full of nasty, unwashed scars and pitted cuts. She had dug in successfully, feeling the dirt packed in between the toes of her bare feet. She pulled with all of her might, despite the cutting pain in her ribs, and her sword snapped free from his. She spilled backwards, splaying out amongst the grass. The orc lumbered forward and drove the stone blade directly at her, which she rolled amongst the grass to avoid and stood. The right side of her vision went out completely, and the orc seemed to have vanished. With a quick turn of the head, all she could register was a boot before everything went black.

...

When she came to, it was nighttime, and she was alone, covered in dried blood. The orc was gone, as standard, and her blade was stuck into the dirt, her red sash tied to the tip of the handle. She blinked, the monocle adjusting to her regained sight. Her ribs ached violently and her hand had swollen as a result of the cut. The warrior stood, slowly, and hobbled over to her sword, grabbing hold of it and pulling it out of the dirt.

[Anski]

of all walks of life have left their lands to become better. No man or woman may call themselves a true warrior without having experienced great suffering to fold upon greater strength. Soldiers are ordered, but warriors are destined. These are things the warrior herself were thinking as she sat on the edge of the ship, which pounded over choppy waters that were beginning to fleck with ice, despite their moving properties. She looked upward and saw that the skies were growing grey, twisting and quickly moving.

"All hands forward!" cried the captain of the transport vessel. Both Horde and Alliance stood on the decks, moving precious cargo from Booty Bay to Ratchet, and then to Northrend, for the Cartels. Goblins padded back and forth, and the warrior nearly stepped on one as she turned around from her seating position, careful not to fall into the cold death below her. The short green man cursed her, and she simply slipped onto the frigid deck, her exposed feet without feeling in the tips. She moved around the people who walked with ship-based purpose and into the cabin. Quiet and careful as a ghost, she slipped around the moving sailors and objects and into her tiny personal room, which was big enough to fit just a bed, a drawer, and her standing. Laying on the bed was the blade. It had no name, it did not need one. To the warrior, it was not a tool, or a friend. It was an extension of herself. She had killed and almost been killed by it and because of it. The grip, each individual wrap and notch, felt like it was made for her hands.

She had indeed made it, but it had molded to her. The weight felt as though it were just another limb, something she had known her whole life. The warrior exhaled slowly, and for once in a very long time, without an air of caution. She shut the door, placed her back against the wall and slid down to the floor, watching her blade. The thinnest burn welled up in her eyes as she watched the blade, motionless except for the entire room shifting gently back and forth. A tear rolled forth from her left eye, and she took off her goggle to let her entire face take in the room around her. She bit her lower lip, unused to the uneasiness that laid in her heart and in her stomach. The warrior did not know what to do with herself. She leaned her head back against the wood, silent as the quiet breeze, staring at the blade. It had killed, and eventually it would be the death of her. The blades were all she saw, and death was all she had known. Her heart had been cut by that man, so long ago, and by his death she had ruined it completely, never to be touched by anyone else.

The woman cried. Like a child, she placed her head into her hands and sobbed deeply, making the faintest, broken noises deep in her throat, having not spoken in so long. She took up the rest of the space in the room yet felt as though nothing were around her but her own sorrow. Her eyes burnt, her right vision going in and out of existence with her compounded tears. They moved along the deeper scars, rolling down in a zig zag across her face. She clenched her fists, and slammed the wooden panels of the floor of the boat, making the thinnest crack in the plank she struck with her right hand. It was not fair how she could not make herself happy. The fight was all she knew, she had lived the first half of her life drawn up in the thought of revenge and battle, and it was all she was able to do. She felt exposed. Lost. Unhappy.

It was not until a week later when they reached the docking of Northrend, to the east side of the Grizzly Hills. The goblins began unloading, heading to Thor Modan, and the warrior stepped out onto the deck, dressed in heavy fur of earthen colors. She looked out upon the rolling green tundra, the wind blowing her hair off in all directions. She tied her sword tightly and straightened her backpack, stepping off and onto the fielding.

She walked for days, avoiding all life in the hills, which was rife with settlement. The warrior eventually came upon an isolated woodland, setting up a small camp within the forest zone. She slept in peace, watching the light clouds flow southward, showing bits of the starry night sky. The warrior smiled, if only just, laying in the chilled grassland by a crackling fire, taking in wonderful breaths of life. When the dawn arrived, she travelled up, leaving her camp to rest, and stood upon a stone cliffside, looking at the dawn of the day upon the tundra, and she took in a deep breath, examining the land around her. Where the warrior walked, death would follow.

But for her time here, which may just be forever, she felt, life would only be saved.